Kate Kingsbury - An Unmentional Murder

Marge left her there and staggered into the office, where she thankfully fell onto the chair. She’d sat on that chair a few times in the past, but it had never felt as comfortable as it did right then.

George, she noticed, sat behind his desk, one hand holding a half-eaten Banbury cake halfway to his mouth, which was stuck wide open. She waved a hand at him to go on eating, while she fought to get enough air back in her lungs to speak.

George looked from her to his hand, hesitated, then shrugged and thrust the cake in his mouth.

“Germans!” Marge managed to gasp when she finally found her voice.

George dropped the remaining piece of cake onto his desk. Making a tsking noise with his tongue, he picked up the cake, dusted it off on his jacket, and shoved it in his mouth.

Momentarily distracted, Marge gazed at the smear of sugared crumbs on George’s uniform and wondered what the inspector would say if he saw that.

“I beg your pardon?” George said, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth.

Marge pulled in some more air, then coughed. There was always a faint odor of horse manure in the police station. She’d forgotten not to breathe through her nose. She opened her mouth, pulled in more air, then shouted, “Germans!”

George raised his eyebrows. “Where?”

Marge waved a hand at the door. “At the windmill! Dozens of ’em!”

George swallowed, and immediately choked. Coughing and spluttering, he pulled a huge white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his eyes.

The respite had given Marge time to get her own breath back. “Clara and I went up to look and they’re there, all right.”

George started to speak, coughed again, then said hoarsely, “You saw them? Did you see their uniforms? Did they have tanks? Guns?”

Marge’s stomach turned over in fright. Until that moment it hadn’t seemed real, more like a film she was acting in, but now it all seemed dreadfully, frightfully real. “We heard them,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “They were hiding up on the second floor but we heard them. Clara and me bolted out of there. We didn’t see no tanks, but-”

At that moment the door burst open. Marge screamed, while George leapt to his feet, his eyes looking ready to bulge right out of his head.

Clara fell through the doorway and landed on her knees. “I don’t feel well,” she moaned.

Marge patted her chest as her heart resumed beating. “Gawd, Clara. You gave us such a fright.”

George cleared his throat and sat down again. “Now then,” he said, in his pompous policeman’s voice, “let’s have the story from the beginning.”

“We don’t have time to tell the story!” Marge shouted, heaving herself to her feet. “You’ve got to ring the army, haven’t you. If we don’t get them first they’ll be all over the village. Heaven knows how many of them are hiding in the woods.” She caught her breath. “That’s probably where they’ve hidden the tanks!”

Looking startled, George dragged his gaze from Marge to Clara. “Did you see these Germans, too?”

Clara opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Marge yelled impatiently, “Of course she did!

Ring the blinking army before we all get captured and sent to them dreadful prison camps.”

Clara started crying. “I don’t want to go to prison! I want to go ho-o-ome !”

“Now look what you’ve done!” Marge rushed over to Clara and helped her up. “If you don’t ring the army right this minute I’m going to tell everyone it’s your fault Sitting Marsh is in the hands of the Germans. I wouldn’t be surprised if Adolf hisself walks down the High Street before too long.”

George reached for the telephone. “All right, all right. Just pipe down while I ring the army.”

“Ring the Yanks!” Clara said, apparently having recovered from her fright. “They’ll be here quicker.”

“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.”