he was out of earshot before saying to Iris, “Those bruises look quite painful.”
Iris met her gaze for a minute or so before answering. “Always fighting, he is. Got in a scrap with his mates this morning.”
Elizabeth watched the boy disappear. “I wonder what makes children feel they have to settle things with their fists.”
Iris looked uncomfortable. “Boys will be boys, I suppose.” She opened the door a little wider. “You’d better come inside, your ladyship. I have soup on the stove, and I don’t want it boiling over.”
Elizabeth stepped over the threshold, and caught sight of the cat’s tail as it disappeared under the chair. Iris excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen.
Seizing the moment, Elizabeth moved over to where the photograph of Clyde Morgan sat on the sideboard. Peering at it, she noted the raised left hand holding the dart. Wally had been right about that, at least.
“He wasn’t a handsome man by any means,” Iris said quietly behind her. “But he was my husband and the father of my children and he did his best.”
Spinning around, Elizabeth said quickly, “Oh, I’m quite sure he did.” Iris’s eyes were bleak with misery and she felt an ache of sympathy. “You must miss him dreadfully.” She gestured at the photograph. “Was he left-handed with everything, or just when he was playing darts?”
Iris shot her a strange look. “He was left-handed with everything. Why do you ask?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the settee. “Mrs. Morgan, when your husband was found, he was holding the gun in his right hand. Does that seem strange to you?”
Iris’s face turned quite white. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m not sure.” Elizabeth paused, then added, “I’d like to hear exactly what happened when your husband accidentally hit that young girl in the head with a dart.”
Iris sank on the chair opposite her. “There’s not much to tell. Clyde was playing a darts match at the Tudor Arms, and someone spoke to him just as he was about to throw. His hand jerked, the dart slipped in his fingers and went off in the wrong direction. It hit Sheila Redding in the head. The judge said it were an accident.”
Up until then her voice had been low and flat, as if reciting a well-rehearsed piece of information. But now her voice rose, and sharpened. “It
Elizabeth had to admire the way the woman defended her husband. “I understand Miss Redding is in a home in North Horsham?”
Iris nodded. “I used to go and see her sometimes, but she got so upset I stopped going. Her mum and dad still live here in Sitting Marsh. As a matter of fact, I saw Bob Redding the other day. I suppose he must be home on leave. I feel so sad for them both. To have a child like that and see her so helpless. It must be heartbreaking for them.”
“I’m sure it is.” Elizabeth stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. I appreciate you talking to me.”
Iris walked with her to the door. “About this gun being in Clyde’s right hand…” She hesitated, then rushed on, “You’re not thinking someone else might have shot him, like Mr. Redding, for instance? I really don’t think he’d do that, m’m. Really I don’t. I don’t know the Reddings very well, but they seem like very nice people. I don’t know why Clyde used his right hand to shoot himself, but he did a lot of things I never understood.”
Elizabeth studied her anxious face. “You may be right, Mrs. Morgan. Then again, who knows what any of us are capable of when fighting our demons?”
Iris’s eyes filled with tears again. “I just wish there was something I could have done to prevent all this.”
“We can’t always be there for the ones we love,” Elizabeth said softly. “No matter how much we want to be. We can’t be responsible for their actions, nor blame ourselves when something goes wrong. We can only pray for them.”
Iris gave her a wobbly smile through her tears. “Oh, I do that, your ladyship. Every day of my life.”
“And so do I.” Turning her back on the tearful woman, Elizabeth walked purposefully down the garden path.
The weekly meeting of the Housewives League was a little late getting started that afternoon. Crowded into Rita Crumm’s dinky front room, the women were avidly discussing the death of the rag and bone man, each of them embellishing on the details they’d heard.
“Shot himself with his own gun,” Marge Gunther declared, her chubby arm jerking up to imitate someone raising a gun to his head. “Blew his bloomin’ brains out all over the floor, he did.” Marge’s voice was powerful, overriding the rest of the chatter.
Florrie Evans, a fluttery little woman, squealed at this statement and slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide above her fingers.
“Must have been that German gun he was always talking about,” Clara Rigglesby announced. She was Marge’s best friend and secretly thought Marge should be the leader of the Housewives League instead of bossy Rita Crumm.
Rita chose that moment to make her entrance. She always waited until everyone was assembled before striding into the room to restore order. Rita loved to bring everyone to order. She was very proud of the league and the work they did for the war effort, and considered herself something of a hero for leading her stalwart, though often reluctant, members into battle.
If anyone could be credited for winning the war on the home front, Rita was determined to be in the front line. She ruled with an iron fist, and heaven help anyone who opposed her. Her greatest regret was that she wasn’t born a lady of the manor. She was convinced she would have done a far better job than Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton.
Upon perceiving that no one had taken any notice of her carefully timed entrance, Rita remedied the situation by screeching at the top of her lungs, “Ladies! Order, please!”
She was gratified when the chattering women fell silent. She would have been a lot happier had they done that the second she stepped through the door, but she’d been leading this mob long enough not to expect miracles.
She was about to make her first announcement-a reminder that the annual summer fete was drawing near and she was expecting a larger amount of handmade goods this year-when, out of the blue, Marge piped up.
“We was talking about the rag and bone man blowing his brains out.”
Rita tightened her thin lips, which had the effect of making them disappear entirely. She found Marge irritating, especially when she was trying to agitate with her outrageous statements.
“Instead of gossiping about the wretched man like a bunch of starving vultures,” Rita said primly, “you should be feeling sorry for the poor widow. It could happen to any of us, you know. Losing a husband, I mean.”
The reminder that their absent husbands might not come home from the war was enough to subdue the women for a moment. But only for a moment.
Rita had barely begun to launch into her carefully prepared speech when Marge said clearly, “Well, I’m not so sure he did kill himself.”
Even Rita was stunned by this remark. She turned her piercing glare on Marge. “What on earth does that mean?”
Marge, who had arrived last as usual and had to resort to sitting on the floor, stretched out her legs in front of her. “I ran into Priscilla Pierce this morning and-”
“She’s not Prissy Pierce anymore,” Nellie Smith said, with a trace of bitterness. Nellie, the only unmarried member of the league, made no secret of the fact she envied Priscilla, even if she had married a gent old enough to be Nellie’s father.
“Priscilla Carbunkle, then,” Marge said, starting to giggle. “That’s a mouthful and a half, ain’t it?”
“Never mind that,” Rita said, her voice sharp with impatience. “What did you mean about Clyde Morgan not shooting himself?”
Basking in the glory of attention, Marge gave her a smug smile. “Well, Priscilla said as how Wally saw the body lying in the ruins.” She rolled her eyes. “All bloody he were, with half his head blown away.”
Florrie squealed again, louder this time, and a chatter arose among the women, almost drowning out Rita’s harsh command.
“Quiet! Quiet, I say!” She waited for order to be restored, then, as the women in the room fell silent, she
