by Charles Todd
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I DIDN’T SCREAM, bottling it up in my throat. Instead I drew back my foot and came down hard on the instep of whoever was behind me.
Simon Brandon swore. “Damn it, Bess—”
I whirled, but he shushed me at once. “Just keep walking.” He moved closer and took my arm. “Watch where you go.” He went on when we were out of earshot of the house, “I was there, at the corner of the garden where she couldn’t see me. Hart had warned me to stay out of sight. I heard most of it.”
“You couldn’t have. I didn’t see your motorcar—”
“I left the motorcar at your friend’s house. Alicia. I thought you were there. When she told me she hadn’t seen you, I went to the Hart house. Mrs. Hart sent me here, and I found Hart just by the church. I thought it best to send him home.”
“Did you see Michael?” I asked, remembering why he was here, why he was late. “Is he all right? Please tell me he’ll let us help him!” I could deal with anything, once I knew Michael was willing to work with us.
“He wouldn’t see me.” Simon was curt, clearly still angry about what had happened at the prison. “Short of a full cavalry charge, there was no way to reach him.”
“Did you leave a message for him? Anything that would make him see the light?”
“I told him he was a damned fool to hang for another man’s murder. Whether the guards will carry that to him or not, I can’t be sure. The only person who could get in to see him now would be his lawyer.”
“I saw Mr. Forbes. I don’t think he was impressed by what I had to say.” I turned my ankle and nearly pitched forward, but Simon steadied me. “He told me to bring the police Mrs. Calder’s attacker, and then they’d consider listening to me.” I was still bitter about that.
We had reached the Hart house. “I must go and thank them. And tell them about Victoria.”
“No. They live here. It’s not wise.”
“They know part of the story already,” I protested.
“Listen to me, Bess. In less than a week, they could very well lose Michael. Don’t make it any harder for them to face that.”
“They sent me to Victoria. She knows Mr. Hart walked with me to her house.”
He let me have my way. They were expecting us and opened the door almost at once. I thanked them for all they’d done to help. “As for Victoria—” I began, and saw hope shining in their eyes, even though anything I’d learned was not evidence. “As for Victoria,” I went on, “she’s so twisted by hate that she can’t see herself clearly. Or anyone else, for that matter. But I don’t believe she killed Marjorie.”
“What about Melton, Serena’s husband?” Mr. Hart asked. “Is there any hope there?”
“I think it would be best if Inspector Herbert spoke to him. I’m going to London now to try. I’ll stay in touch.”
Their faces had fallen into the sadness I’d seen when I arrived. They thanked me, Mrs. Hart gave me a kiss on the cheek, and they both wished me Godspeed. But I could see, all too well, that I had intruded on the careful shell they’d built around themselves this last week, and for a little time had made them feel anything was possible. And now they must build it up again, and mend the cracks I’d caused, to carry them through what was to come.
Simon and I wished them a good night, their door shut behind us with what sounded like finality, and we walked on through the heavy mist toward his motorcar.
“Didn’t you think to bring a heavier coat?” he asked as I shivered.
“No. It was warm enough when I left London. This one will do.”
Exasperated, he opened the boot and brought out a rug, handing it to me. I got in and hugged it to me, waiting for the shivers to subside. But they were the aftermath of my encounter with Victoria, not the night’s chill.
He started the motorcar and said to me, “Where do you want to go, Bess?”
“Home,” I said, “but I don’t have that luxury. Scotland Yard.”
Without answering, he pulled away from Alicia’s house and turned the bonnet toward the northeast. I sat huddled in my seat, thinking about Jack Melton as the miles slipped by.
It was late when we reached London. Simon threaded his way through what was left of the evening’s traffic, and found a space to leave the motorcar a few steps from the entrance to the Yard.
Coming around to open my door, he said, “Do you want me to stay here or come with you?”
“I spoke to him before. Let me try again.”
The constable on duty told me that he thought Inspector Herbert had gone home.
“Could you send someone to see? Please. It’s quite urgent.”
But I was told that Inspector Herbert’s door was closed and his light off.
“Is there anywhere I could sit to write a message? Something that can be given to him as soon as he comes back here in the morning?”
They showed me to an anteroom and brought me pen and paper. I sat in the time-scarred chair and tried to think what to say, how best to say it. Finally I wrote a few lines, signed my name, and folded the message.
It read simply,
I know now how Jack Melton discovered that Michael Hart was in London to visit Mrs. Calder. He was at the theater, with several American visitors, and he saw Victoria Garrison in the audience. They talked. Victoria was angry that Michael hadn’t returned. She told lies concerning his whereabouts. Afterward Jack Melton made his excuses to his guests, and left the theater. Victoria continued to sit there, doing nothing to stop him. I believe he saw this as an opportunity to throw suspicion on Lieutenant Hart, just as he’d done before. That means he could have attacked Mrs. Calder. Mr. Forbes told me that if I could bring you evidence that showed someone else had stabbed her, you would consider reopening Michael Hart’s case. Well, I’ve done that. It’s up to the Yard to fill in the details. One more thing. I think you’ll discover that Jack Melton seduced Lieutenant Fordham’s sister, and Fordham swore he’d kill Jack Melton when he’d recovered from his wounds. Victoria Garrison has in her possession a .45-caliber revolver. Jack Melton gave it to her. I’d see if Melton had used it to murder Lieutenant Fordham. I wouldn’t be surprised if she shot at Michael as well. If you solve the Fordham case, you owe it to me to pursue Michael Hart’s innocence. It would be a tragedy to discover after his hanging that you were wrong. I found a bullet in the Hart gardens. If you look, you’ll find its mate there as well.”
I handed my message to the constable, and asked him to see to it that Inspector Herbert received it as soon as he came in the next morning. I’d marked it Urgent, all that I could do.
Simon, waiting by the motorcar for me, said, “That was quick. Were you shown the door?”
“His office was dark. He’s gone home. I left a message.”
He held the door for me, then got behind the wheel.
“Bess, there are circles under your eyes. You’ve had no rest since you got home. You’ve done everything that’s humanly possible. More, in fact, than anyone ever dreamed could be done. Michael doesn’t want to be saved—for the wrong reasons, I must admit. Or perhaps he is guilty after all, and it’s hard to accept. Who knows?”
I fidgeted with the fringe of the rug. “If I could talk to Jack Melton, I’d know whether or not he was guilty. I don’t think Victoria is. She’s just vicious, cruel, wanting to hurt because she’s hurt. If she’d killed her sister, I think she’d have met me at the door with a knife in her pocket, not that revolver. It was probably to protect herself, not to shoot me. She knew who was at her door, she’d had time to plan what to do.”
Simon chuckled in the darkness of the motorcar, a deep chuckle in his chest that reminded me of Michael.
“What’s funny?” I demanded angrily.
“Nothing. You. Rationalizing why you weren’t killed tonight.”
“Well,” I retorted, “if you’d thought I was in any danger, you wouldn’t have let me walk down that path with my back to the woman!”
His mouth tightened into a ha
rd line.
“You should go back to Somerset. Tonight,” he said finally. “It’s safer. I have a bad feeling about this business.”
“I know. But I can’t abandon Michael.”
“In spite of all you’ve done, you can’t be certain he’s innocent. Your theories are no better and no worse than the one that put him in jail.”
“I know. But by the same token, I can’t be certain he’s guilty. I don’t want his death on my conscience. There must be something else I can do. I’ll think of something, I’m sure I will. And I want to be here, in London, where I can act on it. It takes hours to drive in from Somerset. Besides, Inspector Herbert knows where to find me.”
“He’s not going to listen, Bess, he’s already got his man. There are too many hurdles to leap now, he won’t risk his career on what Michael Hart’s friends have to say.”
“Then tomorrow we go back to Michael’s defense counsel. I have a witness now. He’ll have to listen. And if he won’t, we’ll go to the newspapers.”
“They won’t risk lawsuits to print your accusations.”
I was tired, my mind wasn’t working as it should. But a night’s sleep would make a difference.
I said stubbornly, “I won’t go to Somerset tonight. If I have to, tomorrow I’ll go to Serena and tell her what I know. Or to Jack Melton himself.”
“I tell you, it isn’t safe.”
“Mrs. Hennessey is there. I’ll be all right.”
He stopped arguing with me then. “All right.” He drove on, turning toward the flat, his face in the shadows. I knew he was very angry with me. I knew he’d seen me take a risk I shouldn’t have, speaking to Victoria alone. But I couldn’t go home.
“Simon?”
He said nothing, driving in silence, and I subsided into my seat.
The problem was, Michael had confessed. And because of that, all doors were closed. Simon was right. Battering at them was a useless exercise.
I collected myself, swallowed my frustration and the feeling of helplessness that made me so angry.
We were halfway to the flat now.
“Simon. Give me one more day. Please? And then I’ll go to Somerset. I promise you. I was drawn into this business because I nursed Meriwether Evanson. I wish now he’d carried a photograph of Gladys Cooper, like thousands of other men in France.”
“None of this is your fault, Bess. You must understand that. It would have happened even if you had never recognized Marjorie Evanson that night at Waterloo Station.”
And that was true. Her fate had been decided months ago when she embarked on a love affair.
I took a deep breath. “One more day, please?”
“All right. Against my better judgment. One more day.”
Ahead was the house. There were no lights showing. Mrs. Hennessey had gone to bed, and Mary wasn’t in. I could pace the floor or sleep, it wouldn’t matter.
“Thank you, Simon.”
He walked me to the door and saw me inside, waiting until I had climbed the stairs and unlocked my door. I went to the window and drew back the curtains, then turned on my light.
He lifted his hat to me and got back into the motorcar.
For once I wished Mrs. Hennessey wasn’t the dragon at the gate, that Simon could have come upstairs with me and had a cup of tea before leaving. I’d have known then that he was over his anger.
Sighing, I locked the outer door and made a cup of tea for myself. I sat there sipping it, my mind finally slowing down enough to sleep. And then, finally, I went to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I DON’T REMEMBER turning out the light, but I must have done, for I woke up some hours later to find my room dark, with only the star glow from the windows telling me it was still hours until dawn.
I drifted off again, dreaming that I was a witness to Michael’s execution, standing there like stone as he climbed the steps to the gallows and his sentence was read to him by the warden. Then the executioner slipped a black bag over his head. I was thinking that the last thing he’d seen was a bare prison yard and my face. Overhead the sky was cloudy, not even the sun shining for him one last time, and I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. There was a priest just behind Michael’s shoulder, and as he turned to say something to the warden, I recognized Jack Melton’s face. It was he who stepped forward to throw the lever, not the executioner, and I made myself wake up before the trap fell and Michael died.
I lay there breathing hard from the effort, trying to shake the last remnants of the dream.
And then I heard something that brought me wide awake in seconds.
Someone was trying to open the flat door.
Everyone here had a key, unless we were to be away for some time, in which case we often left it with Mrs. Hennessey. Elayne and Diana weren’t due for leave for a while, and Mary was staying with friends. Pat had been in Egypt these past six months or more. The flat below us was empty as well, its occupants in Poona, India, just now.
I got up very quietly, and stood at the bedroom door, listening. It hadn’t been my imagination. There it was a second time, the scratch of something hard against the plate. It was very dark at the top of the stairs, and finding the keyhole wasn’t always easy.
My flatmates and I could locate it blindfolded, from long experience.
Someone was trying to get into the flat.
My throat was dry now. I ran through a swift inventory of possible weapons.
There was the knife we used to cut bread and make sandwiches, but I didn’t think the blade was stout enough to drive into someone, and I had no intention of getting that close. Diana had a golf club in her room. She was trying to learn to play, and sometimes amused herself by putting into a glass wedged between the door and her trunk. I wasn’t sure I could reach it before whoever it was got the door open. I didn’t want to be caught empty-handed.
My tennis racket wouldn’t do much damage.
Think!
For a fleeting moment I hoped it was Simon, come back to look in on me to be sure I was all right. But he wouldn’t have come upstairs. Not without Mrs. Hennessey in tow. And he would have knocked.
The lock was old, and it didn’t take long to force it open.
Whoever it was stood there on the threshold for a moment, letting his or her eyes adjust to the small amount of light there was in the flat. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
I stood still, not breathing, and heard the rustle of clothes and a first tentative step inside. There were five tiny bedrooms. Which way would he turn?
He made a move toward Diana’s room—nearest the door—and I caught the flash of light from the window on something in his hand. A knife?
I was barefoot, and it occurred to me that I could reach the flat door quietly and lock the intruder inside, if I was fast enough, before he realized what was about to happen. My fingers searched for my key, which was lying on the bedside table—and they knocked it to the floor.
The clank was so loud it could have awakened the entire street. But I knew it had shocked him, as well. Taking advantage of that, I caught up my hairbrush and ran on silent feet, reaching with the other hand for one of the chairs in the sitting room, sending it spinning across the floor toward Diana’s bedroom as I went. It too seemed to make a tremendous racket, and I heard someone swear as he tripped over it.
I had reached the open door. I was out of it in a flash, slamming it shut behind me and flinging the hairbrush over the banister to skitter its way down the stairs for all the world like flying feet. But before I could turn the key and then conceal myself in the shadowy alcove on the opposite side of our door, it was flung open. In the same instant, a hand came over my mouth and an arm encircled my waist, lifting me off my feet, shoving me into the alcove. Frantic, I began to kick. But just as suddenly I was released, and as I regained my balance, whirling to defend myself, I realized with astonishment that I was alone and someone was clattering down the stairs. No, two people—
My intruder was trying
to escape. But who was at his heels? I rushed to the top of the stairs and leaned over the banister to peer into the dark well below.
And then in the faint light from the windows by the street door, I saw the second figure make a flying leap to close the distance between them and take the other figure in a headlong fall down to the entrance hall.
There were flailing fists and feet, grunts and a curse broken off in midsentence. I went down the stairs after them, and reached the bottom just as the two men crashed into Mrs. Hennessey’s door, then rebounded into the far wall.
“He’s got a knife—” I exclaimed, and then saw that it was in the hand pinned high against the wall, a long, wicked blade that wavered, then flew from open fingers as the intruder cried out. He was spun around as the knife slid across the floor, and the two struggling men went thudding into the outer door. I could just see the knife, and I dashed forward to pick it up, then moved out of the way. Just as I did, the sound of a fist hitting hard and landing squarely sent one of the combatants staggering back to collapse at the foot of the stairs, almost colliding with my bare feet.
The fight had been all the more deadly for being so silent, and not knowing who had won, I slid along the wall, groping for the entry light switch.
Simon Brandon turned swiftly toward me, blinking in the brightness of the light. I reached out to touch him, needing to be sure he was all right—there was blood on his cheekbone, just under his right eye. He said, “You should have stayed in your room. I wouldn’t have let him reach you.”
He put a hand on my shoulder—a comradely gesture I’d seen many times among soldiers—and then his fingers gripped hard before releasing me.
He gave his attention to the man who had fallen on his face by the stairs. After a moment, he turned him over with one foot, wary of a trick, and I knew as I saw his profile that it was Jack Melton. I looked at the vicious knife in my hand and shivered.
“He came to kill me.”
Simon, his voice brusque, said, “He had to. You asked too many questions. You might have overturned—”
