An Impartial Witness

by Charles Todd

  “You had told me the photograph went with Evanson from France to the clinic. But not that it was now in your possession.”

  “It was—personal. Whatever she did, whatever reason she might have had for doing it, he loved her more than living.”

  Simon went to the sideboard in the dining room. I could hear him collecting two glasses and a decanter. It was whiskey he brought back with him, and a small carafe of water as well.

  He poured a small measure of the whiskey in a glass, added water to it, and passed the glass to me, then poured himself a larger measure without the water. Holding his glass out to me, he said, “Welcome home, Bess.”

  I drank the whiskey. They say Queen Victoria drank a small tot each night before retiring. If she approved of it for herself, it would do me no harm. But I wasn’t sure I really cared for the taste of it, a smokiness that caught at the back of my throat and belied the smoothness of the first swallow.

  Simon smiled and took my glass from me before I’d finished it, setting it on the table. “It’s late. I’ll see you home.”

  “I can find my own way.”

  “I’m sure you can. But I shouldn’t care to face the Colonel tomorrow if I allowed you to walk that mile alone.” He drained his own glass and set it down.

  “Who killed her, Simon, if Michael didn’t?”

  “I don’t know. Who had the most to lose?”

  I stepped through the door he was holding for me and out into the night. “Raymond Melton? He had a career in the Army, a wife. He could have lost both if the affair had come to light. As it surely must have done.”

  “But he was on that transport ship.”

  We walked down the path side by side and turned into the lane.

  “Victoria? She was jealous of her sister from childhood.”

  “Why then? Why wait until that moment?”

  “Because with the child of her affair, she would have had to come home to Little Sefton and back into Victoria’s life?”

  “Possible, of course. On the other hand, Victoria might well have relished her sister’s fall from grace.”

  “There’s that. Serena, then, for what Marjorie was about to do to Meriwether.”

  “That’s far more likely. Except that Serena told her brother the truth about Marjorie, after she was dead.”

  “I think that was her own pain speaking. She hated Marjorie and wanted her brother to hate his wife too.” I sighed. “A tangle, isn’t it?”

  “Which brings us full circle, back to Michael.”

  We walked on in silence, shoulder to shoulder. As Simon lifted the latch on the door to my parents’ house, he said, “I’ll go to London tomorrow.”

  “And I’m going to Little Sefton. I want to speak to Michael’s aunt and uncle. After that, I must go to London and look in on Helen Calder. She must be feeling rather awful after her testimony sent Michael to trial.”

  Simon said good night, and waited outside as I shut and locked the house door. I stood in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs and watched him out of sight. Then I turned toward the stairs, intending to go straight to my room.

  My heart leapt into my throat. There was someone on the stairs, standing there in silence, watching me.

  All at once I recognized the shape of my father.

  He must have known somehow that I had gone to see Simon.

  He said only, “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Simon is going to London tomorrow. I’m going to Little Sefton myself. And then to London. There isn’t much time…”

  “For what it’s worth, my dear, I don’t believe he killed Marjorie Evanson.”

  My father knew men. He’d fought with them, led them, listened to them, disciplined them. Little escaped his notice, and he was a good judge of character.

  I went up the stairs to him and hugged him.

  “Thank you for telling me that,” I said.

  “You smell of whiskey. Brush your teeth before your mother comes to kiss you good night.”

  I promised, and we went up the remaining stairs to bed.

  Between my own fatigue and the whiskey, I slept soundly.

  I wondered if that was what Simon had intended.

  The next morning I said good-bye to my parents and set out for Little Sefton.

  It was well into September now. I’d first taken this road in early June, with high hopes that I could in some fashion bring to light a name that would lead the police to Marjorie’s killer. Now I drove with a sense of desperation goading me.

  A fortnight today. That’s all the time I had. And even if I found new evidence, the courts would have to be persuaded to hear it and act upon it.

  The urgent order of business, however, was mending my fences with Alicia.

  The first person I saw was the rector, who greeted me warmly and asked if I’d been in France again.

  I told him I had, and then said, “Still, I heard about the trial. It must have been terribly trying for Michael’s aunt and uncle.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve offered them what comfort I could. And I’ve written to Michael, to ask if I could serve him in the days to come.”

  “How has he answered?”

  “Sadly, with silence.” He looked up at the weathervane on the church tower as if it could point him in the right direction. “I’ve never counseled a man facing the gallows. I’ve prayed to find the right words, when the time comes.”

  “I’m sure you will do,” I replied. “Do you think I could speak to Mr. and Mrs. Hart? I know Michael pleaded guilty, but I also believe I know why he did. If I’m right, then it may be that he’s innocent of murder.”

  The rector stared at me. “You mustn’t raise false hope,” he warned. “It would be very unkind. They have been in seclusion, I don’t believe it would be wise.”

  “Which is worse for them, thinking Michael is a murderer or watching him die knowing he’s innocent? I’ve wrestled with that question for hours. I think I’d find comfort in knowing the truth. In knowing that my own flesh and blood is dying for what he believes in, not because he has done something appalling.”

  But he remained steadfast in his belief that I would do more harm than good.

  I left the subject there, and asked instead, “How has Victoria Garrison taken this news?”

  The rector said, “Walk with me to the rectory, won’t you?” I nodded, and as we crossed the churchyard, he went on. “Victoria Garrison troubles me. She was eager to give her evidence. And when proceedings were halted almost before they had properly begun, she was beside herself with anger. I was there that first day myself, I felt it was my duty, you know. If young Hart looked out at the crowded courtroom, I thought it might be steadying to find a familiar face. Victoria was waiting with the other witnesses, and when the trial ended abruptly, a bailiff must have gone to tell them that they were free to leave. And so we ran into each other on the stairs, and I was shocked. I had expected distress, disbelief, even. But her face was flushed with fury. I asked if she was all right, but she turned on me and said, ‘I’ve been cheated!’ in such a savage tone that I stepped back, and she hastened out the door and into the street. I’ve been at a loss ever since to understand.”

  I thought I did understand. Victoria had wanted her pound of flesh, to hear in open court a discussion of the sins of her sister. I couldn’t imagine that Michael’s fate moved her—she had been eager to see him taken into custody.

  I had wondered before if a woman could have stabbed both victims. It was possible. But was it likely?

  Given Victoria’s hatred of Marjorie, it could have happened. But how did Victoria know about the love affair before her sister’s death? Or about the child? Surely Marjorie hadn’t confided in her. And so Victoria couldn’t have killed her.

  There was the problem. If Marjorie had been living her life quietly in London, Victoria had no reason to be aware of her situation.

  The rector, suspecting my inner struggles, invited me to have lunch with him. “My excellent co
ok always makes more than enough sandwiches for one person,” he ended. “It will be no imposition.”

  And so I did. There was a plate full of sandwiches, with a dish of summer apples stewed in honey. “We’ve been keeping bees,” the rector told me. “Have you tried honey in your tea?” There were also small potatoes baked in milk and grated cheese.

  We talked about the village, and I confessed that I’d come to mend fences with Alicia.

  He smiled. “She was saying on Sunday last that she wished it had never happened. I think if you go to her door, she will be glad to see you.”

  I wasn’t as certain. But I promised I would try.

  After our meal, against his advice, I went to knock at the door of the Hart house.

  A maid opened it and told me that Mr. and Mrs. Hart were receiving no visitors.

  “Will you tell them that Elizabeth Crawford has called and would like to speak with them?”

  She went away and after several minutes came back to say that the Harts would see me.

  Surprised and grateful, I thanked her and was taken to the small sitting room with its comfortable furnishings and a lovely Turkey carpet.

  I could see at once that Mrs. Hart’s eyes were puffy and red from crying. Mr. Hart appeared to have aged in only a matter of weeks.

  He said, as I was shown into the room and the maid had closed the door behind me, “Miss Crawford,” and indicated a chair to one side of his own.

  I answered at once. “I can’t express what I feel. I wasn’t allowed leave to come home for the trial. I doubt if I could have made a difference if I had. But I wanted to try.”

  Mrs. Hart said, “Michael expressly forbade us to attend the trial. He told us that it would be distressing and hurtful, and he didn’t want us to see that. He didn’t want to sit there in the dock and watch our faces. Now I think he knew, even then, what he was intending to do, and that’s why he asked us to stay away. And it was the most horrible shock when the rector came to tell us what had happened. I refused to believe it then, and I still do. But most of Little Sefton feels that we stayed away out of shame for what he’s done. And to make it all even worse, he won’t let us come to see him one last time. I’m unable to sleep, I can’t—we had him from a little boy, and there’s no meanness in Michael. I want him to know that we love him still and would do anything—anything!—to keep him with us.”

  “My dear, you mustn’t—” her husband began.

  “Don’t tell me not to cry! He was like my own child. How shall I go on, knowing what they’ve done to him?” She turned to me. “You stood up for him, there in the street, when they came for him. I never said a word in his defense—I was so shocked, my tongue seemed as paralyzed as the rest of me. But you kept your wits about you and defended him. I will always be grateful for that, Miss Crawford. You will always be dear to me because you did what I couldn’t.”

  I took her hand. “Let me tell you what I think. It may not ease your suffering, but it could explain what happened in that courtroom. Michael was informed while he was in prison that although his shoulder has healed, he won’t regain the use of that arm. I don’t know if that’s true or not. There are trained people who are doing wonders with such wounds. I do know that he isn’t the only solder to feel his life is over because he’s lost the use of a limb or an eye. It isn’t an easy truth to live with. I’d like to believe that he decided then to protect Marjorie’s name and reputation by stopping the trial before it had begun. He’s always loved Marjorie. It would be like him to see this as a noble gesture, a very good reason for dying and ending his own wretchedness.”

  Mr. Hart stared at me. “I—If I hadn’t been so blinded by my own grief, I would have seen that for myself. It’s possible. Very possible.” He smiled for the first time, although there were tears in his eyes. “That foolish boy. But dear God, what are we to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “But perhaps if we talk about the people who knew Marjorie best, we might find something that could help.”

  “Victoria.” Mrs. Hart’s voice was cold and angry. “She tried to ruin Marjorie’s life, and now she’s ruined Michael’s. Did you know, Miss Crawford, that she went to Meriwether Evanson shortly before the marriage, to tell him that Marjorie was very likely illegitimate? He showed her the door, and said that if she ever said as much to any other living soul, he and Marjorie would take her to court for defamation of character. I think she was a little afraid of him after that. He came to Michael afterward to ask what sort of person Victoria was. And Michael told him how she’d alienated Mr. Garrison and Marjorie, to the point that Marjorie went to live in London. Meriwether swore Michael to secrecy, and he never broke his word until a week before he was taken into custody. He wanted us to know what Meriwether had said—that Victoria was evil. To beware of her.”

  “Then why did he let her drive him to London?”

  “Because he was desperate to go there,” Mr. Hart replied, “and I’m really not comfortable driving such distances now.” He put his hand to his heart as if in explanation. “I asked him to wait a few days, that I’d find someone to take him. But he was impatient, he said there was something he had thought about, that he must ask Helen Calder, although he wasn’t about to tell Victoria his real reason for speaking to her. Michael had been rereading Marjorie’s letters to him, but he didn’t have all of them. He believed Mrs. Calder might remember what he was searching for.”

  I leaned forward. “What was it he was hoping to ask her? I expect to see Mrs. Calder tomorrow. Perhaps I can ask her instead.”

  “I wish I knew,” he replied. “I didn’t understand the urgency, you see, or I’d have risked the journey myself. I’ve regretted that bitterly. I would have been with him instead.” Michael’s alibi, which Victoria couldn’t—or wouldn’t—give him.

  “Could Victoria have been suspicious enough to follow him?” I asked. “If she was jealous of Marjorie, she could have been jealous of Helen Calder as well. She might have jumped to the conclusion that he had used her to see Mrs. Calder.” But even as I said the words, I thought about Mrs. Calder’s long, thin face. And she was a few years older. What was there to be jealous of?

  But jealousy didn’t always heed reason.

  Small wonder Victoria was eager to testify at the trial. She would have enjoyed twisting the truth if it put Michael Hart in the worst possible light.

  “Just how much did Victoria know about Marjorie’s life in London?” I asked after a moment. “Did she go up to London often, after her father’s death?”

  “If you want to know what I think,” Mrs. Hart said, “she went to spy on her sister.”

  “My dear,” her husband cautioned, “we couldn’t be sure where she was going when she left here.”

  “Well, you saw her often enough at the station in Great Sefton. Where else could she have been going at that hour but to London? It isn’t as if trains pass through Great Sefton as often as they do in Waterloo Station or Charing Cross! There are only two a day, the morning train to London and the evening train to Portsmouth.”

  “She was fond of the theater and the symphony,” her husband reminded her. “And Mrs. Toller mentioned that Victoria volunteered there, arranging programs for the wounded. I’ve told you before.”

  “Yes, that’s all well and good. It doesn’t convince me she wasn’t spying on Marjorie.”

  I said, “Perhaps there was a man, someone she cared about.”

  But they would have none of that. Not Victoria, they said. They weren’t even certain she’d cared for Michael, except for the fact that he belonged to Marjorie.

  “She wanted him because she couldn’t have him,” Mrs. Hart declared. “And what she can’t have, she despises.”

  I tried to pin Mr. and Mrs. Hart down to precise dates when they’d seen Victoria in Great Sefton, but too much time had passed.

  When I left the Harts, I wondered if Michael had weighed the grief his decision had inflicted on them. Protecting the dead was admirable
, but the living counted too.

  From there, I went to call on Alicia.

  Her face was cool when she answered the door.

  I said quickly, before she could shut it again, “Please. I’m so sorry that I made you angry on my last visit. It was wrong of me to exclude you when I spoke to the rector’s cook. I thought I was being wise, and I was only being selfish.” I stopped, seeing no softening in her expression. “I’ve only just come back from France. I couldn’t get leave for Michael’s trial. And he’s to be hanged next week.” I wanted her to know that I hadn’t been in England since the day of our quarrel.

  “I was shocked by your behavior when he was taken into custody. To argue with the constable and that man from Scotland Yard on a public street was unseemly. It embarrassed me. After all, I’d introduced you to everyone here.”

  I didn’t think that had bothered her as much as my interviewing the rector’s cook on my own. But I said, “It was the only chance I had to speak up. I had to stand up for what I believed to be true at the time.”

  “And he confessed, didn’t he? To murdering one woman and attempting to murder another. I couldn’t believe it, but I expect he did it to save his aunt and uncle the ordeal of a trial. At least in that he showed some courage.”

  I didn’t argue. What good would it have done?

  After a moment she said, “What brings you back to Little Sefton?”

  “I came to offer my support to Mr. and Mrs. Hart. They are guilty of nothing, except perhaps for loving Michael and still believing in him.”

  “He wasn’t their child. As Victoria has been busy pointing out.”

  “I don’t think they consider whose child he was, only that they are losing him before very long.” I hesitated, and then said, “Speaking of Victoria, I hear she was often in London. Did you ever go with her to a play?”

  Grudgingly she answered me. “I did once, yes. I didn’t enjoy it very much. I didn’t know anyone there, and I felt guilty enjoying myself while Gareth was in France.”