An Impartial Witness

by Charles Todd

  Neither Mary nor I wore our uniforms to dinner. Nurses at a dinner table tend to cast a pall over conversation. Men in uniform on the other hand tend to look dashing, whether they are or not.

  The roast was indeed heavenly. There was even horseradish sauce, and Yorkshire pudding. For an hour the war faded into the background and it was 1914 again, when food was plentiful and parties like this frequent and fun.

  That evening we played croquet on the lawn in the long summer twilight, a ruthless game with no holds barred. The next morning, Saturday, we played tennis and were silly over the litter of pups that one of the English setters had produced in the stable-cum-garage instead of the box carefully prepared in the house for her accouchement.

  As we admired the little family, under cover of the ohs and ahs someone behind me commented quietly, “That was Evanson’s bitch, you know. He’d arranged to breed her to FitzGerald’s dog, the one the King admired. He’d hoped to give HM the pick of the litter.”

  “Pity about all that,” the other voice said. “His wife. I mean to say, murder.”

  But before I could turn and see the speakers, we were being handed pups and I couldn’t be sure who had been just behind me.

  The warm, furry little bodies, wriggling and squirming in our arms, licking our faces, kept us occupied for another half an hour, and then it was time for our luncheon.

  We trooped out of the stables in good spirits, and I listened for the same voices as people laughed and congratulated Serena on the litter. Still, the two men had been nearly whispering, so it was harder to identify them with a normal voice.

  Serena said nothing about the mother of the pups being her brother’s dog.

  Not an hour later, I overheard her speaking to Jack as I passed the study.

  She was saying, “I don’t believe any of them could have been Marjorie’s lover. It was sheer foolishness to think we could find out this way.”

  Her husband answered quietly, “You were desperate. It was the best I could do on short notice. So many of the people we know are in France, or God knows where. The man may even be dead, as far as that goes.”

  “By his own hand, I hope,” she retorted viciously. “After all he’s done to us.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “It’s not your family,” she went on into the silence, answering it as if her husband had spoken aloud. “I’m the one who has to live with the whispers and the shame. I can read pity in my friends’ eyes. That is, when they can’t avoid me. And wherever I go I can feel the stares behind my back. ‘Did you know? Her sister-in-law was murdered, and then her brother killed himself.’ As if I’ve done something wrong. No one asks how I’m coping, for fear I might embarrass them by telling them and expecting a little comfort in return. What if they knew the rest of it? I’d never dare show my face in public again.” Her voice broke, but not with tears. “I should have had that damned bitch put down!”

  “I understand,” her husband answered her. “But you’re tormenting yourself as well, you know. As for the poor dog, find her another home if you feel that way. Don’t blame her.”

  “I’m not blaming her. I see her looking up at the door sometimes, as if she’s waiting for Merry to come through it any minute. She loved him. Probably more than Marjorie did, if you ask me. And how do you tell a dumb brute that her master is dead?”

  “I think she knows Meriwether is dead. I think she also hopes it isn’t true.”

  “This is the third time we’ve had one of these parties. I don’t know if I can face another one, Jack. But I can’t think of a better way to question someone about Marjorie’s friends than inviting them here under false pretenses. And the women come out of curiosity, hoping I’ll drop some crumb of gossip that they can take home with them. The men come because they like you, but I watch their faces when I mention Marjorie, to see if she meant more to them than she should have. Surely whoever that man is, he still feels something. He’s bound to give himself away. A shift in the way he looks at me, a tightness in the mouth. I want to know who it is. I won’t have any peace until I do and can put the blame where it belongs.”

  “You may be right, my dear, but the truth is, I don’t hold out much hope.”

  I walked on down the carpeted passage for fear one of them might come out and find me there, eavesdropping.

  But I carried with me food for thought.

  For one thing, Inspector Herbert hadn’t told Serena about the man at the railway station. And probably wouldn’t until he knew whether or not it was pertinent to his investigation.

  For another, it appeared I wasn’t the only one searching for Marjorie Evanson’s lover. Even here. And I had the very strong feeling that if Serena found the man before I did, she would take savage pleasure in exposing him to the world.

  Before she killed him…

  The thought occurred to me out of the blue. I didn’t know whether she was capable of such a thing or not, but her brother’s death had affected her deeply, and sometimes people who turned to anger as they grieved acted rashly, in the heat of the moment, wanting to hurt the person who had hurt them.

  Still, now I knew the purpose of this wartime birthday party and why it hadn’t mattered if Mary had brought a friend. Serena Melton saw me as a smoke screen, added to make up the party’s numbers and conceal her true purpose in inviting certain guests. Well, I needn’t feel quite so guilty now about coming here under false pretenses, out of curiosity.

  Last evening during croquet and again during the tennis match this morning, I’d seen Serena casually drawing aside first one guest and then another. She and Captain Truscott had had a long conversation, and soon after that, Lieutenant Gilbert. I’d thought she was making them feel at home, just as she’d chatted to me about my father and my duties.

  And that reminded me of the naval commander she and Mary had discussed. Had Marjorie known him as well? I’d tried, politely, not to listen at the time. Now I made an effort to bring the exchange back. I didn’t want to mention it to Mary.

  “When was his last leave, do you remember?” she’d asked. “Was he in London then?” And when Mary told her he’d taken the train directly to Scotland, to see his parents, she’d replied, “No wonder Marjorie had missed seeing him. I must say, Jack was wondering about him too.”

  Serena must not have been very close to her sister-in-law or she wouldn’t be fishing among Marjorie’s friends for answers.

  And that brought to mind another question.

  Was there jealousy between Marjorie and Serena? Had Meriwether Evanson’s marriage caused a rift with his sister?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’D TAKEN REFUGE in the Meltons’ dining room from a storm that had suddenly blown up, sending us all dashing for the house. As I stood there looking out at the rain sweeping across the lawns, I heard someone come in the door behind me, and turned.

  It was Lieutenant Bellis, one of the late arrivals last night. He’d missed the tennis match, pleading fatigue, and I hadn’t seen much of him at lunch. He was drenched, his hair plastered to his skull, and he said lightly, “Is there nowhere in this house that a man can find a drink?”

  I laughed. “I suspect Jack keeps what’s left of his precious stock under lock and key.”

  “I’m beginning to think you’re right. Known him long, have you?”

  “Actually, not very.” I took a chance. “I met his brother-in-law once, I think.”

  “Meriwether? A good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.” He’d found a table napkin in one of the drawers of the sideboard and was busy toweling his head. Pausing, he looked at me from between the folds. “I thought I remembered you. A nursing sister, aren’t you? From Britannic, I think. I was in Mesopotamia.”

  I fished quickly for a face in a hospital bed, then smiled as I remembered. “George Bellis! The leg’s healed, I see.” I didn’t add that the thin, sun-baked man with a broken leg and cracked ribs, a fractured skull and the bites of myriad insects looked nothing like the tall, muscular off
icer standing before me now. His brother was a captain in one of the county regiments. I tried to recall which. Wiltshire?

  “Indeed it has,” he said as we shook hands like lost friends. “I was sent to France after I recovered. Were you still with Britannic when she sank? I’d wondered.”

  “I was,” I told him, “and escaped with a broken arm.”

  “Harrowing experience, I should think.”

  “I still dream of it sometimes.”

  He nodded, folded the napkin, and put it aside. “Not surprising. My dreams aren’t what they once were.” He made a gesture intended to lighten his next words. “My favorite is finding myself flying through a hail of bullets, diving headfirst into the nearest trench, only to find it crowded with the most despicable collection of Turkish soldiers you can imagine. Bazaar thieves, guttersnipes, and murderers all. Better than any rooster for a fast wake up.”

  But the lines around his mouth as he spoke told me that it had really happened, only to be repeated over and over again in his dreams.

  I smiled, as I was expected to do, and then said, “Who wins?”

  “I never find out. Since I’m still here, I expect it was me.”

  We laughed together, then I quickly changed the subject. “Wasn’t there a girl? I seem to remember writing a letter for you. You could have written your own, but you were malingering.”

  “So I was. A few minutes with the pretty ward sister, and I was envied by every man present. Yes, there was—is—a girl. She’s in Norfolk, helping her family grow whatever it is they grow in Norfolk. Worse luck, she couldn’t meet me in London. It was harvest-time for something.”

  I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Why didn’t you go to her?”

  He grimaced. “Apparently marrows or parsnips or whatever they are rank higher than a mere lieutenant.” And then he brightened. “But I’m taking the train from here to London, meeting my brother, and we’re driving on to Gloucestershire.”

  “How nice!” I was trying to think how to bring Meriwether Evanson back into the conversation when George did it himself.

  “When did you know Merry? After his first crash or his second?”

  “The second.”

  “Ah. The burns.” He stared out the window, watching the rain. “I’ve always had a horror of fire. I can’t imagine finding myself aflame. How bad were they?”

  “Head. Hands and feet. Part of his torso. Infection is the greatest danger.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said, shuddering as he considered that. Then he realized he’d sworn aloud and was busy apologizing.

  “Did you know his wife?” I asked.

  He smiled. “If you knew Merry, you knew Marjorie. She’s all he ever talked about. I’m surprised he didn’t name that bitch in the stables for her.” And once more he realized he’d put foot in mouth. “Sorry—I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

  “I’d seen her photograph. She seemed to be such a lovely woman. In every sense.”

  “Yes, well, she most certainly was pretty.” He smiled, remembering. “But it hadn’t turned her head. Do you know what I mean? She was a thoroughly nice person. That’s what makes it so hard to believe she was murdered. I mean to say,” he went on, frowning now, “one doesn’t think of murder touching nice people.”

  Before I could stop myself, I spoke in defense of Marjorie Evanson. “I don’t think murderers care if one is nice or not.”

  “Oddly enough, Serena asked me yesterday if I thought Marjorie had fallen in with the wrong sort of people. I couldn’t imagine what she was getting at. Marjorie wasn’t like that.” He took a deep breath. “Is there something worrying her?”

  “I expect she’s also having trouble understanding murder,” I said. “Grasping at straws—the wrong sort of people, money, debts, secrets—anything to explain what happened.”

  “I doubt if it was money or debts. Marjorie was comfortably off in her own right, but not rich. As I remember, she and her sister shared the inheritance from their father.”

  Someone—Inspector Herbert?—had mentioned a sister.

  “As for secrets,” he went on, “Marjorie was hopeless there. Merry told me she couldn’t wait for an anniversary or a birthday, and was forever asking if he wanted to know straightaway what she was giving him.”

  And yet she had kept a very different secret from her husband and everyone else.

  Lieutenant Bellis began to pace restlessly. “How did we get on such a morbid subject? The weather is wretched enough.”

  Taking the hint, I said, “It does seem a little lighter in the west.”

  “Your imagination,” he replied, grinning, coming to stand by me at the windows. “It’s still as black as the bottom of a witch’s kettle out there. This could go on for hours.”

  But it didn’t. A tiny square of blue grew to the size of a counterpane, and then spread quickly, offering us the spectacle of a rainbow as the sun finally burst through.

  The grass was too wet for sport, and so we collected in the study for our tea.

  Jack was looking tired, as if he rather regretted inviting so many guests for the weekend. Watching him, I thought perhaps he was feeling the strain of his duties. It must be a burden to know the truth about what was happening in France or the North Atlantic and say nothing. I’d noticed several times that when he was asked for his views on the course of the war or the prospect for the Americans to come in, he evaded a direct answer, giving instead the public view we could read for ourselves in any newspaper.

  My own father had told me privately that if the Americans didn’t commit themselves soon, we would run short of men. I’d asked him if the Germans were in the same state, and he’d answered gravely, “We’d better start praying they are.” It was a worrying possibility that we could lose the war. That so many might have died in vain.

  The men drifted off to the billiard room, and the women settled down to read or knit. We were all expected to do our share with our needles, and most of us were thoroughly tired of the drab khaki wool intended for stockings, scarves, gloves, hoods, and even waistcoats to keep men warm in the trenches.

  Serena came to join us after seeing to matters in the kitchen, and I noticed the shadows on her face as she sat by one of the lamps, rolling yarn into a ball.

  Cynthia Newley said, “Serena, is there any news regarding Marjorie? Has the Yard learned anything more?”

  “Apparently not,” she answered coldly. “At least we haven’t been told.”

  “It seems so—odd. You would think Marjorie’s death would receive top priority.”

  “Indeed.”

  I glimpsed Serena’s eyes as she looked up briefly at her friend. There was angry denial there. It was a pity the police had had to tell her about the unborn child. It had only added to her distress. Any indiscretion on Marjorie’s part should have died quietly with her. But this was murder, and there were no secrets in cases of murder.

  And then Serena was saying, as if unable to stop herself, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything. You knew Marjorie, Cynthia. So did you, Patricia. Those last months in London—what did she do? Where did she go? I wasn’t in London often, I seldom saw her. When the police asked me if she had met any new friends, I had no idea. Or if she was worried about something. I was so out of touch, I couldn’t give them an answer.”

  Patricia, a quiet woman with dark hair, said, “These past few months—well, since late winter for that matter—I saw her hardly at all. A few memorial services, and once at a morning church service. I asked Helen Calder if Marjorie was all right. Helen replied that she was probably worried sick about Meriwether. Let’s face it, pilots don’t have very long lives, do they?”

  Juliana said, “Well, I can vouch for the fact that she didn’t spend much time with her usual friends. I invited her to several parties, and she declined.”

  “Which could mean,” Cynthia commented dryly, “she must have made new friends.”

  “Still, you
must have seen her somewhere. Dining out, volunteering somewhere, the theater.” Serena looked around the room, inviting comment.

  Cynthia, sitting by the window, peered over her glasses. “Well. Since you ask. There must have been a man.”

  Serena bristled. “That’s disgusting!”

  “Is it?” She ran her fingers through her fair hair. “Look, we’re not the innocent lambs we were in 1914, are we? If Marjorie stopped seeing her friends and family, there’s probably a good reason. She had new friends—or she had something to hide. And what would she have to hide, if it wasn’t a man?” Cynthia added bitterly, “She’s not the first, Serena, and nor will she be the last. You’re fortunate, you know where Jack is, even if he’s not at home. He isn’t off in France or God knows where, being shot at, and his letters coming in bunches or not at all, and you’re left wondering if he’s dead or wounded or missing. You can’t stand in judgment of Marjorie, you haven’t lived with her fears.”

  Serena said, “She never said anything to me about any fears.”

  “No, I’m sorry. But you’re Meriwether’s sister, you had your own worries there. I expect she didn’t want to add to them.”

  Mary said, trying to pour oil on troubled waters, “There’s been nothing more in the newspapers. Have the police made any progress at all?”

  Serena gave her a cold, hard look. “The inquest was adjourned at the request of the police, citing the ongoing inquiry into her murder by person or persons unknown.”

  Mary answered mildly, “I was in France, Serena. I didn’t know.”

  Nor did I.

  Cynthia held her ground. “There’s no use asking us about Marjorie. Talk to her sister. It’s possible she knew more about what was going on. Marjorie may have confided in her.”

  “I doubt it,” Patricia interjected. “My impression was that they didn’t get on.”