“Ring them both!” Marge started for the door, dragging Clara with her. “I’m going home to lock all my doors and windows. I’m not having no bloody Nazis poking around my belongings.”
Outside in the fresh air, she pulled in a deep breath. She’d done her duty. Now it was up to George and Sid to take care of things. Feeling proud of her contribution to the war effort, she started down the steps on wobbly knees. Just wait until Rita Crumm heard about this one.
It took Elizabeth the best part of an hour to ride to North Horsham and find the butcher’s shop. The rumbling in her stomach reminded her it had been several hours since she’d eaten breakfast and she promised herself that as soon as she’d talked to Ned Widdicombe, she’d have a spot of lunch at the fish and chip shop next door.
There were no customers in the butcher’s shop, which was really not surprising, considering the hour.
The housewives typically shopped first thing in the morning, queuing for whatever meager cuts of meat they could get on their weekly ration books. By noon they were back home preparing the midday meal.
It occurred to Elizabeth then that Violet was expecting her for lunch and was probably tearing her hair out wondering where she was and when she was coming home. Poor Violet. What with worrying about Martin’s mysterious nightly jaunts and now Elizabeth’s absence for lunch, it was no wonder the housekeeper was a little testy at times.
She’d take something home for tea, Elizabeth decided, as she spotted a bakery across the street. She had her coupon book with her, and at the very least, could buy a nice fresh loaf of bread, since bread wasn’t on ration.
Reaching the door of the butcher’s shop, she pushed it open and, to the tune of a tinkling bell, stepped inside. The smell of raw meat and sawdust was unpleasant, and she held her breath for a moment. There was no one behind the counter, and since the door was unlocked, she assumed the butcher had retreated to a back room.
She had hardly formed that opinion when a man emerged from a hallway at the back of the shop. Short in stature, his vast circumference made him look as wide as he was tall. He was clad in a white coat and a blue and white striped apron liberally smeared with blood.
In spite of her need to question the man, Elizabeth felt a strong urge to excuse herself and leave. A butcher’s shop always made her uneasy. Seeing all those dead carcasses hanging from hooks was unsettling, and the lethal-looking knives and choppers on the blood-soaked chopping board weren’t exactly reassuring, either.
The butcher stood in the shadows, as if reluctant to come forward. Obviously he resented being disturbed during his midday break. “What can I do for you?” he asked gruffly. “I don’t have much left this late in the day.”
Elizabeth let out her breath in a rush. “Oh, a pound of sausages, if you have them, please.”
The butcher grunted and moved over to the chopping block where strings of sausages hung in long strands. He reached up, took down a strand, chopped off a string of sausages, and threw them on the scales.
Elizabeth made herself move deeper into the frigid shop. “I was talking to Bob Redding this morning,” she said brightly. “I understand his wife was a very good friend of your late mother.”
The butcher turned to look at her and now she could see his face quite clearly. His beady little eyes were almost buried in layers of fat, and a nasty-looking scar divided one eyebrow and sliced down most of his cheek. “What’s it to you?” he said rudely.
Elizabeth wasn’t used to being spoken to in that deplorable manner. She drew herself up straight and said haughtily, “As lady of the manor in Sitting Marsh, it is my duty to protect and care for the villagers. Had I been aware that your elderly mother lived alone, I would have made it my business to look in on her now and then. I feel somewhat responsible for what happened when Clyde Morgan paid her a visit, and I regret that the unfortunate incident caused her death. I thought you might like to know that Mr. Morgan has now passed away.”
“So I heard.” Apparently unfazed by the presence of his illustrious visitor, Ned Widdicombe weighed the sausages, cut half of one off the end of the string, then wrapped the rest in white paper.
Elizabeth handed over her ration book and a half crown and waited for her change. “I’m sure that must bring some comfort to you,” she said when he handed her the coins and her ration book. “I can understand how you must have felt, losing your mother that way.”
The beady eyes narrowed. “I heard he shot himself.”
“Well, that was the assumption at first.” She decided to stretch the truth a bit. “There has been a development, however, that leads the constables to believe someone may have murdered Mr. Morgan.”
Ned Widdicombe moved back to the chopping block, picked up the remaining sausages, and strung them up with the others. “Good riddance, that’s what I say,” he muttered.
Realizing she was getting nowhere, Elizabeth said boldly, “I imagine the inspector will be questioning those people who might be able to shed light on the murder.”
Now she had the butcher’s full attention. He stared at her for several uncomfortable moments, then said sharply, “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Motive,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Your mother’s death was hastened by Mr. Morgan’s actions, was it not? I think that’s a strong motive for murder, don’t you?”
The butcher continued to stare at her in silence for another long moment, then startled her by erupting into hoarse laughter. “My mother was eighty-four years old,” he said when his irreverent mirth had subsided.
“She was on her last legs as it were. Besides, all that happened weeks ago. If I was going to do the miserable bugger in, I would have done it before now.”
She’d heard that somewhere before, Elizabeth vaguely remembered. “Sometimes one has to wait for the right circumstances,” she murmured.
“Oh, you an expert on murdering, then?”
She smiled, though it was the last thing she felt like doing. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
The butcher dug his fists into the mounds of fat around his waist. “Well, your ladyship, for your information, I was here in the shop the night Morgan died. Doing my accounting, if you must know.”
Elizabeth carefully put away the ration book in her handbag and slipped the coins into her small purse. “I don’t remember mentioning that Mr. Morgan had died during the night,” she murmured.
“It were in the newspaper, weren’t it.”
“Were you alone when you were doing the accounting?”
“No, I weren’t. My wife was with me, wasn’t she. She’ll tell you. So you can stop your bloody snooping and get out of my shop.” He paused, then added with a decided sneer, “Your ladyship.”
It was definitely time to go. Without a word, she twisted around and stalked out of the shop.
She dearly would have loved to speak to Mrs. Widdicombe, but apart from the fact that she had no idea where to find her, and it was doubtful the sinister butcher would have enlightened her, there was no doubt in her mind that the woman would vouch for her husband, whether or not she was with him that night. Ned Widdicombe was a particularly nasty specimen, and seemed quite capable of terrorizing his wife into submission.
Seated by the window in the sparse eating area of the fish and chip shop a few minutes later, she spotted the butcher leaving his shop, locking the door behind him before hurrying off down the street. No doubt he was on his way to warn his wife to confirm his alibi in case of further questioning. Just as well she hadn’t sought out Mrs. Widdicombe. She had no wish to encounter that man again.
Although her appetite had been somewhat tempered by the disturbing exchange, Elizabeth managed to enjoy a plate of cod and chips lathered with malt vinegar and sprinkled generously with salt, a thick slice of bread and butter, and two pickled onions, washed down with a cup of piping hot tea. Absolutely delightful.