Kate Kingsbury: An Unmentional Murder

Dr. Sheridan, the village physician and medical examiner for the local constabulary, doffed his hat and nodded at Elizabeth. Before she could return his greeting, George stepped in and announced his intention to observe the victim.

The two men marched over to the group of workers, who all began talking excitedly until George lifted his hand. “Just show us where the victim is,” he barked.

One of the men stepped forward. “He’s over here, mate. The dog dug him up and we had to chase it off. Looks a right mess, he does.”

George beckoned to the doctor, and the two of them picked their way through the pile of bricks and plaster, while Elizabeth held her breath and prayed.

She watched the men bend over something at their feet; then after a while the two of them straightened. They had a quick discussion, and the group of men observing the procedure murmured anxiously among themselves. Dr. Sheridan squatted down again, and George stumbled out of the debris and walked briskly back toward her.

She could tell nothing by his expression and she wrung her hands in agonizing anticipation. No matter what he told her, she had to be brave and maintain her composure, she reminded herself. The lady of the manor never displayed her emotions in public. She must remember that at all costs.

It seemed that everything around her had frozen into silence as she waited for George to speak. The group of men made no sound, all eyes on the crouched figure of the doctor. Even the birds were hushed, and only the crunch of George’s boots broke the eerie stillness.

He came to a halt in front of her and cleared his throat. “It weren’t Martin, your ladyship. Thank the good Lord.”

She swallowed hard, biting back a cry of relief. “Thank you, George,” she said when she could trust her voice again. “Who is it, then? Did you recognize the victim?”

“Yes, m’m, I did. It were Clyde Morgan.”

The name sounded familiar, and she furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry, whom did you say?”

“The rag and bone man,” George said, glancing back at the doctor, who was getting to his feet. “Poor devil. Doc says it looks like he done himself in.”

Shocked, Elizabeth stared at him in dismay. She was about to ask him how the victim had died when George added, “Excuse me, your ladyship, but it seems the doc’s finished so I’ll need to have a word with him.”

He started off to meet Dr. Sheridan, and Elizabeth followed purposefully behind him. “I meant in private, m’m,” he said, when she caught up with him. “This is police business.”

“The victim is a resident of Sitting Marsh,” Elizabeth said firmly. “That makes it my business, too.”

Dr. Sheridan joined them just then, and apparently didn’t have any qualms about divulging the results of his investigation. “Gunshot to the side of the head,” he said, his voice clipped and professional. “Died instantly. The gun’s still in his hand. I’m not an expert but it looks like a German pistol. Nasty business, that. Been dead at least twelve hours, poor blighter. Not a good way to go, all alone like that.”

“Probably would never have known he were there if it hadn’t been for that mutt digging him up,” George said, with a bit more relish than Elizabeth felt necessary.

“What about his family?” she asked George. “They must be worrying about him, wondering where he is.”

George nodded. “Got a wife and kids at home. I s’pose I’ll have to get on down there and notify the widow.” He looked hopefully at Elizabeth. “I do hate to do that job.”

“I’ll come with you if you like,” she offered at once. “I don’t know what comfort I can give the poor woman, but it might be a help to her to have another woman there.”

“Good idea!” George looked at the motorcycle as if he wished it would blow up. “Why don’t I meet you down there? The good doctor will give me a lift, I’m sure.”

Dr. Sheridan appeared not to hear. He was staring at the ruined building with a frown of irritation. “Is that Carbunkle chap nosing around the body?” he barked, to no one in particular. “He’s got no business doing that, pesky fellow.” Still muttering to himself, he strode off toward the pile of wreckage, presumably to chase off Captain Carbunkle, who hovered over something that, thankfully, Elizabeth couldn’t see from there.

Not that she was particularly squeamish. She’d had occasion to view more than one dead body since inheriting her position from her late father. On the other hand, if she could avoid staring at human remains, she greatly preferred to do so. Murder, or in this case suicide, was such a terrible waste of a life.

An acute pang of anxiety caused her to turn away from George. Although the dead man was not Martin, she still didn’t know where he was, and then there was Earl, who, for all she knew, could be-No! She would not even entertain the thought.

“You all right there, m’m?” George inquired, sounding more curious than concerned.

“Quite.” Elizabeth blinked hard and turned back to him. “The doctor could be occupied here for some time. He has to make arrangements for the body to be taken to the morgue, and I doubt that he’ll want to go out of his way to give you a lift. So I suggest you stop behaving like a baby, George, and get back in the sidecar. We need to notify Mrs. Morgan before the village grapevine gets hold of the news.”

Looking affronted by her sharp comments, George squeezed once more into the tiny compartment. “I don’t think we need to be in quite such a hurry going back, your ladyship,” he muttered. “There’s that nasty curve going down the hill, and I don’t like the feel of leaving the ground when you take the corners at breakneck speed like that.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “I shall take your concern into consideration on the way back,” she said stiffly.

“Thank you, m’m.”

“Not at all, George.” She stomped hard on the kick start and the engine roared to life. Sorely tempted to take off at top speed, she curbed her resentment and cruised from the site and out onto the road, doing her best to avoid the ruts and bumps.

Following George’s directions, she sailed sedately down the hill into the village and pulled up in front of an untidy-looking house with a front garden that had been sadly neglected. Remnants of dying hollyhocks, limp dahlias, and forlorn daisies fought with each other for breathing space among the choking weeds, which had encroached upon the pathway and filled the cracks with gleeful profusion.

Picking her way up the path, Elizabeth cringed at the sight. Plants were living things, too, and deserved better. With George hovering behind her, she waited on the cluttered porch for someone to open the front door.

When the door finally opened, the woman who stood there looked as if she’d just that moment fallen out of bed. The dressing gown she wore could have stood a good washing, her light brown hair hung in dismal strands around her face, and her eyes were red-rimmed and underlined with dark shadows. For a moment Elizabeth wondered if she’d already heard the news.

“Mrs. Morgan,” she said gently, “we’ve come about your husband.”

The woman stared at her as if she didn’t understand the words, then she mumbled, “He’s not here. I don’t know where he is.”

Feeling dreadfully sorry for the poor woman, Elizabeth put out a hand. “May we come in for a moment?”

Mrs. Morgan shot a hasty look at the room behind her. “The place’s a mess,” she said shortly. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

She’d made it sound like an accusation, and George stepped forward. “Mrs. Morgan-Iris-this is Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton, lady of the manor. It would be… polite to invite her inside.”