by Charles Todd
On the whole, I thought I did. I couldn’t have said why. Except that he hadn’t turned the full force of his charm on my mother.
The next morning I retrieved Michael Hart from The Four Doves and drove both of us to London.
He asked me where The Four Doves Hotel had got its name. For the sign showed only four gray doves.
“The house that once stood there was the pilgrimage guesthouse of a convent that had already fallen into ruin by the time of Henry VIII. The last of the nuns—four of them—were very old and had come to live in the guesthouse because there was nowhere else for them to go. But they still kept it open for travelers, in the care of a man they trusted. When Henry’s men stopped there on their way to burn out the abbot of Glastonbury, they remembered that the house had once belonged to a convent, and they asked the manservant if there were any nuns still there. He told the soldiers that the only females he knew of were four doves in the ancient dovecote in the garden. Henry’s men decided they would have the doves for their dinner. The servant was in great distress, because the dovecote had been empty for years, and that was where he’d hidden the nuns. He went out there, sick with fright, and told the nuns what he’d done. They said, “But didn’t you know? There are four doves here, roosting for the night.” And when the manservant lifted his lantern, he saw that they were right. He served Henry’s men their dinner, and sent them on their way. And ever after, there were always four doves in the cote and the elderly nuns lived out their lives in peace.”
Michael was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It’s too bad life doesn’t have such happy endings.”
I replied, “Here is what I know about Marjorie Evanson. She had a sister, but often there was no love lost between the two of them. Her parents are dead, but Victoria was her father’s favorite, and he appeared to spoil her. Marjorie went away to school and never really came back to Little Sefton. She married Meriwether Evanson, and her father seemed to make no objection to the match. While Lieutenant Evanson was in France, Marjorie must have taken a lover, because she was pregnant when she died—” I could have bitten my tongue.
“I didn’t know that,” he said, his voice strained. “Is it true?”
“Yes. It was discovered in the postmortem. It wasn’t made public.”
“That would explain why Meriwether killed himself, wouldn’t it? He’d known he wasn’t the father.” He thought about that for a moment. “And does anyone know who this man might be?” He still hadn’t got full control of his voice.
“He’s a mystery. The police asked anyone who had seen Marjorie the day of her death to come forward. And he never has.”
“Now I understand why Serena Melton asked that the funeral for her brother be private. And why he and Marjorie weren’t buried together. Neither Victoria nor I were invited to the service, but she went anyway. And the Meltons didn’t attend the service for Marjorie. That caused talk, I can tell you. But most people accepted the fact that they were still in mourning.” He cleared his throat, angry with himself.
“I didn’t know.” It seemed vengeful to me.
“You couldn’t have known. I’d thought it was because Marjorie was murdered. As if that had been her fault.”
“Murder doesn’t happen in nice families,” I quoted.
He said something under his breath, the words whipped away by the wind as we drove east toward London. I had a suspicion he was swearing.
“Serena Melton. Do you know her very well?”
“Not well at all. We met at the wedding, and at a party or two in London after that. I didn’t like her very much. Mainly because she didn’t seem to care for Marjorie. Merry was all right. And Jack, Serena’s husband.”
“Who could have been Marjorie’s lover? Someone she knew? A stranger she happened to meet on a train or in a restaurant or at a party?”
“I don’t know. I told you, she changed. Her letters changed. Yes, all right, I was in France, and it’s difficult writing very personal things that the censors will read before the person at the other end does. But I hadn’t thought—I don’t know what I thought,” he ended. “It’s hard knowing your husband could be shot down any day he flies. I thought that might have put strains on Marjorie’s marriage. That she was afraid to love him too much.”
We drove in silence for a time.
Then Michael said, easing his injured shoulder, “She was in love with Meriwether. A blind man could have seen that. I don’t know what could have gone wrong.”
“He crashed twice. He was badly burned the second time. It must have been frightful to realize that the man you knew and married was so disfigured that you might not even recognize him. She could have turned to someone for sympathy and his kindness made her vulnerable. She had only to sleep with him once. She needn’t have loved him. Or he her.”
“In some way that’s worse.” Michael Hart turned to look at me. “You seem to know what she was feeling. How such things happen.”
“It’s not surprising,” I told him. “I’ve dealt with soldiers of every rank. I’ve written their letters home, and I’ve read them their letters from home. Marjorie wasn’t alone in her fall from grace.” Three years of war had had other costs besides the long lists of dead and wounded. “I think it’s time you told me the truth. Were you in love with Marjorie Garrison?”
He wiped his good hand over his face, as if to conceal the agony there. “God help me. I was.”
We said nothing more for the rest of the journey.
We were coming into London when Michael roused himself and said, “I haven’t been very good company, have I?”
“I was thinking. Marjorie’s house was also her husband’s home. You’ve been assuming that the staff would speak freely to you. But what if they won’t? Out of loyalty to him as well as to her?”
“I’ve considered that too. But it was Marjorie in trouble—Marjorie who was murdered. I don’t think Victoria came here to question the staff. I don’t know that she cared enough; she would have left that to the police. As for Serena, she sent her husband to box up Meriwether’s belongings. She never even told them Merry died. She left that to the family solicitor.”
“How did you know this?”
“I telephoned the house as soon as I came to stay with my aunt and uncle. I wanted to know about Marjorie’s things. What was to happen to them.”
I suddenly remembered Alicia’s remark about letters.
“Why is the house still open, if both Marjorie and her husband are dead?”
“I can’t answer that. But I rather think Victoria and Serena are squabbling over it. And until that is settled, it’s being run as if Evanson and his wife are expected to return.”
“Fully staffed?” I was surprised.
“As fully as any house can be staffed today. They’re paid to the end of the quarter, anyway.”
“But if Marjorie died first, and then Lieutenant Evanson died, I don’t understand the problem. If she willed everything to him, then all their property was his to dispose of, and so Serena must now be the owner of the house.”
“It’s not that simple. Marjorie inherited the house, you see. It was in her mother’s family, and her mother’s sister—her aunt—lived there until her death. Marjorie could have wished it to stay in the family.”
Weaving through traffic, I said, “It takes time to settle affairs. But I understand now why you were so intent on coming here.”
London was crowded, men in uniform looking for places to stay, families coming to see loved ones off to France or hoping to meet them on leave, everyone demanding a room and no rooms to be had. But Michael found one. He walked into the Marlborough, not far from Claridge’s, and came out again in a quarter of an hour, saying, “A room for four nights. I doubt I’ll be here that long, but a bird in hand is wisest.”
I wondered how he managed it. But I had no intention of asking.
Hesitating, unsure how to put my question, I said, “Can you cope with one arm strapped to your body?”
“
Well enough. It’s awkward as hell, but I can do up buttons on my own, comb my hair, shave, and even brush my teeth. What I can’t do are laces. But they’ll send someone up. I’m not the worst case they’ve come across.”
I nodded, told him to be ready the next morning at nine, and left him and his suitcase to the tender mercies of the ancient doorman.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN I REACHED the flat, Diana and Mary were there, eager for news. Then Diana was off to make her train in time, and Mary said, “You’re braver than I am, Bess, to do what you’re doing for a woman you don’t know. It will be ages before you have another leave like this. Don’t waste it chasing shadows.”
But I did know Marjorie, in a sense. That was the problem. I’d watched her photograph give her husband hope. And then I’d seen her in person, unaware of why she was crying or who the man was, but a witness to such wretchedness that she couldn’t hold back her tears even in this very public place. And whatever she had done, she hadn’t deserved to be stabbed and thrown into the river to drown, unconscious and unable to help herself. I could still see her rush away into that sea of umbrellas, and if I’d had any idea what lay ahead, I’d have found her somehow and brought her back to the flat with me. I don’t know how I could have solved the problems she was facing, but I’d have tried.
That was hindsight. And I couldn’t dwell on it. Yet in a way I was.
I met Michael Hart at nine o’clock the next morning, as promised. He was waiting for me on the steps of the hotel when I drove up, and he directed me to the Evanson house in Madison Street.
It was tall, three stories with two steps up to a pair of Ionic columns supporting the portico roof. Curved railings to either side graced the steps, and above the porch was a balcony with a white balustrade.
I lifted the knocker, wrapped with black crepe, and let it fall, smiling at Michael Hart to cover the trepidation we both suddenly felt.
No one answered the summons. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flick of a drapery as someone peeked out. It was quickly pulled to again. After a moment a middle-aged woman in the black dress of a housekeeper opened the door, apologizing profusely to Michael.
“Mr. Michael. I’m so sorry, sir! Truly I am. But we’ve been besieged by newspaper people and curiosity seekers. There was a woman here a fortnight past swearing she could find the murderer for us if she could come into the house and touch something belonging to the dead. That was the last straw. I shut the door in her face, and we decided that we wouldn’t open it again to anyone.”
She was ushering us into the small square hall, and then into a drawing room decorated in pale green and cream, urging us to be seated.
“How are you, sir? We heard about that shoulder. You must have been in great pain. I don’t see how you can bear it, even now.”
I saw Michael’s mouth twist in the beginning of a grimace, and then he smiled and said, “I try not to think about it, Mrs. White. This is Sister Crawford, my nurse. She agreed to accompany me to London. I’m not yet well enough to travel on my own.”
Mrs. White made polite noises in my direction, clearly relieved that I represented nothing more than Michael’s nurse.
“I understand, Mr. Michael, truly I do. My grandson just came home with half his foot shot off. He can’t bear to put it to the floor yet.”
Changing the subject he said, “I don’t know what’s happening, Mrs. White. I know Marjorie is dead, that she was murdered. Victoria hardly speaks to me, and she won’t tell me what progress the police are making. This is the first time I’ve been able to come up to London. I want to find out anything I can that will help.”
“There was an inquest, sir. I was there, and horrible hearing it was. Mrs. Evanson’s death was put down to person or persons unknown and left open for the police to pursue their inquiries. But I don’t think they have any. They came here after her poor body was found and searched the house for evidence, but I don’t know what they was hoping to find. And then the solicitor, Mr. Blake, came to look for her will, and he left empty-handed as well. I told him she’d been speaking of changing it, but I doubted anything had come of it. He knew nothing about that. The police came again, asking us more questions about her state of mind, who might have called at the house, who she might have gone out to meet. I gave him the best answers I could, but I really didn’t know much. She wasn’t herself these past months.”
“How so?”
“She had one of her meetings here. Of the ladies with husbands who fly those aircraft—February, I believe it was. And it upset her. They talked about such terrible things, Mr. Michael. I heard them discussing how burned flesh feels when you touch it, and what it’s like to lose fingers or toes to fire, and the like. One of the women arrived in tears, and I think her husband had just been reported dead. Burned alive in his Sopwith.”
I felt a shudder, remembering the pilot of the Albatross going down in flames. As angry and frightened as I’d been at the time, he too had a family somewhere grieving for him.
Before Michael could ask another question, Mrs. White was saying earnestly, “Mrs. Evanson cried herself to sleep that night. I could see how red her eyes were the next morning. She went out in late afternoon, and although she’d told me she’d be at home for dinner and there would be no guests, she didn’t come in until close on to ten o’clock and that wasn’t like her to stay out with no word. But I smelled cigarette smoke on her coat as I put it away and helped her get herself into bed. And she didn’t tell me anything. Usually it was, ‘Oh, I ran into such and such a one, and we decided to have dinner together.’ And tell me what she’d had to eat, and how dreary the menu was or how bad the service, or how kind the waiter had been when she couldn’t even cut her meat with a knife, it was so tough—she was lonely, she missed the lieutenant something fierce, and I was there to listen if I could. But it all stopped that night. I thought she must have been angry with me.”
A woman beginning an affair? Or one caught up in an emotional tangle, and turning to the first sympathetic ear. And then having to be secretive, unable to speak freely, and so falling back on silence.
That gave me an interesting time frame. February. Her husband was in France, just joining a new squadron, his first and last crashes in the future. I’d been told that Lieutenant Evanson was a very good pilot, with quick reflexes, an understanding of the machines he flew, and the good sense to know when to fight and when to run. Most of the young, green pilots joining a squadron had to be restrained from trying to be heroes before they had even learned the rules of engagement with the very well-trained German fliers. And often they died in their first encounters with the enemy, too easily tricked into doing something rash that exposed them to a sure shot. The Germans liked to hunt in packs, lurking where they couldn’t be seen, but ready to come in for the kill when the opportunity arose.
Michael was asking if any of the other staff had found Mrs. Evanson more willing to talk about her days and evenings.
“Nan—you remember her, sir, she’s from Little Sefton, Mrs. Evanson brought her to London with her—she remarked to me that Mrs. Evanson was quieter, and later she told me she thought she was worried. That she cried in the night. We put that down to the lieutenant’s first crash. But he walked away from that one. Still, it must have frightened her to know how close he came to dying then.”
“Did she bring any strangers to the house? That’s to say, women or men you didn’t recognize? Someone she hadn’t known before Merry went to France?”
“She didn’t. No. Except of course for the ladies whose husbands flew. That changed from week to week, it seemed. But one of her friends, Mrs. Daly, stopped by, and as I showed her into the drawing room here, I heard her exclaiming, ‘Marjorie! At last. I haven’t seen you for ages. Come and dine with us tomorrow night.’ But I don’t think Mrs. Evanson went. I didn’t help her dress for such a dinner.”
“No letters from strangers? No messages? No—flowers or the like?”
“You mean, was t
here a man hanging about? I was beginning to wonder myself, when she paid particular attention to how she looked. And then she was at home nearly all the time, morning, noon, and night, refusing all invitations, and sometimes not leaving her room until late in the afternoon. What’s more, she wasn’t eating properly. Skipping a meal, saying she wasn’t hungry and would take only a cup of soup.”
“The day she—died,” I asked. “What happened that day?”
She turned to me as if she hadn’t expected me to have a voice. “Miss?” She shot a quick glance at Michael, and he must have nodded, because she answered, still looking at him, as if he’d asked the question.
“The police wanted to know as well. She was unsettled in the night. Mrs. Hall, the cook, came down to start the morning fires, and she found Mrs. Evanson in the kitchen, her eyes red, and she said she’d been horribly sick before dawn, could Mrs. Hall make her a cup of tea as soon as the fires were going. Mrs. Hall got her the tea and a pinch of salt to put on the back of her tongue to stop the nausea, and she went back to bed. But later she got up, dressed, and went out. She said she had a train to meet. She didn’t come home, and we thought perhaps she’d met the train and stayed with the friend she was expecting. I thought she looked very upset to be meeting a friend, but we supposed it was someone from her women’s group who had had bad news.”
“And no messages came for her, no one stopped here looking for her?”
“There was the note, before she left. Brought round by messenger.”
“Did she read it?” I asked, for the first time feeling that we were making progress.
“I don’t know if she did or not, Miss. She put it in her purse because she was in something of a hurry.”
And her purse had never been found.
I asked, remembering Serena Melton’s lie, “Was she wearing any special jewelry when she left that day? A brooch, or a bracelet, a fine ring? Something that might tempt a desperate man to rob her?”
