by Charles Todd
"This is a pleasant surprise," my mother said, recovering her manners in an instant. "Will you be staying with us, Lieutenant Hart?"
"I've already taken a room at The Four Doves," he told her, smiling.
"Indeed," said the Colonel Sahib, coming into the room behind us, to be introduced in his turn.
"Do sit down," my mother said hastily, and rang for tea.
CHAPTER NINE
Michael was of course invited to dine with us, and my father swept him off to the stables to see a new foal.
I went up to my room, changing my clothes quickly, and found my mother waiting for me as I came down again.
"Simon is coming to dine as well," she informed me.
"How cozy," I replied.
My father and Michael came in at that moment. He said, "I met Michael's father once in Delhi. He was there as part of a commission on its way to Burma."
The earlier frost in the air had warmed almost to cordiality. We had drinks in the drawing room and talked about the progress of the war and the garden party at Little Sefton. We were just moving on to changes that the war had brought to London when Simon Brandon came in, greeted me, and shook hands with Michael. As he took his chair on the other side of my mother, Simon passed me an envelope.
"This came for you earlier today."
I thanked him and shoved it into a pocket until I could read it.
But as we were going in to dinner, Simon, falling back to walk beside me, said, in a low voice, "That came by special messenger from Scotland Yard. I met him in the drive earlier as I was coming to borrow your mother for half an hour."
I let him go ahead of me, turned to one side, and tore open the envelope.
There was just a brief message inside. And another photograph. Did you by chance see this man at the railway station on the day in question? He's wanted for the killing of three women in Oxford. They were apparently accosted on the street, then followed home. The previous victims were shopgirls. He escaped the police and may have traveled to London. It's possible he saw Mrs. Evanson, just as you did. Inspector Herbert.
Dismayed, I read the message again. Was it possible they'd found Marjorie Evanson's murderer?
I turned quickly to look into the face of a man I was sure I'd never seen before. It was an older photograph, and I recognized the background: the gates of one of the colleges in Oxford.
He appeared to be of medium height, neither fat nor lean, with a long face that was too ordinary to draw attention. He had what looked to be light brown hair and dark eyes, and a mouth that was too small. He could have been a shop clerk or a lorry driver or the man sitting across the way in an omnibus.
I stared at the photograph for a moment, searching my memory. And then I went to the telephone and put in a call to London and Scotland Yard.
Inspector Herbert was not available, but I left a message for him, telling him that I hadn't seen the man in the photograph.
But as I went in to dinner, I thought how easily he could come up behind someone on a rainy street, and not even turn a head.
Everyone was waiting for me in the dining room, and I apologized for the delay without explaining why it was necessary.
As Michael and my parents carried the burden of conversation, I was silent, thinking about the dead shopgirls and whether Marjorie Evanson, blindly walking out of the station into the rain, might have attracted the notice of someone like the man in the photograph. It could have happened that way. He could have followed her.
But there were a good four or five hours between the time Marjorie Evanson was at the railway station and the time she'd died. Inspector Herbert had said as much himself. Was he clutching at straws?
I'd have liked to ask Michael what he thought, but it would be difficult to explain a communication from Scotland Yard without confessing how I'd been drawn into the case.
I happened to look up as the chutney was passed to me, and I met Simon Brandon's dark eyes, watching me speculatively.
And it was Simon who volunteered to drive Michael back to The Four Doves.
When they had gone, my mother said to me, "My dear, do you know what you're doing?"
"I'm only taking Michael to London to speak to the staff at Marjorie Evanson's house. He wants to hear about that morning before she left the house. Or if something was worrying her."
"But surely the police-?"
I shook my head. "Of course they must have done. But consider. If the police came here, would Lois or Timmy or anyone else who worked for us tell them things they believed we might not want the police to know? For whatever reason?"
"I'd expect them to tell the truth."
"And they probably would, if you were innocent and the truth would help. But if you were guilty of some indiscretion, and they knew that if they told the police it would ruin your reputation, what then?"
She was fair. She was always fair. "And so Michael Hart hopes they will confide in him. Charming he may be, but their first loyalty will still be to their mistress, don't you think?"
"He's healing. He needs to focus all his energy on that. And instead I think Marjorie Evanson's death is weighing heavily on his mind. If he learns nothing of importance, he'll still be satisfied that he did all he could for her. And if he does discover something, then he can take it to the police."
"That would be the wisest move. Was he in love with her, do you think? That would explain his resolve."
"He was in France when she was killed and wasn't eligible for compassionate leave-she wasn't his wife or mother."
"Yes, I see what you mean. This is the least he can do for her."
My mother usually did see. I kissed her good night then and went into the passage toward the stairs.
Simon Brandon was waiting for me in the shadows by the door. He took my arm, opened the door, and led me out into the warm summer night. The sun had not yet set, and the distant horizon was a lovely illusive opal that turned the tops of the trees to a soft gold. A jackdaw, sitting in the top of the nearest tree, was singing to it, his breast a shimmering black like wet paint.
I walked a little way down the drive, knowing what was coming, listening to the crunch of stones under my shoes.
Finally he said, "How well do you know this man?"
"I don't. But he's trying to find out what happened to his childhood friend. And to do that, he wants to go to London. You can see for yourself he can't drive. I promised-since I was going to London anyway-that I'd take him." When he said nothing, I added, "I didn't suggest that he stay here. Nor did he."
"Were you going to London anyway?"
"I-in the long run. Simon, I saw the man with Marjorie Evanson the night she was killed. He got on the train and left her there. Now the Yard thinks she might have been the victim of a man who fled Oxford after three women were killed there. They were interested in Lieutenant Fordham before him. The Yard doesn't seem to be making any progress at all, and the only person who might answer their questions about where she intended to go after leaving the station is either dead or refusing to come forward. If Michael Hart can learn anything useful, it's all to the good. If he doesn't, he's done no harm."
"I understand why you feel you have a responsibility to this woman-" he began.
"I saw how desperate she was that night. Where did she turn? Perhaps she trusted the wrong person." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the message from Scotland Yard. "You see, Inspector Herbert has been using what I know to help him sort through suspects. I'm not involved, not officially. But he can send me a photograph and ask me a question."
He was staring up at the jackdaw. "This isn't the first time the Yard has asked you for information. How many photographs have you looked at for them?"
"Only these two."
"Stay out of it, Bess. You know what nearly happened the last time you got yourself involved in the troubles of another family. Leave this one alone."
"It's Michael Hart who is involved at the moment."
He turned to look at me. "There'
s something you ought to know. The Colonel has already spoken to me. And I have my own suspicions. Michael Hart may not be what he seems."
"What do you mean? Did you know him before this?"
"I've never seen him before. But I wouldn't be surprised if he's become addicted to the medicines his doctors have been giving him to control his pain. When I took him back to the inn just now, his hands were shaking and his mouth was dry. You're a nurse. Be more observant. And think what it is you may be getting yourself into."
"I'm not getting myself into anything," I told him, furious at the lecture. "I don't intend to marry Michael Hart. I'm only driving him to London. Besides, fatigue and pain could cause the same symptoms."
Simon grinned. "Indeed. Good night, Bess."
And he walked away down the drive, leaving me there to look after him, torn between calling him back to tell him what I thought of his interference in my life and letting him go.
As I turned toward the house, I remembered what Mrs. Hart had said about Michael Hart, that he had refused sedation and was fighting his own way through the pain.
But had my father been suspicious, or had Simon simply brought him into the conversation to back up his own views?
I walked in the door, shut it, and continued down the passage to the study, where my father was sitting with a book open in his lap.
"Good night," I said. "I hope to get an early start tomorrow."
"Be safe, Bess," he said, but he didn't smile as he usually did when wishing me a safe journey.
I said, "Thank you for being kind to Michael Hart. I remember when I broke my arm last year, how frustrating it was for me, being dependent and helpless."
"He's strikingly handsome," my father said, finally smiling. "But I wouldn't introduce him to any of your flatmates. He's being ridden by his own devils."
"Drugs?" I asked baldly.
"I don't know what his devils are. He's very amusing, he answers questions openly and apparently truthfully, and he doesn't trade on his charm. But there's something behind the bonhomie that gives him no peace. It isn't your place to put that right."
"As I told Simon," I said, "I'm just driving him to London, not marrying him."
"See that you remember that," he said, and turned his attention to his book. "Good night, Bess."
I took my dismissal with the best grace I could muster, and went up to pack.
Snapping my valise closed, I found myself wondering if I had completely trusted Michael Hart. Even before Simon had made his remarks.
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. Yo
u'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."
