Marion’s gaze jerked back to Elizabeth’s face. “Sheila? You went to see her?”
Elizabeth leaned forward. “Mrs. Redding, why did you lie about your husband’s whereabouts on Monday night? He wasn’t in North Horsham, was he? The nurse told me he hasn’t visited his daughter since she was admitted to the sanitarium more than two years ago.”
Marion’s face crumpled. “I know it was silly of me, but I was so afraid…” She sniffed, and hunted for a handkerchief in her apron pocket. “Bob was gone until late that night. He said he was helping a mate of his repair his boat and they had a drink or two together afterwards, but when I heard about Clyde Morgan I thought…” Her voice trailed off and she blew her nose hard.
“You thought he might have killed Clyde Morgan,” Elizabeth said gently. “So you decided to give him an alibi.”
Marion nodded. “He was ever so cross with me after you left. He said as how I didn’t trust him, and that he was telling the truth, and that I could talk to Evan and he’d tell me Bob was there all the time until he came home.” She blew her nose again. “That’s his friend’s name, Evan Darby. He’s a fisherman. Lives just down the road.”
“I see.” Elizabeth sat up. “Have you had a chance to talk to Evan yet?”
“No, but I talked to his wife, Janet, a little while ago. She told me the two men were working in the boatyard until it got dark, then they both came up to the house and shared a couple of beers.” Marion sniffed. “I should have asked her before, I suppose. It would have saved all that time worrying. I suppose I was scared to ask her, in case Bob was lying and he really did shoot that poor man.” Her eyes were wet with tears when she looked at Elizabeth. “I should have trusted him, Lady Elizabeth. I should have known he couldn’t have done something that dreadful.”
Elizabeth got to her feet. “Well, I can understand why you were concerned. Your husband certainly had good reason to hate Mr. Morgan. I’m just glad we could clear the matter up like this. It must be a great relief for you.”
Marion rose, blowing her nose once more. “What about Ned Widdicombe?” she asked. “Did he have anything to say about the murder?”
“He certainly didn’t seem to be upset about it.” Elizabeth walked to the door. “As for him being involved in some way, that’s highly unlikely. He told me he was working on his accounts with his wife on Monday night.”
In the act of opening the door, Marion paused and stared at her. “His
Elizabeth stared back at her. “Are you sure? Perhaps he got married again.”
Marion shook her head. “Well, he hadn’t up until last week, your ladyship. He was here sorting out his mother’s things in the old cottage. Him and Bob are on really friendly terms. I’m sure he would have mentioned a wife if he’d got married recently.”
“Well,” Elizabeth said, stepping out into the late-afternoon sunshine, “that’s very interesting. Thank you, Mrs. Redding. You’ve been most helpful and I sincerely hope that your daughter’s health improves in the near future.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Marion Redding said sadly. “But thank you for the thought. Children are so precious, aren’t they? I worried so much about Sheila when she was growing up. I never let her out of my sight. When this happened I blamed myself, thinking I should have been able to prevent it. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t control your child’s life, or what happens to them. You can only pray that things will turn out right for them.”
Elizabeth’s heart ached for the woman as she walked back down the immaculate garden path to her motorcycle. How sad. Sheila obviously had been loved and well cared for, and now this tragedy had robbed her parents of so much. They would never see their child become a productive adult. Nor would they see her married, and giving them grandchildren. They would miss so much because of a senseless accident. Marion was right. Parents can’t control what happens to a child, no matter how protective they may be.
Sitting astride her motorcycle, she felt an odd pang of recognition. It was a familiar sensation-her brain trying to tell her something important that she couldn’t quite recognize. Something she knew that could shed light on the mystery of Clyde Morgan’s death.
As she roared down to the High Street, she tried to remember everything that she’d heard that day. Was it the fact that Ned Widdicombe had lied about his alibi? Was Marion telling the truth about her husband’s whereabouts the night Clyde Morgan died? Or was there something else, something she’d stored away without realizing its importance at the time?
Whatever it was, it was going to drive her crazy until she could grasp it and bring it out into the light. Because, more often than not, whenever she felt this particular sensation, she had the answer she was seeking, and the solution to the puzzle.
CHAPTER 13
Frozen to the spot, Polly could only stare at the menacing ring of armed men. Even the young boys seemed too shocked to move, and only Sadie appeared capable of saying anything.
“What are all these GIs doing out here?” she muttered as a tall soldier detached himself from the line and marched purposefully toward them.
A thin voice piped up from one of the boys. “Are they going to shoot us, miss?”
“Not if I can help it.” Sadie stepped in front of the boys and bravely faced the oncoming officer, much to Polly’s admiration.
The American paused a few feet in front of her, his gaze moving slowly down to the pile of underwear clutched in Sadie’s arms. “What the-?” His gaze shot up to her face. “Just what in hell are you all doing here?”
Sadie’s face turned red, and she shoved the knickers behind her back, causing most of them to flutter to the ground.
More washing, Polly thought mournfully. At this rate, they’d be standing at the sink all day long.
“We thought someone had been stealing washing off the lines,” Sadie said quickly, “but it was all a big mistake.”
“I’ll say it was a mistake.” The officer’s astonished gaze swept over the boys and their bundles, then to Polly, who was beginning to wish she could sink through the ground, and finally to the pile of drawers on the ground. “What were you planning to do with all of this?”
“Take it back where it belongs.” Sadie gave him an uncertain smile. “The lads just borrowed it for a while, that’s all. No harm in that, is there?”
The officer’s face remained stiff and uncompromising, but there was a twinkle in his blue eyes when he murmured, “I reckon it all depends on whether or not you’re an owner of those… ah, clothes.”
“Yes, sir,” Sadie said heartily. “That’s what I say. This is something we should definitely sort out ourselves.”
The American shaded his eyes and peered past her at the windmill. “Did you happen to see anyone else in there?”
“No, sir.” Sadie looked back at the boys, who answered in chorus.
“No, sir! No one, sir!”
“There weren’t no one in there but the lads,” Sadie assured him. “Why? Are you looking for someone?”
The officer shook his head. “Never mind.” He glanced at the boys again then back at Sadie. “I take it those are your bikes behind the shrubs?”
Sadie nodded. “We were just on our way home, weren’t we, Pol?”
Polly nodded, still too embarrassed to speak.
The officer turned and signaled with a wave of his arm. Four GIs detached themselves from the line and came forward at a trot.
“Brent, Adams, take a look in there, just in case,” the officer ordered.
The two men jogged toward the windmill, rifles in hand. One of the remaining soldiers, a dark-eyed young man with an engaging grin, winked at Polly behind the officer’s back.
