An Impartial Witness bcm-2

by Charles Todd

  I couldn't sleep. I dressed, then went quietly down the stairs and out the door, looking up at the wet night, the trees softly dripping rain, the sounds of night creatures loud in the stillness.

  Simon, wearing rain gear, came up behind me as I started to walk along the stepping-stones that led around the house. I wasn't going farther than the little gazebo my father had put up in the garden there for my mother, but of course he had no way of guessing that.

  He said, "If you're thinking of going to Little Sefton tonight, I'll drive you."

  I shook my head. "There's no point in it. I'd come no closer to the truth than the police have done. Did my father tell you what Constable Boynton wanted to speak to me about?"

  "Of course," he said, grinning. "Your mother had it out of him as soon as you were out of the room. He walked down to see me afterward."

  "What did she have to say about the shooting?"

  "As I recall, her exact words were, 'I wouldn't worry, if I were you, Richard. I think young Mr. Hart is looking for sympathy.'"

  Trust my mother to see into the heart of the matter.

  I said, "If he came to speak to you, what are you doing here? It's late."

  "I had a feeling you might decide to go to Hampshire."

  "This time you were wrong."

  I could see a flash of something in his eyes before he turned away. "It occurred to me that Lieutenant Hart's death-if he'd been killed tonight-would bear a striking resemblance to Lieutenant Fordham's."

  I hadn't linked the two. Yet. But Simon was right, in time I would have.

  I woke up the next morning with a headache. Rare for me, because I seldom had them. But I hadn't been able to sleep until close on four o'clock because my mind was trying to sort out the tangle of events.

  A nurse is trained to observe. It's her duty to see what is happening to the patient in her charge-she's the eyes of the doctor on the case. Any changes must be noted, and she's expected to know what they represent: a sign of healing, of a worsening of the patient's condition, the onset of new symptoms, or a simple matter of indigestion. We're expected to know when to summon Matron or the doctor, and when to cope on our own.

  Use that training, I told myself. Don't jump to conclusions.

  There had to be some evidence somewhere.

  Marjorie had spent five hours that were unaccounted for. She could very well have walked to the nearest hotel and used a telephone to reach someone. But that person hadn't come forward. She could have taken a cab to the house of a friend. But according to Helen Calder, she had been cut off from her friends-she had told Helen herself very little, for that matter, and then only in the early stages of the affair. She could have confided in a complete stranger in a tea shop, someone who would listen but not judge. That person hadn't come forward either. She couldn't have traveled very far between the time I saw her and when she was killed. Perhaps an hour in any direction, if she were meeting the person she'd telephoned. But no restaurant or other public place had contacted the police to say she had been seen.

  Very likely she never left London.

  And Michael was in Dr. McKinley's surgery. Marjorie knew that.

  Had she walked the streets for a time, working up her courage to talk to an old friend? And then made her way to the surgery after hours, when the doctor was least likely to look in on his patient? She wouldn't have wished to arrive with her face blotched by tears.

  I could see the police point of view there.

  I wondered who had told them that Michael was in love with Marjorie? Otherwise, they would have interviewed him and moved on, since he had no apparent motive. Was it Victoria?

  Of course police suspicions would have been aroused by the fact that he had said nothing about seeing her that night. Unless he swore she had never come there. Michael could hardly have stabbed her in the surgery. And if he disobeyed orders and left, he risked the doctor finding him gone.

  Where could one go to commit a quiet little murder?

  If someone had intended to throw Marjorie's body in the river, surely it was easier to do the deed nearby, rather than having to transport a body any distance. It was dark there, with London wary of Zeppelin raids. A well-lit river was a navigator's delight. That might explain why Marjorie was still alive when she was put into the water-it would be impossible to make sure she was dead.

  Michael had said that he was haunted by the possibility that Marjorie had been killed on her way to meet him.

  If that were true, had Marjorie told someone where she intended to go, and that person had prevented her from reaching the surgery?

  Walk with me for a little while. We can talk by the water, it's quiet there. Then you can go on to the doctor's surgery…

  That was a far more realistic possibility than encountering a stranger.

  Back, then, to someone she knew.

  Had she told the man at the railway station where she was going? I hadn't seen him descend from the moving train, although Inspector Herbert had asked me specifically about that point. But there was the next station.

  First Lieutenant Fordham. Then Michael Hart. The only person I could think of who would have a reason to shoot both men was Serena Melton. She was obsessed, searching for the baby's father. And I wondered if Jack suspected that, if it had been the reason he'd been afraid of blackmail.

  I'd fallen asleep on that thought.

  Ignoring the headache as best I could, I dressed and went down to breakfast. My parents had already eaten theirs and gone. The sun was out again, the rain only a memory.

  I could imagine my father driving to London to have a word with Inspector Herbert. But he had a good head start, I'd never be able to catch him up.

  I drank a cup of tea, ate some dry toast, and went out to the shed where I'd left my motorcar. It was low on petrol, and I was about to take it to the smithy-cum-garage to see to that.

  Simon was coming around the corner of the house. He had a tennis racket in his hand, and I realized that he and my mother must have been playing. "Who won?" I asked.

  "I did. By the skin of my teeth. Where are you going?"

  I told him.

  "I'll see to the petrol. Then I'm off to Sandhurst."

  "Business or pleasure?" I hoped it was my photograph that was taking him there.

  "I've to see someone there on War Office business," he said. "After that I intend to bring up the photograph."

  I thanked him, and then asked if he knew where my father had gone.

  "Something came up. He's on his way to Portsmouth to meet someone. That's how I was dragooned into a game of tennis, in his place."

  I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. Portsmouth-and London afterward?

  And then I did, when Simon said, "You'll stay close to home while we're away? I don't like the idea of shots flying about in gardens. Besides, your mother wouldn't mention it, but I think she'd like a little time with you."

  I'd have liked to go to Little Sefton and ask Michael Hart about the shots fired at him. But I could hardly knock at the Harts' door and boldly ask about an event that had occurred hours after I left. I persuaded myself that if Simon was successful in identifying the man, I could return the photograph to Alicia as promised. And she was sure to tell me what had happened, and it would seem very natural to speak to Michael then.

  Besides, Simon was right about my mother.

  "I promise," I told him, and with a nod he was gone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I was just coming up the avenue of lime trees later that day when I heard Simon's motorcar pulling in behind me.

  "Were you able to put a name to that face?" I asked, hope rising.

  "Unfortunately, no."

  My spirits plummeted. "Oh" was all I could manage to say.

  Simon smiled. "I can't work miracles, Bess. He's in a territorial regiment. They come and go, those charged with their training barely getting to know them before they're shipped to the Front. Besides, it's not a very clear likeness. And at the moment, I must
go up to London."

  To my eyes it was. Or had I wanted it to be the right man? With his cap on, shading his face-but that's how I'd seen him at Waterloo Station.

  "Let me go with you." I put on my most innocent face.

  He was instantly suspicious. "Why?"

  "I have some shopping I'd like to do."

  He nodded. "All right. After breakfast, then."

  I was ready the next morning when he came knocking at the door a little after seven. My mother had given me a long list of things she needed and couldn't find locally.

  We drove in silence for a time, and then he said, "Look, Bess. This is all well and good. But you need to spend more time with your family."

  "I feel guilty enough," I told him. "But I also feel responsible. Day after day, I watched Lieutenant Evanson cling to that photograph of his wife, and on the long journey home, I helped him count the hours until he saw her again. He was stoic, never complaining. Only, I was the one who saw her-he never did. He wasn't even well enough to attend her funeral. Then he killed himself, slowly, patiently, until he'd succeeded. He was one of mine, Simon. He should have lived."

  He reached over and took my hand. His was warm and safe and comforting. "You can't save all of them, Bess," he said gently. "That's the trouble with war. Men die. Your father and I close our eyes and see a thousand ghosts. We know they're there, but we can't stare too long at their faces. We have to move on. Put the living first. There are already enough monuments to the dead." His voice was bitter as he finished.

  I said nothing, too close to tears, and I knew how he disliked tears.

  After a while he released my hand, and then he changed the subject.

  Simon hadn't particularly cared to see me go into nursing, but when the war came, it was what I wanted to do. If I couldn't fight with my father's regiment, as a son would have done, I could at least keep men alive to fight again another day.

  Simon had decided that the rigors of learning my trade would discourage me. But mopping floors, changing dressings and bed-pans, sitting with the dying, and standing by without flinching when horribly wounded men came through the tent flap had toughened me in ways I hadn't expected. If my father's son could face death on a battlefield, my father's daughter could certainly face the bloody ruins of brave men.

  India and the other places where my father had been sent in the course of his career had also helped me cope with the ugliness of what I had chosen to do. Death and disease, poverty and despair were just outside the compound gates in Agra and other places. I had only to ride a mile in my mother's carriage to see maimed lepers and begging children, ash-covered holy men lying on a bed of hot coals or a starving family covered with sores. I knew early on that life for some was very hard and for others much more comfortable.

  "A penny," my companion said as we drove through the next small village.

  "I was thinking about India."

  "I dream of it sometimes. Do you?"

  "Yes-oh, Simon, stop, please!" I reached out, my hand on his arm.

  He did as I'd asked, pulling in behind a baker's cart. I was out of the motorcar almost as soon as it came to a halt.

  "Captain Truscott!" I called to the Army officer just walking into a bookshop. He turned and recognized me at once.

  "Miss Crawford! How good to see you. What brings you to Maplethorpe?"

  "I was passing through, on my way to London."

  "I'm leaving for London myself in half an hour. Have dinner with me tonight."

  "The Marlborough?"

  "Yes, indeed. Shall I come for you?"

  I told him where to find me and that Mrs. Hennessey was the guardian at the gate. "Let her see that you are the most responsible officer in the entire Army, and she'll come upstairs for me."

  He laughed. "Seven, then?"

  "Seven."

  And I was back in the motorcar before the baker had finished his delivery at the tea shop next to the bookstore.

  "You've thrown over the dashing young lieutenant for a captain, I see."

  "He was at the Meltons' house party. He knew Marjorie Evanson and her husband."

  "Which explains why you leapt out of a moving motorcar to chase that man into a bookstore and beg him to take you to dinner tonight."

  "I did no such thing," I answered indignantly.

  Simon laughed. "That's how your mother would see it."

  That was true. I don't know why I had rushed after Captain Truscott, but it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was a bit of luck to find him again at all.

  We reached London and Simon set me down at the flat, where I went up to look for anyone who might be there. But I had it to myself, and I decided that my first order of business was to speak to Inspector Herbert.

  He was not at the Yard, having been called away to deal with a problem in Bermondsey. The elderly constable who escorted me to his office and back down the stairs again took pity on me when he saw my disappointment. "He's got a meeting tomorrow at eight o'clock with the Chief Superintendent. If you are here at nine o'clock, he'll make time for you."

  I thanked him and left. I'd expected I'd be staying over in London, anyway. The problem would be persuading Simon to stay too.

  By the time I reached the flat again, having stopped along the way to find items from my mother's list, I discovered Simon waiting for me, leaning against the wing of his motorcar, arms crossed.

  I gave him my packages and he stowed them in the motorcar. Three more he carried inside for me, where Mrs. Hennessey gave him permission to take them up the stairs to the flat, while she watched with an eagle eye. "He's a very attractive man. Friend of the family or not," she murmured to me. "And there are standards to maintain. The families of my young ladies expect it."

  I suppressed a smile. If Mrs. Hennessey didn't trust Simon, the most trustworthy of men, I wondered what she would make of Lieutenant Hart. Temptation incarnate.

  But dear soul that she was, she did her best to safeguard those of us who lived in the flats above, and we all loved her.

  When Simon came down again, we went to his motorcar and he took me to lunch. I'd wanted to ask him what he'd learned, but he was in a dark mood and I knew better than to push. We talked about other things-where I'd gone shopping, what I'd heard from my flatmates, news of mutual friends, everything under the sun but what was uppermost in my mind.

  And then, at the end of our meal, as the waiter set our trifle in front of us and walked away, he finally said, "I've found the name of the man in that photograph. Are you sure you want to hear what I've learned? Or shall I send it along to this Inspector Herbert of yours, and let it be finished?"

  "Is it someone you know-or my parents know?" I asked, suddenly worried.

  "No."

  "Then tell me, please."

  "He's Jack Melton's brother."

  I sat there, stunned.

  I hadn't expected the man to be someone I knew. But then I'd never actually met him, I reminded myself. Only his brother. Serena's husband. Still, it was too close to home for comfort.

  "What is his name?" I couldn't remember ever hearing it.

  "Raymond Melton. He's a captain in the Wiltshire Fusiliers. And in France at the moment."

  I took a deep breath.

  "It can't be. No, I don't think he would dare-Serena's brother's wife?"

  "You know nothing about the man. What sort he may be." Simon's voice was harsh. "Go to Scotland Yard, tell Herbert what you've learned, and leave it to him."

  "But it doesn't make sense," I said, dabbing at the trifle with my spoon, not wanting to meet Simon's eyes.

  "That's because you don't want to believe it."

  "It will break Serena Melton's heart. She'll never forgive him. And she will blame Jack as well."

  "Why?"

  "Because her brother died of grief. She didn't care all that much for Marjorie, even when they married. But she loved her brother with all her heart."

  I had wanted to find this man, to keep the inquiry on track. And
as is common with most meddling, what I'd learned would have repercussions. Once Raymond Melton was questioned, Serena would give Jack no peace until he told her all he knew.

  Still, so much fit together. Marjorie would have met Raymond Melton. And if she had run into him in London one day, she would have had no qualms about dining with him. Even Mrs. Hennessey, a stickler for propriety, wouldn't have batted an eye.

  "Why was he in England five or six months ago? It couldn't have been an ordinary leave. He must have been here longer than most."

  "He was seconded to General Haig's staff, and he was coordinating supply shipments. They were being held up, finding transport was a problem with the German submarines taking such a toll. London was his base. From there he could visit Manchester or Birmingham or Liverpool with relative ease. He also had a staff motorcar at his disposal."

  "I can't imagine what she could possibly have seen in him," I said crossly. "He seemed so-distant. Michael Hart is so much better looking, if it was a fling she was after. And he loved her, he wouldn't have walked away from her and left her there all alone."

  "Raymond Melton didn't kill her. He couldn't have. I asked. He caught the train and reached France precisely when he should have."

  But trains were slow. He could have borrowed a motorcar, using the excuse that he'd missed his connection.

  Simon was saying something that I didn't catch.

  "Sorry?"

  "He's married, Bess. Raymond Melton is married. They have two children."

  I recalled the boy and girl I'd seen at Melton Hall the day Mary and I arrived. Raymond Melton's children? Very likely, though she'd referred to them as cousins.

  "Oh, dear God. What am I to do, Simon? It will ruin their lives."

  "This is why I didn't want to tell you." He signaled the waiter. "I'll take you back to the flat and then speak to Inspector Herbert myself. He'll know how much will have to come out during the inquiry, and how much he can keep from the newspapers for the time being. Leave it to him. Then I'll drive you back to Somerset."