by Charles Todd
He digested that. "And have you spoken to the police?"
"Of course. And I told them what I'd believed at the time, that she was distraught enough to have done herself a harm. Instead she was murdered. I can't help but wonder why she was in such great distress."
"Surely that was obvious. She was saying good-bye to her lover. Who else could it have been?" There was contempt in his voice.
"I don't know," I told him. "We've all assumed…" I realized then that there could be another reason for the officer's coldness. "Perhaps he was sent to offer her promises, or, more likely, considering her distress, to tell her she couldn't rely on the other man. Rather cowardly of him, if that's true, to send an emissary. And what sort of man would be willing to take on such an onerous duty, even for a friend?"
"I liked Marjorie," he admitted after a moment. "If she had turned to me, I'd have quietly found a way to help her, even though I disapproved of what she'd done. But she didn't. I've had to watch my wife suffer through the shock of her death and then Meriwether's death. Just now I find it hard to feel any sympathy for Marjorie's despair."
"Whatever happened on that railway platform, that person bears some responsibility for Marjorie's death. If it hadn't been for him, she'd have been at home, out of danger." My voice trailed off as I looked up at the entrance to the Marlborough at that moment. Michael Hart was standing there glaring at me. He couldn't have overheard what I'd been saying. Not at the distance between us. Could he?
Jack Melton followed my gaze in time to see Michael Hart turning away, walking stiffly back into the hotel.
Serena's husband looked from his departing back to my face, then he said sharply, "If you want to know who Marjorie could have turned to, there's your man." And he started to walk away.
"He was in France," I said, stopping Mr. Melton with an outstretched hand. "Out of reach. Who else-?"
"Was he? Out of reach?" Melton asked. "I would have sworn he was in England."
And he was gone, leaving me there in the middle of the pavement, in the path of those passing by.
By the time I'd collected myself and gone back up the hotel steps and into the lounge, there was no sign of Michael Hart. I asked Reception to page him for me, and then to send someone to his room.
But he was nowhere to be found.
At the flat, Mary was washing up the last of the dishes. I went to my room, murmuring something about letters to finish, and instead sat by the window thinking about what Jack Melton had just said about Lieutenant Hart.
Truth? Or lies?
But why should he lie?
I'd seen the fleeting expression in his eyes when he recognized Michael Hart at the top of the hotel's steps. Antipathy, certainly. Anger as well. But was the anger directed at Michael or what Jack and I'd been discussing?
Impossible to know the answer. Still, I'd made a mistake talking to him about Marjorie. But I'd heard his attempts to rein in Serena's vehement emotions, and I'd believed we might discuss Marjorie Evanson's last hours and look for something, anything, that could lead us to the truth.
I remember my mother telling me as a child, "Bess, my dear, you can't always expect others to see things as clearly as you do." I didn't always remember that lesson.
I'd failed to take into account that the man was also a husband.
But I'd learned something in the encounter with Jack Melton. Marjorie must have met that train with high hopes that she could share the burden she was carrying. And she walked out of the railway station knowing that there was no help in that direction, whether the officer she'd met was her lover or someone she thought she could trust.
What's more, her husband had just returned to England, and she must have felt the pressure of time catching up with her. She might not have known the exact date, but she would have known from Meriwether's letters that it would be soon.
And if she was three months' pregnant, it would be increasingly difficult to hide the fact. Something had to be done. Was she considering ridding herself of the child? Finding a place for it with another family? But that would mean leaving her husband for six months while she hid herself away somewhere. And it would very likely destroy her marriage. Did she expect the father of her child to marry her if she were divorced by her own husband? Did she love him at all?
Impossible to know. But that rejection as the train pulled out most certainly sharpened her need to find help somewhere.
But if she had known that Michael was in London…
I caught up my hat and purse and with barely a word of explanation to Mary, went down to my motorcar.
Marjorie's housekeeper wasn't happy to see me again. It struck me that she thought I was meddling, behind Michael's back. "We've told Lieutenant Hart all we could," she began.
"Yes, of course you did," I answered quickly, before she could shut the door in my face. "He forgot to ask if you could give him the names of one or two of her closest friends? I've come alone because he needed to rest."
"Is he in terrible pain?" she asked sympathetically. "There were new lines in his face. I don't remember them being there before. He was never one to take life seriously, always a smile." She stood aside and I stepped into the entrance.
"He tries not to be dependent on drugs." It was what his aunt had told me.
"That's good to hear. There was a footman once when I was a girl. He was addicted to opium. Mr. Benson-he was the owner of the house where I was maid-locked the poor man in his room for a week, to cure him. I never heard such screams and cries, begging to die one minute and cursing us all in the next breath. We thought surely he'd die."
"It must have been terrifying."
She took a deep breath, as if shoving the footman back into the past where he belonged. I wondered if she'd had a fondness for him once.
"Names, you said. At a guess, her two closest friends were Mrs. Calder and Mrs. Brighton. Mrs. Brighton lives one street over, at Number 7. I've returned a book Mrs. Evanson borrowed, that's how I know. Perhaps she can tell you how to find Mrs. Calder."
Calder. I knew that name. A distant cousin. Was this the same woman?
"And the ladies who attended the group meetings for wives and widows? Were they close to Mrs. Evanson?"
"They came and went, you see, there was no time to make real friendships."
I could understand that. "Thank you," I told her. "This is a beginning."
I left my motorcar where it was and walked the distance.
But there was black crepe on the door of Number 7, encircling the knocker. The folds were still crisp and new.
I hesitated and then lifted the knocker anyway, and a red-eyed maid came to the door. She said immediately, "Mrs. Brighton isn't receiving. If you care to leave your card?"
"I'm so very sorry to intrude," I said, and prepared to turn away. Then I asked, "I've just come to London from Somerset. I was to meet Mrs. Calder here-I didn't know-" I gestured to the black crepe. "She must have tried to reach me and I missed her message. Do you know how I could find her? I'm afraid I left my diary in the hotel."
A shot in the dark. But it found its mark.
"She called only this morning," the maid said, and gave me what I wanted before she quietly shut the door again.
I drove to Hamilton Place, and found the house I was looking for at the corner of its tiny square.
As I got out, I stood to one side as a nurse wheeled a wounded man along the pavement. He was in a chair, his eyes bandaged, one arm in a sling, a leg missing. I smiled at the sister, and then went up to knock at the door.
Mrs. Calder was in. I was shown into a small sitting room, and she rose to meet me, a query in her glance.
She was a tall woman, rail thin, with fair hair and blue eyes. I introduced myself as a friend of the Evanson family, and she frowned.
"Indeed? I don't recall meeting you at Marjorie's," she said, suspicion in her tone.
"I'm not surprised," I said easily. "I've been out of the country." Her eyes dropped to my uniform. "I was one of L
ieutenant Evanson's nurses."
"You know he's dead."
"Sadly, yes. Matron told me on my last visit to Laurel House."
"What brings you to see me?"
"I was in Little Sefton only a few days ago. I understood from Alicia Dalton that you're related to Marjorie Evanson."
She was still wary. I searched for a way to convince her I meant no harm.
"It seems to me that very little progress has been made in finding out who killed Mrs. Evanson. And it matters to me, because her husband died when he shouldn't have. Not medically. He'd passed the crisis. He was counting on seeing his wife as soon as possible. Someone took that away from him. I don't want her murderer to escape justice."
"But why come to me? You should be speaking to Victoria Garrison, Marjorie's sister."
If it was a test, I was ready for it.
"With respect, I don't believe I should. We had words in Little Sefton. She thought Serena Melton had sent me there to spy."
"And were you?"
"No."
Helen Calder sighed. "There's no love lost between them. A pity, but there you are. Even tragedy failed to bring them together."
"There's more. I have reason to believe that Marjorie had met someone, perhaps six months ago. It's possible I've seen this man. I don't know his name, but she met him at Waterloo Station the night she died. I happened to be coming up from Laurel House, and it was sheer coincidence that our paths crossed."
"Marjorie had a good many friends. It could have been any one of them."
"She was so distressed. Crying, in fact. I don't think that was like her. Do you?"
After a moment she said, "No, she wouldn't have made a scene. Not Marjorie. But I'm afraid I can't help you. It would be-prying. And she's dead."
"This polite conspiracy of silence is all very well and good," I pointed out, a little angry with her. "But I think Marjorie would approve of a little 'prying' if it meant her killer was found out."
Helen Calder studied my face for a moment, and then nodded. "You're absolutely right, you know. We've all taken such pride in closing ranks to protect her memory. I never considered the fact that we were protecting her murderer as well. But you see, people do ask about her death, and I've gotten quite good at fending off gossipmongers. Heaven knows there have been enough of them. But even if I answer your questions, what possible good will it do?"
"I myself stepped forward when there was a notice in the newspapers asking for any information about Mrs. Evanson on that last day of her life. I met with an Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard. It was not as difficult as I'd expected." I smiled. "Sadly, I don't think what I told him about seeing her at the railway station was very useful. But it did fill in a part of their picture about her movements after leaving her home earlier in the day."
She said, "Yes, all right. There was a man. I don't how she came to meet him. She told me he was in London just for the day, and they talked for a bit. And then he asked her to join him for dinner. I know this because Marjorie mentioned it casually in another context, that it brought home to her just how much she missed Meriwether and the things they often did together. It pointed up her loneliness, she said, and she was left to face that. 'I shan't do that again,' she told me. 'It's too painful.'"
"Did she tell you the man's name?"
"No, and I really didn't care to ask. I didn't want to make more of the event than she already had done. I was hoping it would come to nothing."
"But she saw him again?"
"She must have done. I met her coming out of a milliner's shop with a hatbox in her hand. She greeted me sheepishly, as if she hadn't wanted to run into anyone she knew. I was about to tease her when it occurred to me that perhaps she was dining with that man again. There was almost a schoolgirl's furtiveness about her."
"Can you be sure it was the same man?"
"I must believe it was. Marjorie wasn't the sort to take up with strangers, and it was no more than a month after the first dinner."
"What happened next?"
"It was almost a month later-two months after that first dinner-and she was standing waiting for a cab, and I saw she'd been crying. My first thought was that she'd had bad news about Meriwether, and she answered that she'd had a letter from him only the day before and he was all right." She shook her head. "Looking back, I wonder if she'd broken off with this man. It was the last time I saw her-she began to refuse invitations, keeping to herself after that. There was this group of women she worked with. I told myself at the time that listening to their experiences was doing her more harm than good. I should have made an effort to see her, but I had my own worries, and I kept putting it off. To tell you the truth, I thought she might feel compelled to confess, and I didn't want to know."
"Do you perhaps know of a Lieutenant Fordham?" I asked.
Mrs. Calder frowned. "Ought I to know him? Do you think he was the man Marjorie was seeing?"
"I have no real reason to believe it. His name came up in a different connection. But I'd like to ask, if Marjorie were in trouble-of any kind-would she have turned to you for help? And if not to you, where would she go?"
"She didn't come here. My housekeeper would have told me if she had called. I wish she had." She shook her head. "There's really no one else she was close to. Except for Michael Hart. But of course he was in France."
"If you could ask among her friends? It could lead somewhere."
"Yes, by all means. I'm ashamed now that I didn't do something. You're very brave to take on this search. It should have been me."
But she hadn't wanted to know.
I told her how she could contact me, and thanked her.
Sadly, we were still no closer to finding Marjorie's killer.
I was outside on the pavement, preparing to crank the motorcar, when I realized that she hadn't asked me if Marjorie was pregnant.
Did she know already? Or was this something else she didn't want to hear?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As I was about to pull over at the Marlborough Hotel, I saw a face in a cab window that caught my attention. Serena Melton. She appeared to be very upset.
I swerved back into heavy traffic, ignoring a horn blown in disgust, and fell in behind her cab, wondering where she might be going, although it was more likely that she was coming from somewhere instead.
But I was right. She was going. I trailed her back to the house where her brother and his wife had lived. She asked the cabbie to wait and went up the steps to knock at the door.
There was no answer. She waited for a moment and tried again. And again no one came to answer the summons.
She was coming back down the steps, when I turned in behind the cab and called to her.
"Serena? Imagine running into you in London. Could I take you somewhere?"
She looked at me, and after a moment paid off the cabbie and came to join me in my motorcar.
"What brings you to London?" she asked. "I thought you were in France again. "
"How are you?" I asked her instead of answering. Then, "Is anything wrong?"
"I've just had a most unpleasant conversation with someone who knew my brother's wife. It was very upsetting."
"In that house? The one you were just coming out of?"
"No, no. That's my brother's house. I was hoping to have some tea and a lie down, before taking the train home."
"Are you any closer to finding out who killed your brother's wife?" It was baldly put but there was no other way to ask.
"How did you-oh. The weekend at Melton Hall." She sighed, pulling off her gloves and then after a moment putting them on again. "It's been the most hopeless task. But the police are still sitting on their hands, doing nothing. I spoke to the inspector in charge this morning. He tried to assure me that everything possible was being done. But it isn't. I know it isn't."
"It's likely-" I began, but she interrupted me, turning toward me with anger in her eyes.
"His latest theory has to do with someone from Oxford. I don't
know that Marjorie even knew anyone there. He's grasping at straws."
I couldn't explain what I'd been told about the reason the police were searching for that person. It wasn't my place to pass on such information if the police had not. And so I said, "Do you have any idea what your sister-in-law did that day?"
"The police have told me that she went out in the early afternoon and never came back. She knew Merry would be arriving that day, and I'd assumed she would go at once to see him. I was intending to visit him the following day, when he was a little more rested from his journey. But of course the police were at our door before I could go. And it was left to me to tell him what had happened. I couldn't understand how she'd come to die in London. I thought there must be some mistake. They'd had some difficulty in identifying her-her purse was taken-and if her housekeeper hadn't spoken to the constable on their street, the police wouldn't have known who she was as soon as they did."
It was, for the most part, what Michael had learned from Marjorie's housekeeper.
We were nearing Kensington Palace. I said, "You remarked earlier that you'd just had an unpleasant conversation-" I left it there.
"I wish you hadn't reminded me. This woman had the audacity to say that people were talking about Marjorie long before she was killed, and that she was asking for trouble, walking down by the river at night on her own. She made her sound like a common tart, looking for custom. It was there, in the tone of voice she used."
"What sort of talk was there?"
"That she was avoiding her friends, insinuating that she must be in some sort of trouble. Well, someone in London knows where she was that evening. Why won't he or she tell us the truth?" Her voice was rising again, and she fidgeted with her gloves as if they had offended her, not the woman. "I blame Helen Calder. She ought to have noticed something. Marjorie would have listened to Helen if she'd spoken up. In the beginning, before it had got too far. But she shut her eyes, didn't she? The sort of woman who wasn't willing to put herself out for anyone, safe in her own rectitude."
It was a harsh indictment, not really warranted, but I'd seen Helen Calder's willing detachment even when she suspected that Marjorie was growing too fond of the man she'd been seeing. I didn't believe that she could have changed the situation, but I could understand Serena Melton's feeling that she might have made a difference.
