by Charles Todd
I barely had time to wonder how Michael, for his sins, was faring, languishing in gaol. I hoped he was absolutely wretched.
My mother did ask, in passing, if I would wish to invite that handsome young lieutenant as well. I realized that she hadn’t heard the latest turn of events. I didn’t have the energy to explain them to her, and so I told her that I didn’t think he would be available.
The Colonel Sahib, having spoken privately to Simon, wondered, as I walked into his study, if he should anticipate a passionate plea for his intervention if matters looked grim for my lieutenant.
“He’s not my lieutenant. If he was anybody’s lieutenant, he was Marjorie Evanson’s. Besides, I’m sure Simon also told you it wasn’t likely that Michael would be in custody for very long.”
“He did seem to think that Lieutenant Hart had acted rather foolishly, going in to London.”
“The worst part of it is,” I said, wandering from the window to take a chair across from his, “the woman he was desperate enough to ask to drive him to London is no friend of Marjorie Evanson’s. I think she was pleased to see Michael taken up.”
“Are you certain about that?”
I told him what Mrs. Eubanks, the cook, had had to say.
“Of course servant gossip can’t always be relied on for truthfulness,” he pointed out. “But when there’s heavy smoke, there’s often fire.”
“I think she told the truth as she sees it,” I agreed. “She didn’t like Victoria, and so she was ready to lay all the blame at her door. But everyone—Alicia, the rector, Michael himself—had also told me that there was no love lost between the sisters. Marjorie left home as soon as she could after her mother died, and her father did nothing to stop her from going. The wonder is, he didn’t think of disinheriting her, once Mrs. Garrison was dead.”
“And that may well be Victoria Garrison’s problem. In spite of all she’d done to make him believe the first daughter wasn’t his, in the end he had doubts.”
I looked at him. “You are clever,” I said. “It would explain so much.”
After a moment, I went on. “Granted, I haven’t known these people for very long. But I was drawn into their lives because I was a witness to what happened. If the police had found Mrs. Evanson’s killer straightaway, that would have been the end of it.”
“Not every murder inquiry leads to someone being taken into custody, much less tried and convicted. God forbid that Mrs. Calder should die, but if she does, and there is no explanation of why she had called the lieutenant’s name in extremis, a shadow will hang over him for the rest of his life. It might be better to have a trial and clear him of any culpability.”
“What if he’s convicted?”
“There’s that risk as well.” My father paused. “Who would you suggest as the murderer the police are looking for?”
I shook my head, feeling tired suddenly. “I don’t know.”
“Then you can understand Inspector Herbert’s dilemma.”
I smiled against my will. “I would very much like it to be Victoria.”
My father laughed. “From what Simon tells me, this Inspector Herbert is no fool.”
“He tells you that because Inspector Herbert advised me to stay out of the Yard’s affairs.”
“Good advice.”
For what was left of the afternoon, I helped my mother plan her dinner, shaking out the best table linens, stored away in lavender, and helping with the polishing of the silver and then I washed glasses and dried them carefully. She and I worked side by side in contented silence or chatted about whatever I needed for my return France.
And all the while my mind was busy with what the Colonel Sahib had asked me: Who had killed Marjorie Evanson?
I was no closer to an answer by the end of the day.
The menu, given all the shortages of food, presented a problem. Sighing, my mother said, “Do you suppose we could ask our guests to bring their own chickens?”
I laughed.
Then, changing the subject as she so easily could when one least expected it, she added, “You may as well tell me what is going on. It will save me from having to cajole your father.”
I was saved—quite literally—by Nell appearing in the doorway.
“Miss Elizabeth,” she said, “there’s a message for you. The boot boy, Sammy, from The Four Doves, just brought it round.”
I took the folded sheet she held out to me, and opened it.
A hasty scrawl read:
I’ve just been told. Is it true? Please, will you come and talk to me? It was signed Serena Melton.
I refolded it and turned to my mother. “We might not need those chickens after all.”
As I left the room she answered, “I hadn’t had my heart set on them, you know.”
I drove to The Four Doves, wondering all the way there if Serena Melton had somehow discovered Scotland Yard’s interest in her brother-in-law, Raymond. I didn’t see how she could have found that out—or my role in identifying him. Her husband, Jack, was important in the cryptology section, but that gave him no influence with the police or even the Home Office. But then news sometimes had a way of leaking out. Someone else could have heard and then called him. I’d already confessed to him that I’d seen the man.
The doors to the inn were standing wide, allowing late sunlight to pour through into the small reception area, gilding the polished wood of the floors. The woman behind the desk greeted me warmly as I came in. Gray-haired and gray-eyed, she could pose for one of the original doves. But she had taken her son’s place running the little inn when he went off to war, and had managed to keep it up despite the lack of nearly everything from paint to food.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cox,” I said. “I’ve just received a message from a visitor. Is she still here?”
“Yes, I put her in the small parlor. She was reluctant to come to the house. Heaven knows why.”
I knew why. The last time we’d met, Serena had called me a liar.
I thanked Mrs. Cox and started for the parlor. “Shall I bring you tea? We don’t have any biscuits today, I’m afraid.”
I knew she needed the business, and agreed that that would be nice. But I doubted Serena Melton would stay long enough to drink it.
She was standing when I walked into the little parlor, as if she had been pacing the floor while waiting to see if I would come to her or not.
“Miss Crawford,” she said as soon as she saw me. “Bess.”
“Hello, Serena.” We hesitated, decided not to shake hands, and I sat down.
It took her a moment to rally herself, and then she said, “I hope you’ve forgiven me for the things I said when we parted at the railway station. I was under considerable strain, and it seemed then that everyone was set against me. I felt an obligation to find out who the man was in Marjorie’s life—I owe that to my brother—but it has been a very difficult task I’ve set myself, and I have no experience to guide me.”
It was a long preamble. I was beginning to feel a little ill at ease.
“I can appreciate your determination, Serena. But I think the police are better at getting to the truth.”
“But they haven’t. In all this time. Until now. I’m told you were there. And I need to know if I can believe—if it’s true, is it the same man who seduced her?”
“I—really don’t know, Serena. I’m as much in the dark as you.”
“But you were there,” she pressed. “You must know something. I don’t fault you for not telling me, not after the way I behaved earlier. Still, for Meriwether’s sake, if not mine, perhaps you’ll tell me what you know.”
Thinking she might be more willing to reveal her sources now, when she wanted something from me, than after I’d answered her questions, I said, “First, I’d like to ask you how you knew that I was present.”
The door opened and Mrs. Cox came in with the tea tray. Smiling, she set it down on the table next to me, and then quietly withdrew.
Busying myself with the po
t and the cups, I asked Serena how she preferred her tea, all the while wondering how much I could safely tell her about that night in the rain when I’d seen Marjorie Evanson.
I nearly dropped the cup I was about to hand her when she said, “Victoria Garrison telephoned me. She felt I ought to know. I can’t think why—she and I had words over where her sister was to be interred. To be honest, under the circumstances, I didn’t want Marjorie lying next to Meriwether and Victoria didn’t want Marjorie to be returned to Little Sefton. Even when Merry was alive, I didn’t see Victoria very often, and I could tell she and Marjorie never got on. I wasn’t sure whether she was gloating or intended to be kind when she telephoned me.”
Oh dear, I thought, rapidly reassessing what it was she must be wanting me to tell her. I’d come all too close to revealing more than I should, because it was on my mind and not hers.
“Do you mean when Michael was taken into custody?”
“Yes, yes. The police had come to arrest him for the attack on Mrs. Calder, as well as Marjorie’s murder. Is it true? Did he do those things? I’d suspected he and Marjorie were close, even before she married my brother. But if he killed her, was he also her lover? I must know. Michael always struck me as someone who used his charm for his own advantage. I never could tell when he was serious or not. But he’s been in France, or so I’d thought, and it never occurred to me to look in his direction until now.”
“I think the police have probably made a mistake,” I said. “I don’t know Michael all that well, you see. I was there, yes, but I couldn’t quite understand why the police feel he killed Marjorie. He admits he was in London at the time—”
“So I have heard,” she interrupted eagerly. “He was there, he had the opportunity. I’d persuaded Jack to find out who was in England around that time, but I never even thought about Michael.”
“But he was here to have his eye treated—and he’s recovering from other wounds now. It’s hard to believe he could have managed either attack. Physically, I mean.”
“You don’t know what men are capable of when they put their minds to it,” she informed me darkly. “You aren’t married, you don’t know how determined they can be.”
“No, you don’t understand, he ran a terrible risk, medically. If his eye had hemorrhaged, he could have lost his sight. And now he was likely to do serious damage to his shoulder. After all the surgeries and the pain he’s had to endure, I don’t see him taking that chance. It could mean losing his arm. And he realizes that. It would be foolish.”
“It might seem foolish to you,” she told me, “but we can’t know what was in his mind.”
“If he was her lover—and I’m not convinced of that—why should he then wish to kill her?” And I asked myself, why was she weeping copiously on Raymond Melton’s shoulder, if it was Michael who had got her pregnant? Unless Michael, not knowing he would be in London, had asked a friend to act for him.
“She might have told him it was over, that Meriwether was coming home and she wanted to go back to him. Jealousy is a powerful emotion. Sometimes people who are as handsome as Michael can’t accept rejection. They’re used to being adored.”
She had worked it all out in her mind. Just as Inspector Herbert had done.
“Yes, of course that’s possible,” I argued. “But then why should he want to harm Mrs. Calder?”
“Perhaps she just found out he was in London then, and Marjorie had already told her about a man she was seeing. Helen Calder realized what that must mean, and she could have told Michael what she intended to do, giving him the opportunity to do the right thing and turn himself in. I don’t know Helen Calder well, but she is very conventional, isn’t she? Or maybe she herself really didn’t want to get involved with the police.”
Mrs. Calder was rather conventional. It would explain why Michael urgently wanted to go up to London. Could Serena be right? But why had he told his uncle he was intending to see Mrs. Calder? Why not claim he needed to visit a doctor? Why did he take a knife with him?
When I hesitated, Serena said, “He couldn’t be sure, could he? That she wouldn’t go to the police herself? It’s possible he only wanted to persuade her she was wrong.”
“Serena, you’ve made a very strong case. But it’s mostly conjecture. There’s no way of knowing how true it really is.”
Her face hardened. “Victoria told me you’d argued with the police inspector. And you’re standing up for Michael now.” She set her teacup aside. “She told me too that you were in love with Michael Hart. All I wanted to know is, was Victoria right? Can I believe her, that the police actually took him into custody, that he’s not just helping them with their inquiries? Marjorie didn’t trust her sister. Can I?”
I let out my breath in a sign of frustration. “In the first place, I’m not in love with Lieutenant Hart. I’ve told you, I hardly know him. In the second, it’s true he was taken into custody, and that I was present. And yes, I did argue with the inspector. I thought his case a very poor one. Medically I didn’t see how Michael Hart could have attacked those two women. But Inspector Herbert is convinced that it was possible. And finally, Victoria Garrison is a troublemaker. The only reason I can think of for her to telephone you and tell you about Michael is to stir up your grief all over again. She settled her score with you. Don’t you see?”
Standing, she said, “I shouldn’t have come. I just want to see the end of this business, so that my brother can finally rest in peace.”
I felt like telling her that her brother might have found that peace if she herself hadn’t told him the whole truth about his wife. It had been unnecessarily hurtful. The only reason I could think of for her not to shield him was her own jealousy. That she was both shocked and gloating that Marjorie had fallen so far from grace. And now it was Serena who needed to find some peace.
I said, “Serena. I can understand that you want to see Marjorie’s murderer caught—”
“He got around you just as he got around Marjorie, didn’t he? You can’t see beyond that, but I can. I can see him clearly.”
She marched to the door, self-righteous indignation in every stride.
I waited until she had reached it, then asked, “Serena. Someone shot at Lieutenant Hart earlier this week. Whoever it was missed him both times. Was it you?” That stopped her cold.
I added, “There was a weapon missing from your husband’s gun cabinet. A revolver, at a guess.”
“You are grasping at straws, aren’t you? Jack carries a weapon when he’s in London. For self-protection, because of the work he does. I’d hardly call that ‘missing.’”
And she was gone.
I could hear the outer door of The Four Doves shutting with what might be called some force.
Setting the cups back on the tea tray, I went to thank Mrs. Cox and settle the account for our tea.
She said, “Your visitor was crying when she left. Is everything all right?”
Surprised, I answered, “She hoped for good news.”
Mrs. Cox nodded. “We could all use a little of that.”
I just wished Helen Calder would regain consciousness and tell us what she remembered. Good news—or bad—but better than this limbo.
The dinner party went exceedingly well, our cook outdoing herself with the chickens and even with a lovely French tart for the sweet. I couldn’t help but wonder where she had found the sugar for the glaze.
Most of all I enjoyed the guests, many of them friends of my parents, a few of them friends of mine. Diana was in London and arrived in high spirits, flirting with Simon, although Mary had told me it was likely she would be engaged by the autumn. Another of my flatmates, Elayne, was a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in weeks and we had much to catch up on. She too was expecting a proposal, she said, and I was happy for her.
Even Melinda Crawford had traveled all the way from Kent. She and my father were distantly related, and both her husband and her father had served in India in their time. As she leaned on Simon’s arm as w
e went in to dinner, she said, “When this wicked war is finished, I want to go back to India. I’ve unfinished business there. Will you take me?” Overhearing that, I made a promise to myself that I would go with them.
Throughout that dinner, I enjoyed watching my mother’s face. She loved entertaining, did it well, and was a clever hostess. I smiled at her down the table, and won a smile in return.
My leave was nearly up. I felt a twinge of regret, knowing how much this time meant to my parents.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I HAD WANTED to see Alicia Dalton before I left for France, to apologize again for hurting her feelings. But there was much to do the morning after the party, and I couldn’t leave all of that to my mother and Nell. And I was waiting for news of Helen Calder. Diana had promised to find out what she could.
Simon had driven Melinda Crawford to the train and my mother had taken the last of the chicken, made up as a fricassee, to two elderly women in the village. My father had been summoned to Sandhurst for a ceremony of some sort, and I was rather at loose ends.
Remembering that Victoria had telephoned Serena, I decided I would return the favor.
As the call was being put through, I realized too late that I should have left well enough alone. This was borne in upon me by the coldness in Victoria Garrison’s voice when I told her who I was.
“I should have thought I would be the last person you wished to speak with,” she said. “After what happened the other day.”
Refusing to be drawn, I asked, “Miss Garrison, did Lieutenant Hart tell you why he wanted to go to London?”
“Why don’t you ask Inspector Herbert? I’ve told him what I know.”
“It was you who took Michael there. And so I’m asking you.”
“Someone had told him I had tickets for that play. I didn’t twist his arm, he came to me. He said he would very much like to see it. I was surprised, but I was glad of the company, driving back after the performance. And then later, when we reached London, he hurt his shoulder getting out of the motorcar, and he was in pain. He couldn’t sit still, and even before the curtain went up, he walked out, saying that he needed air. I offered to go with him, but he told me to stay there, he wouldn’t be gone very long. When he hadn’t returned by intermission, I went to look for him. I missed a part of the play searching. The doorman told me he thought he’d seen the lieutenant leave the theater. I couldn’t think where he might have gone. I went back to my seat, and toward the end of the last act, he was there, looking as white as I’d ever seen him, his hands shaking. I drove him home, and he had very little to say for himself. I was very angry with him; I thought him selfish, to ask to come and then to ruin my evening.”
