by Charles Todd
In spite of the tea, I felt cold. “How vicious!” I said. “Are you sure—”
“Oh, I’m sure. Once I found Miss Marjorie sitting in a corner of the rectory porch, crying her eyes out and wet to the skin. Her sister had flung a pan of hot water at Miss Marjorie, then told her father that Miss Marjorie had spilled it on purpose to get Miss Victoria into trouble. I took her home and dried her off in my kitchen and fed her her dinner there too, before sending her up the back stairs of her own house to her bed. The next morning her father wouldn’t let her eat her breakfast until she’d apologized for lying.”
“But did you tell the rector—anyone—what was going on?”
“I thought about it, but I could do more for the child than Rector could, because I was there. And if I’d told, I’d have been sacked. Mr. Garrison had been a wonderful man, stern but fair, but he’d changed, he was cruel and cold. Then after his wife died, he turned bitter. You might say a child couldn’t do such things, but she did.”
“Then what happened?”
“When the will was read, Mrs. Garrison’s, I mean, she’d left money to Miss Marjorie, and as soon as she was of age she walked out the door of that house, went to London, and never set foot in it again. Even when her father died and she came for his service, she stayed here in the rectory.”
“You’ve given me food for thought,” I told Mrs. Eubanks. “And I’ll keep what you’ve told me in strictest confidence.”
“Oh, you can tell whoever you like. I don’t mind. Mr. Garrison is dead himself now. And there’s nothing Miss Victoria can do to me. Rector wouldn’t let me go for a dozen Miss Victorias. He’d not know where to find anything and would starve to death if he had to cook for himself or do the wash.” She was secure in her own worth. But I wondered if she’d have spoken quite so freely in Alicia Dalton’s presence. It was one thing to assert that the rector would keep her on, but the parish priest served at the discretion of his vestry.
“Tell me about your sister.”
“Nancy died young. Her and Dr. Hale were killed one icy morning coming back from a difficult lying in. Mare slipped first, then overturned the carriage, and horse, carriage, and my sister went into the river. Dr. Hale was thrown out and his back was broken. He lived a few hours, long enough to tell everyone what had happened. Otherwise I’d not have been surprised to find Miss Victoria had had something to do with the accident—young as she was.”
The venom in her voice was palpable. I think she had talked to me not because I’d known Marjorie’s husband but because this had been bottled up inside for so long it was like a boil in need of lancing, the pressure was so great and so painful.
“How old was she at that time?” I couldn’t help it, I had to know. The story had left me shocked as it was.
“Fourteen.”
We finished our tea. I saw Mrs. Eubanks eyeing the chicken, ready to garnish and put into the oven, and I knew that now she’d told her story, she was ready to get back to work on the rector’s dinner.
I thanked her and rose to leave. She said, “I don’t lie, Miss Crawford. I never did. What I told you is the truth. Not that it matters now with Miss Marjorie gone, and all. But it’s been on my mind of late, hearing of how she died.”
I left her to her cooking and walked around the rectory toward the road. I had hardly got to the end of the rectory’s drive when I saw policemen just coming out of the Harts’ house, and between two constables walked Michael Hart, his face black as a thunder-cloud. In front of them strode Inspector Herbert, mouth grim, eyes looking neither right nor left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I STOOD THERE rooted to the spot, not sure what to say or do for all of several seconds.
And then I was striding across the street and brushing past Victoria Garrison, who was standing in the middle of it, a gloating expression on her face.
She said, as I passed her, in a voice pitched for my ears only, “He’s going to the hangman, and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it.”
I ignored her. She wasn’t the only person watching as Lieutenant Hart was being taken into custody. Alicia was there, looking stricken, and others I recognized from the church fete.
I caught up with Inspector Herbert as he came through the Harts’ gate. He started with surprise when he saw me, then glowered.
“What are you doing in Little Sefton, Miss Crawford?”
“Visiting friends,” I snapped, “and it’s just as well I’m here to tell you you’re making a mistake.”
“Mrs. Calder isn’t completely out of danger and they are keeping her sedated. But the doctors and the nursing sisters have told me that as she rouses a little, she repeats the name Michael over and over again. When she does, she’s restless, and they believe she’s afraid in whatever limbo she’s in. A deeply rooted residual fear from her attack that she can’t face.”
It made sense, of course, but I wasn’t ready to give up so easily.
“Nonsense,” I said briskly. “That’s merely one interpretation. I’ve sat beside men who were hardly more than boys, as they recover from surgery. They call for their mothers—or if they’re married, sometimes for their wives. Am I to believe that these soldiers feel their mothers are responsible for their wounds?”
“It’s not the same,” he began.
“How can you be so certain? I’ve never once heard them cry out the name of a German soldier or the Kaiser.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” But I could see he was weakening.
By this time Michael and his escort had caught up with us. He said sharply, “Elizabeth. Stay out of this.”
“Oh, do hush,” I retorted, barely glancing at him. Turning again to Inspector Herbert, I asked, “What other evidence do you have that Lieutenant Hart is guilty of murder?”
“He was in London the night that Marjorie Evanson died. And again last night.”
I turned to Michael, surprise in my face. “But that’s impossible!”
He had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry—”
“We found the marks. He dragged her. He’s strong enough to do that one-handed. He gripped the collars of her clothing and dragged her into those shrubs. We found the bits of grass and earth on the heels of her shoes.”
I swallowed hard. “And no one saw him? It was a summer’s evening, and no one was looking out a window on Hamilton Place, to see a man loitering or to see him with Mrs. Calder, or in the square?”
“No one. I had men canvassing the street at eight o’clock this morning.”
“How did he get to London? He required permission from his doctors before I could take him there.”
“If you’ll step out of the way, Miss Crawford, we’ll finish our business here and take Lieutenant Hart to London.”
Behind them I could see Michael’s aunt in the door, her face white, her hand to her mouth. Next to her stood her husband, his face pale with shock.
I turned to Michael. “Who took you to London? Whose motorcar did you use?”
“My own,” he said harshly. “Victoria agreed to drive me.”
I stepped back, then. “Where was she when you were supposed to be killing Mrs. Calder?”
“Ask her. I left her at the theater. She wanted to see The Man Who Vanished.”
I whirled on Inspector Herbert. “Have you verified that?”
“I spoke to Miss Garrison earlier. She paid for her ticket, handed it in, and took her seat. That much is certain. She was waiting outside the theater when Lieutenant Hart was to return for her. I have three witnesses to that.”
A voice behind me said, “Let it go, Bess.”
It was Simon. I didn’t know he had already come back for me. I said, “But—”
And he repeated, “Let it go.”
I took a deep breath and moved out of Inspector Herbert’s path. He went directly to the motorcar he had waiting, and Michael passed me without a glance, taking his place in the vehicle as ordered. One of the constables was driving, and he slowly moved through the
spectators cluttering the street; I felt like bursting into tears.
Not from frustration but from anger. Helpless, furious anger. At Inspector Herbert, at Victoria Garrison, and at Michael Hart as well.
I let Simon guide me to where he’d left his motorcar and got in without a word.
“I’m sorry, Bess,” he said as he stepped in beside me. “Truly.”
“He’s not guilty. Inspector Herbert will come to his senses and realize that for himself.”
“Very likely.” Looking over my shoulder, I could see Alicia. Her expression was pity vying with doubt.
“You don’t mean that. You’re just trying to make me feel better,” I added, as the village disappeared behind us.
“I’m not, my dear girl. I’m agreeing with you.”
I glanced at him, and saw that he was telling me the truth.
“I thought you didn’t care for the handsome lieutenant,” he said after a time. “You certainly put up a brave defense on his behalf.”
“I respect the fact that a Scotland Yard inspector has a great deal more experience in these matters than I have, but he’s been floundering from the start, Simon. There could be any number of reasons why Mrs. Calder is saying Michael’s name over and over again. Inspector Herbert should have waited until she could speak before taking any action. What’s more, it could be that Victoria is lying.”
But I knew she wasn’t. The police had already looked into that too.
Then where had Michael gone, when he left her at the theater?
Simon glanced at me. “If he’s innocent, Bess, Inspector Herbert will have to let him go. You needn’t worry.”
I closed my eyes, trying to read Michael’s face as the policemen had brought him out. I could see it still, and what I read there was anger, not innocence. He hadn’t protested, I had. And I could feel my cheeks burn with the memory.
Not because I was ashamed of my defense of him. But because I knew that Inspector Herbert would see it very differently. Like everyone else who had been a witness to that scene, to him it would point to my feelings for Michael, rather than any objectivity on my part.
And then I knew what I had to do. There might not be another chance. “Please—Simon—I must go back. It’s important,” I told him urgently.
He slowed, but said, “It’s not wise, Bess.”
It took several minutes to convince him, but in the end he reluctantly turned back toward Little Sefton. I touched his arm in silent gratitude.
The crowd had dispersed, although a few people stood about in knots, whispering. I ignored their stares as we passed.
I left Simon in the motorcar and went up the walk to the Harts’ door. Someone had already begun to draw the drapes, as if trying to shut out the stares of neighbors.
Feeling every eye in Little Sefton pinned to my back, I knocked at the door, and after a time, an elderly maid opened it and told me that the family was not receiving today.
“I understand,” I began.
And then Mr. Hart was in the passage behind her, saying, “It’s all right, Sarah. Let her come in.”
He led me into the drawing room, the walls painted a pleasing yellow with white trim and a soft green in the drapes. They had been pulled, making the room seem dark and rather claustrophobic. As if he sensed my reaction, Mr. Hart went to a table and lit the lamp sitting there.
He appeared to have aged, his face still pale, lines etched more deeply than I remembered.
I said, “Forgive me. I’m so sorry to intrude.”
“You defended him out there.”
“I don’t believe he’s guilty. Could you tell me what the police said, and what happened when they told Michael what they wanted to do?”
“I feel it’s my fault,” he said, taking the chair across from mine. “He’d asked me again if I would take him up to London. But I wasn’t very keen on driving that far, and besides, this is our busiest time at the farm. I asked him why it was so important to go just then. He told me he needed to speak to Helen Calder. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but she’s related to Marjorie on her mother’s side. He didn’t say why, only that he wanted to see her in person, rather than telephone her. It was an arduous trip for him—the last time, after he’d gone there with you, he was exhausted for two days.”
In my mind’s eye, I could still see Helen Calder lying there on her cot, pale and unresponsive after her surgery.
“I don’t understand; if it was so important, why didn’t he call on her when I drove him to London?”
Mr. Hart shook his head. “Michael has always been impetuous. It might not have mattered then, you know. And with this wound, he seems to be unable to settle to anything. I know he’s in great discomfort at times. I hear him pacing at night. The doctors think he’s developing a tolerance to the sedatives he’s been given, and it requires higher and higher doses to help now.”
I wondered what relief he’d be given in a prison infirmary or cell.
“Did he tell Inspector Herbert about wanting to see Mrs. Calder?”
“I’m afraid—in my ignorance, you see—that I told him. Michael was sleeping when they came, and his aunt went to rouse him. Sometimes that’s difficult. Meanwhile, the police asked if he’d just returned from London, and I told the inspector that he had. I was asked why he’d gone to London, and I told them. I saw no reason not to, and I had no way of knowing why they were here.”
And that had been damning.
“Were you present when they questioned your nephew?”
“Oh, yes, I insisted on being present. We’ve always had him in our care, you see, and I could tell from Michael’s face that something must be wrong.”
“Did he tell them he’d spoken to Mrs. Calder?”
“He told them he’d gone to her house, and apparently they already knew that. But she wasn’t at home. He told the maid at the door that he would wait for a time. But after a while his shoulder was hurting badly, and he left.” Mr. Hart took a deep breath. “Inspector Herbert told me Mrs. Calder is very seriously injured and hasn’t regained consciousness after her surgery.”
“It’s true. We can only hope that when she does, she’ll remember who attacked her and why.”
But even as I said the words, I knew it was very unlikely that Mrs. Calder would remember anything after leaving her friend’s house. Not after such loss of blood and the ensuing surgery. The mind has a way of blotting out what it doesn’t wish to think about.
“I must apologize for asking this,” I said, “but it’s important. Had Michael been violent as a child? Angry, moody, sometimes acting rashly? Or has he acted this way only on his leaves from France?” If there was anything like that in his Army records, it would be used against him.
“No, no,” Mr. Hart said, alarmed. “There’s been nothing of the sort. He came to us while his parents were abroad. And as a boy, he was very much the way you see him now. Nor has the war changed him, although I’ve seen a darker side of him of late. This wound has tried his patience. He was never one to sit idle.”
Whatever Mr. Hart preferred to believe, war did change men. I’d seen it in India and in the wards of the wounded. It was just that some were better at hiding it than others. And the darker side he spoke of might be a sign that Michael could explode into violence in the right conditions.
If only Helen Calder had come to her senses before Inspector Herbert came down to Little Sefton.
I thanked Mr. Hart, and told him I’d let him know as soon as I heard anything about Helen Calder.
“Poor woman. I didn’t know her well,” he said as he walked with me to the door. “She and her mother didn’t come to Little Sefton very often. And she was a little older than Marjorie.” With his hand on the latch, he turned to face me, and I could see the effort he was making to hold himself together. “I can’t quite come to grips with any of this. My wife is making herself ill with worry. If Michael isn’t released soon, I hesitate to think what will become of us.”
I wished I could of
fer some comfort. I smiled and said, “Early days, Mr. Hart. We’ll face that bridge when we must cross it.”
He nodded, but the heart had gone out of him.
As I stepped out the door, I cast a glance toward the street, but the curious onlookers had gone about their business. There was only Simon, waiting for me in his motorcar. Mr. Hart quietly closed the door behind me, hoping not to disturb his wife.
Simon opened my door and as I settled myself in my seat, he reached out, and without speaking, held my hand until we had left Little Sefton far behind us.
When we arrived in Somerset, my mother was full of plans for a dinner party she was giving the next night, a chance for me to see and greet old friends. Her enthusiasm was jarring, in the mood I was in, and the Colonel Sahib gave me a quizzical look, one that said he sympathized but that I owed my mother the courtesy of entering into the event in the spirit she’d have wanted.
Simon, the coward, had vanished the instant the words dinner party were spoken, and there was no one left to spare me Mother’s good intentions.
And so I was swept off to see what the kitchen could manage that was halfway edible, and there was no time to sit down and think through events. That, clearly, was everyone’s intention.
