An Unmentionable Murder (13 page)

“Martin! I'm not finished speaking to you!”

Elizabeth's voice echoed sharply across the hall and Martin halted, swaying rather precariously on his bowed legs. It took him several seconds to shuffle around to face her, by which time Elizabeth was quite sure he was deliberately emphasizing his fragility.

“I know it's none of my business,” she said, as he stood blinking at her over his spectacles, “and you are perfectly entitled to your privacy. When you resort to staying out all night, however, I have to question the wisdom of your behavior. Violet and I feel a certain responsibility for your welfare, and it's not very considerate of you to worry us like this without some sort of explanation.”

He stared at her for a moment or two, then said abruptly, “I was stargazing.”

It was the last thing Elizabeth expected to hear. “I beg your pardon?”

“Stargazing, madam. You know, looking at the stars. I've taken up an interest in astronomy.”

Certain he was pulling her leg, Elizabeth said dryly, “Really. Astronomy.”

“Yes, madam. Quite fascinating, actually.”

“I can imagine. Tell me, Martin, are you engaged in this new endeavor alone, or do you have company when you are staring at the stars?”

“Quite alone, madam.”

“I see.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “And you feel compelled to do this all night long?”

“That is when you have the very best view.”

“No doubt.” Elizabeth walked up to him until she was almost toe to toe. “Martin, I do not believe one word you say. You're up to something, and I mean to find out what it is.”

“Yes, madam. May I be excused now? I am rather fatigued.”

He did look awfully tired, Elizabeth thought with another rush of concern. “Go and lie down,” she ordered, “but first let Violet know you're back. I don't want her getting in a state worrying about you all day.”

“Very well, madam. Good day to you.”

A thought occurred to her and she called out after him. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes, madam, thank you. I had a plate of sausage, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, and fried bread. Very tasty.” He was moving away from her as he spoke, and his last words were barely audible, but she caught them. “A vast improvement over Violet's stodgy porridge, I can assure you.”

She stared after him. Where in the world did he get a breakfast like that? If he was stargazing, as he maintained—and she had serious doubts about that—it had to be from a most unusual viewpoint indeed.

This wasn't the time to pursue it, however, and she had other matters to attend to for the moment. Later, she promised herself, she would corner her butler and demand to know where he had spent the last two nights, and why he was going to such great pains to hide where he had been.

The wind had picked up considerably by the time she rode her motorcycle along the narrow road that separated the harbor from the tiny shops that had once catered to the summer visitors. Most of the shops were closed and shuttered now, since very few people ventured far from home these days.

She found the cottage nestled on a steep slope, its leaded-pane windows almost hidden beneath its thatched roof. Parking her motorcycle, she was careful to turn the wheels into the grass verge.

An attractive woman answered her knock, and immediately gasped in surprise. “Lady Elizabeth! Whatever are you doing here?” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “That wasn't very polite, was it? I'm just so surprised to see you, that's all. I've seen your picture in the paper and seen you about town, but I never thought I'd actually get a visit from you.”

“It's quite all right.” Elizabeth smiled at her. “In the old days one would drop off a calling card announcing an impending visit. In my opinion the old customs were a good deal more civilized than the modern manners of today, and should be resurrected for the most part. I apologize for calling on you like this, but I would like a word with your husband, if I may?”

“Oh, Mr. Redding's not here, your ladyship,”—she opened the door wider—“but he should be home soon if you'd care to come in and wait. He's just gone down to the harbor to help his friend unload his catch for the day.”

Elizabeth stepped inside the immaculate front room, and looked around with pleasure. Bright yellow cushions with white daisy appliqués decorated the brown sofa and armchairs, giving a splash of color to the room. Yellow and white checkered curtains hung at the windows, and a vase of daisies sat in the middle of the highly polished dining table.

“How refreshing,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I love daisies; they always seem to be smiling somehow.”

Mrs. Redding's laughter echoed across the room. “I know what you mean. If you'll care to sit down, I'll put the kettle on.”

“Oh, please don't bother.” Elizabeth sat down on a comfortable armchair and removed her scarf. “I'd like to talk to you if you don't mind, Mrs. Redding.”

“Not at all, and please, call me Marion. Everybody does.”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth paused, then added carefully, “I was so very sorry to hear about your daughter's tragedy. What a terrible accident that was.”

Marion Redding's face clouded. “Indeed it was. Sheila is our only child, and I didn't think Bob was ever going to get over what happened to her. Not that one ever really gets over something like that, but we've managed to come to terms with it, and that's the best we can hope for.”

“I suppose there's no hope that your daughter will recover?”

“None at all.” Marion Redding sank onto the sofa, her hands clasped together. “Sheila will spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair, however long that may be.

She doesn't know anything that's going on around her. It's like she's asleep all the time, except her eyes are open. Sometimes she cries, but no one knows why, and it's so sad to see her like that.”

“It must be very hard for you and your husband,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I suppose you've heard that Clyde Morgan, the man responsible, has passed away?”

Marion nodded. “We heard he'd shot himself. Bob said he was probably eaten up with guilt for what he did and couldn't live with it anymore.”

“And what do you think?”

The other woman sighed. “I really don't know, your ladyship. It's been more than two years, after all, and Clyde Morgan didn't strike me as the kind of man who would wallow in guilt over something that was an accident, no matter how badly it turned out.”

A harsh voice came from the doorway, making them both jump. “What difference does it make? The miserable bugger's dead, and that's true justice.”

Elizabeth stared at the man who'd just entered the room. He wore a dark sweater and a cloth cap, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He needed a shave and shadows underlined his dark eyes. His scowl drew his thick brows together and in one hand he held an axe, making him all the more intimidating.

“For heaven's sake, Bob!” Marion uttered a nervous laugh and got up from the sofa. “That's no way to greet the lady of the manor. This is Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton. She wants to talk to you.”

Bob Redding appeared unaffected by this announcement, though he did remove his cap. Very deliberately, he closed the door with an ominous thud. “Something I can do for you, your ladyship?”

Feeling somewhat unsettled by this bear of a man, Elizabeth said quietly, “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Redding. I do trust you are recovering from your injuries?”

He came farther into the room, his face a mask of indifference. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

“He's expecting to go back to his unit in a week or two,” Marion said hurriedly. “Aren't you, Bob?”

Her husband didn't answer, but kept his gaze on Elizabeth's face, his eyes narrowed and wary.

“Well, I won't keep you long.” Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. “I just dropped by to let you know about the sudden death of Clyde Morgan. Your wife tells me you've already heard about it.”

Not a flicker of expression changed in the man's gray eyes. “Yes, we did. Can't say I'm sorry.” He ignored his wife's gasp of dismay. “As far as I'm concerned, the skunk got what he deserved.”

“I can understand your bitterness, Mr. Redding.” Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Elizabeth got to her feet. “I imagine most people would feel the same way in your shoes.”

“That's not to say I killed him.”

Marion uttered another distressed cry. “I'm sure her ladyship didn't mean—”

“Oh, I think she did,” Bob Redding said, his voice harsh and threatening. “Isn't that why you're here, your ladyship? To accuse me of murdering Clyde Morgan?”

CHAPTER 10

“For heaven's sake, Clara! Get a move on, will you?” Marge stopped for the umpteenth time and waited for her friend to catch up with her.

Panting and puffing, Clara trudged down the lane toward her, her face red and sweaty. “I'm hot,” she announced unnecessarily as she drew even with Marge.

“One minute you're freezing, the next you're roasting.” Marge jabbed a finger in her direction. “Take off your cardigan, you twit. No wonder you're so hot.”

“I feel the cold.” Clara swept a critical gaze up and down Marge's body. “I don't have no fat to keep me warm, like some people.”

Marge bristled at that. “Hey, are you saying I'm fat?”

All the fight went out of Clara. “No, silly, of course not. I'm just tired, that's all. Let's forget about the Germans and go home.”

“Forget about the Germans!” Marge's voice was shrill with disbelief. “Are you daft? We came all this way, didn't we? What if the place is running alive with Nazis? If we don't warn the village, they could be all over us by tonight.”

Clara's face lost its ruddy glow. “Well, if there
are
Germans in the windmill, you've probably warned them by now. It's right over there, behind you.”

Marge swung around. “Gawd, I didn't realize we were that close.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “We'd better duck down out of sight.”

Clara immediately dropped to a crouch. “How are we going to sneak up there without them seeing us? There's no trees around here to hide us.”

“There's trees on the other side of it. We'll work our way around and come in from that side.”

“I still think we should have gone to the police station for help.”

“We'll go when we're sure they're there,” Marge insisted. “Come on, let's go.”

“I can't walk like this.” Clara stuck her foot out and tried to waddle forward in the crouch.

Marge muffled a giggle. “You look like a crab.”

Clara shot to her feet. “I'm going home.”

Grabbing her arm, Marge said quickly, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. Look, let's just walk normal until we get past the windmill. Even if they see us, they won't know we're looking for them. They'll just think we're out for a stroll. Then, once we get past them, we can duck back.”

“What if they shoot us while we're going past?”

Marge hadn't thought of that. She felt a sudden urge to pee. “Don't be silly,” she said, more in an effort to convince herself than anything. “Of course they're not going to shoot us. They don't want everyone to know where they are, do they? How are they going to take everyone by surprise if we all know they're there?”

Clara didn't look too sure of herself, but she trotted along by Marge's side, looking as if she were ready to bolt at the slightest sound.

Marge wasn't about to admit that her heart was pounding hard enough to come right through her chest by the time they'd reached the far side of the windmill. Any minute she'd expected to hear a bullet or two whine over her head, and it was a bit of an anticlimax when all remained quiet and peaceful.

For several minutes they stood there, waiting to get their breath back while they stared at the rickety wooden walls of the dilapidated windmill. No branches stirred in the midday sun. No birds twittered, no squirrels chattered, no inquisitive field mouse or rabbit rustled through the tall grass. Nothing but a tall, dark, forbidding windmill with silent sails and darkened windows. It seemed as if everything were waiting for something to happen. Something bad.

Marge shivered as the creepy feeling crawled down her back. “I don't like this. It's too quiet. Like someone's in there, watching us.”

Clara uttered a whimper of fright. “I want to go home.
Now.
”

She started to walk away, but Marge grabbed a stretchy sleeve of her cardigan and dragged her to a stop. “Wait a minute! Let's just take a quick peek and then we'll get out of here. I swear.”

“I'm not going in there!”

Clara's wail sounded loud in the hushed silence of the woods and Marge winced. “All right then. You wait here and I'll go. Then if they shoot me, you can run back and tell George and Sid that you let me go in there alone and now I'm dead.”

Tears formed in Clara's eyes, but to Marge's relief, she stammered, “All right, then. I'm coming in there with you. But if I get shot I'll never forgive you.”

“If you get shot, silly,” Marge said grimly, “you won't be around to forgive me, so what's it matter? If you hear the slightest sound, you run like hell. Got it?”

Clara nodded, her eyes wide with fright.

Marge wasn't feeling too chipper herself, but she'd come this far and she wasn't about to turn back without taking a quick look inside that windmill. A large part of the force driving her was the anticipation of seeing Rita's smug face turn sour when she found out they'd helped catch a bunch of Germans.