An Impartial Witness bcm-2

by Charles Todd

  He didn't say, bless him, that I should have handed Gareth Dalton's photograph to Scotland Yard. Then I'd have been ignorant of the connections. Like the ostrich with her head in the sand.

  "I have a dinner engagement with Captain Truscott," I answered distractedly. "It would be unkind to break it. Besides, Inspector Herbert is away."

  "Then I'll wait and drive you home tomorrow."

  Rousing myself, I said, "No, that's not the right way to handle this, Simon. I made a promise to Inspector Herbert. I told him I'd let him know what I discovered. I'll speak to him myself."

  We argued that point for a good five minutes, and then Simon capitulated.

  "It may be the best way after all," he said. He settled the bill and then led me out of the restaurant. "What matters is to put this behind you as soon as you can."

  We had reached the pavement when I remembered something. Hearing a quick indrawn breath, Simon turned to me. "What is it?"

  "I ran into Jack Melton outside the Marlborough Hotel when I was in London with Lieutenant Hart. I felt an obligation, I don't know why, to tell him that on the night she died I'd seen Marjorie with a man I didn't recognize, and I think I said something about the Yard searching for this man, to help them with their inquiries. And he told me that I ought to be looking instead at Michael Hart. Little did he know." I paused. "Or did he? No, somehow I have a feeling that Raymond Melton keeps himself to himself."

  Simon swore under his breath in Urdu, thinking I wouldn't recognize the words, but I did. Bazaar life is very colorful. A child's ear soon picks up bits and pieces of Hindi and Urdu. I quickly learned which words I could and could not repeat in front of my elders.

  "How close is he to his brother, do you know?"

  "I can't answer that," I told him.

  "Then the sooner you get to the Yard, the safer you will be." He shook his head. "There's something wrong with this whole affair, Bess. Don't you feel it as well? Something rather-sinister. You've learned too much, for one thing, and for another, the murder of Marjorie Evanson was particularly vicious. Don't tempt her killer, whoever he may be, to try again."

  "But Raymond Melton is in France." I wasn't as convinced as Simon was.

  "For the moment."

  "Do you think he knows where she was going after the train left?"

  "Would she tell him? Perhaps she would, to make him jealous."

  What had been set in motion that rainy evening in the railway station? Was that only the tip of the problem, the more visible half? What about Michael Hart?

  I realized all at once that we were standing in everyone's way as they came and went from the restaurant, forcing them to part like the Red Sea around us.

  "We can't discuss it here." Simon took my arm and led me to the motorcar, holding my door for me. He turned the crank with more than his usual vigor, then got behind the wheel. "We can't talk in your flat either. Where would you like to go?" When I didn't answer, he said, "Scotland Yard? Even if Inspector Herbert isn't there, we'll tell someone else what you know. It will be finished, Bess."

  "Yes," I said. Reluctantly. But I knew he was right.

  As it happened, Inspector Herbert had just returned from Bermondsey, and we had to wait half an hour for him to make his report to his superiors. Finally I heard his footsteps, loud on the bare floorboards, as he came down the passage, and then he opened his office door and was shaking hands. I explained Simon's presence, and after that we all sat down.

  I had a distinct impression of cold feet-they wanted to carry me back out of the room again as fast as possible. But it was too late.

  "Well," Inspector Herbert was saying. "What brings you here, Miss Crawford?"

  Simon opened his mouth but I forestalled him.

  Inspector Herbert listened carefully as I told him what I knew about the man at the station. And he asked to see the photograph that I'd given Simon.

  "It belongs to someone. I promised to bring it back to her as soon as possible."

  He was busy scanning the face of Raymond Melton. After a moment, he reached into his drawer and drew out a looking glass. "You're quite sure this is Captain Melton?" he asked after a moment, still bent over the picture. He reached up to turn on the lamp at his elbow and brought it closer. I thought to myself that by the time he gave that photograph back to me, Inspector Herbert would have memorized Melton's face.

  Straightening up, he turned off the lamp, set the glass back inside his drawer, and leaned back into his chair. "What did Marjorie Evanson say to this man, on that rainy evening in London?" he mused. "What did it set in motion, that meeting?"

  "She may have kept her own counsel," Simon pointed out. "Given his conduct."

  "Yes, that's possible. I expect she was too upset to dine anywhere, and she wouldn't wish to be seen by anyone she knew. We've looked into tea shops between the railway station and the river. Churches are more difficult-they're often empty at that time of day. She could sit quietly in one until she'd recovered, with no one the wiser. It seems unlikely that she'd turn to a friend-no one has come forward, at any rate. I'll try to bring Melton back to England for questioning. Although since he's made no effort to contact me, I don't have much hope in that direction. At least we have a witness who puts him there with Mrs. Evanson. We've tried to find others, but the stationmaster tells us it was very busy, and a weeping woman seeing a soldier off is too common. People try to pass by without looking, give them a modicum of privacy."

  "If he's Jack Melton's brother," Simon commented, "he can't claim he didn't know she'd been killed."

  I confessed, "I've told his brother about seeing a man with Marjorie the night she died. But I didn't know then who he was. I was trying to help Jack Melton get to the truth before his wife did. She's frantically searching for someone to blame. Serena Melton is likely to do something rash. And it won't bring her brother back."

  Inspector Herbert was staring at me, weighing up what I was saying.

  "Yes. Well. I don't think any harm has been done." He leaned forward, his elbows on his cluttered desk. "Since you didn't know his brother, and you aren't likely to meet him, Commander Melton won't be unduly worried. The likelihood is that his brother hasn't confessed his adultery, anyway. Especially if he learned Mrs. Evanson was murdered that evening. Is Captain Melton married, do you know?"

  "Yes." It was Simon who answered. "So I've been informed. There are two children."

  "All the more reason to keep his-relationship-from everyone. Doesn't speak well of his character, does it?" Inspector Herbert turned to me. "It's amazing that you found this photograph. Well done."

  I said, giving credit where it was due, "It was Sergeant-Major Brandon who put a name to the face."

  Inspector Herbert smiled. "You can safely leave this matter to us now. Which reminds me, about Michael Hart-"

  I had done enough damage, talking out of turn. "I see no reason for him to lie. If he says he was shot at, then he was. The local people will probably discover it was boys who came across their father's service revolver and were tempted to try it." I cast about quickly for a way to change the course of the conversation. "You haven't told me-has that man from Oxford been found?"

  "He was apprehended in Derby. I don't think we need to concern ourselves with him any longer."

  "And Lieutenant Fordham?"

  "Ah. That's another matter."

  I waited, and after a moment he said finally, "Lieutenant Fordham knew Marjorie Evanson in London, before she was married. His mother was a friend of her late aunt's. As he had never married, we wondered if the friendship had been renewed while he was convalescing. Mrs. Evanson escorted him to medical appointments on a number of occasions. He was one of several wounded she volunteered to work with. She would meet a train, see that the patient got to his destination and then back to the train."

  That explained why no one in Little Sefton knew of him, and why Marjorie's staff didn't know the name. They had been hired after her marriage to Meriwether Evanson. Michael had helped select t
hem.

  But why had she let her aunt's staff go?

  It seemed that everything I learned generated more questions.

  I thanked Inspector Herbert, and he nodded.

  "Finding this photograph was a piece of luck. We've been on the point of setting this inquiry aside for lack of new information." He smiled ruefully at Simon. "You'd think, in a time of war, when England is fighting for her life, people would put their petty differences aside and work together. But crime never goes away. We're shorthanded here at the Yard, but the number of cases seems to climb by the day."

  It was a way of reminding us that he was busy. But I had one more question for him. "Captain Fordham," I said. "How did he die? You never told me the outcome of your investigation."

  At first I thought he would tell me it was police business and not mine. But he said, "That's a very odd affair. There is a small lake on the Fordham property. At one end a bridge crosses to an island just large enough for a stone table and benches. Summer picnics and that sort of thing. As far as we can determine, he walked out onto that bridge one evening and shot himself. He went over the low parapet into the water, but he was already dead. The weapon went with him, and we haven't found it yet. The water is rather deep just there and quite murky."

  "Was it really a suicide?" I asked.

  "We believe now that it must have been. But we can't be sure. No note, you see, and his family can't think of a reason for him to take his own life. He didn't use his service revolver. That was still in the armoire with his uniform. He was wearing trousers and a white shirt when he died. His family is adamant that he wasn't grieving over Mrs. Evanson. They refuse even to consider suicide."

  "Which leaves murder? Or was his wound severe enough to drive him to do something drastic?"

  "A stomach wound," he said. "Very unpleasant, I'm told." He reached for a folder, pulling it in front of him but not opening it. A sign that our visit had ended.

  We exchanged polite farewells.

  Dismissal as well, telling me that the Yard no longer required my efforts.

  He rose as I did, reached across the desk to shake hands with Simon Brandon, and came around to accompany us to the door, where a constable was waiting to see us out of the Yard.

  Simon had nothing to say until we had reached his motorcar, and then he turned to me before he opened my door.

  "It was really very clever of you to discover who the officer with Marjorie Evanson was."

  "It was more a matter of seeing what was before me. And of course making Alicia's acquaintance in the first place. She wouldn't have thought to show those photographs to an inspector from the Yard. I don't think her husband knows Raymond Melton, by the way. Alicia did recognize the other two men. He probably just happened to be with one of the other men at that crossroads." I smiled, remembering. "I like Alicia. She's been busy matchmaking, you know. She suspects there's a growing attachment between Michael Hart and me. There was, of course-a murder."

  Simon laughed in spite of himself. "You're impossible," he said, opening my door.

  And then he was suddenly quite serious, one hand on my arm to make certain I was paying attention. "But mark me, Miss Elizabeth Alexandra Victoria Crawford, you will heed the advice of Inspector Herbert and leave the death of Mrs. Evanson to the proper authorities to solve. You're in enough danger in France; I don't wish to spend every leave pulling you out of trouble before it comes to your mother's ears!"

  He invariably brooked no nonsense when he used my full name.

  I wisely said nothing.

  When he got behind the wheel, he added for good measure, "And that includes the suicide of the unfortunate Captain Fordham."

  I was actually thinking about his death and wondering if the weapon would ever turn up, deep end of that lake or not.

  As if he'd read my mind, which I was sometimes convinced he could do, Simon turned to me and said, "Bess."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I spent the afternoon in Mrs. Hennessey's apartments ironing the uniforms I'd soon be packing to take back to France. It was cooler there, and getting the collars and cuffs stiff enough was always hard work. I had had to do one set over again.

  Mrs. Hennessey was having tea with one of her friends. I was grateful for the use of her iron, and having to concentrate on what I was doing kept my mind from dwelling on Marjorie Evanson and Captain Fordham.

  Simon had gone to his club, refusing to leave London without me.

  "If I do, you'll just get up to mischief of some sort," he'd told me.

  "You aren't showing up in the Marlborough Hotel, to sit across the room and scowl at poor Captain Truscott, are you?" I'd demanded before shutting the door behind me. "The poor man's hands shake badly enough as it is."

  "Captain Truscott appears to be a decent enough sort. No, I'll wait here on the street to make certain he brings you home at a reasonable hour. Mrs. Hennessey may even ask me in for tea."

  I slammed the door in his face, and heard him laughing all the way back to the motorcar.

  Ironing cuffs and aprons isn't a soothing activity. By the time I was dressed and waiting for Captain Truscott to call, I was not in the mood for dinner and was beginning to wonder why on earth I'd been so eager to see him again.

  He arrived on the dot, and Mrs. Hennessey, bless her, climbed the stairs to our flat and told me he was waiting.

  He smiled as I came down, saying, "It was good to see you again. I'm looking forward to dinner."

  Frederick Truscott turned out to be a very nice dinner partner. It made up for the Marlborough's very indifferent menu. We had a number of friends in common, and that kept conversation rolling comfortably all the way to the hotel. "I've borrowed Terrence Hornsby's motor," he told me. "And so, like Cinderella, I must have you at home before the stroke of twelve. He's driving to Wales tonight to visit his family."

  "I haven't seen him in ages! How is he?"

  "Bullet clipped his ear. Still looks rather raw there, but he's glad it wasn't his head. He says he needed it, although some of his friends are in serious debate over that."

  Which sounded just like Terrence. I laughed.

  While we were on the subject of absent friends, I said quite casually, "I only discovered today that Jack Melton's brother is a serving officer. A captain in the Wiltshire Fusiliers. I don't think Jack mentioned him when we were at Melton Hall."

  "Someone told me they were estranged, though not why. I've never met him."

  "He's married, I think?"

  "I couldn't say."

  We swapped other names, and then, against my better judgment I asked, "Did you know Captain Fordham?"

  His face lost its humor. "Sadly I did. A loss there. He was a good officer."

  "Was he by any chance acquainted with Marjorie Evanson?"

  "Strange you should mention that. The police asked his family about a connection when they came to inquire into his death. Apparently he did know her."

  "How well?"

  "I've no idea, really. Marjorie was good company. I was fond of her myself." Changing the subject, he asked, "When do you go back to France?"

  "In another five days."

  "Bad luck. I leave the day after tomorrow. Said my good-byes at home and came up to London to put that parting behind me. Easier that way. Where is your family?"

  "Somerset. I haven't spent as much time with them as I'd promised."

  "Was that your elder brother in the motorcar with you?"

  "Good heavens, no. That's Simon Brandon. He was my father's sergeant-major at the end of his career."

  A light dawned behind his eyes. "You're not Colonel Richard Crawford's daughter, are you?" When I nodded, guessing what was coming, Captain Truscott said, "My God. He was a fine officer. We've a man in the Fusiliers who served under him. He knows more about planning battles than half the general staff."

  I could agree with that. There had been complaints that the generals were fighting the wars of the past. My father and Simon often refought the battle of the S
omme over cigars, and it always put them in a rotten mood.

  We discussed my father for a bit, and then suddenly, we'd finished our pudding, drunk our tea in the comfortable lounge, and it was time to go.

  I said, as we walked through Reception and out of the hotel, "Can you think of any good reason for Captain Fordham to kill himself?"

  "I don't know that we need a reason," Freddy Truscott answered somberly. "What keeps you going is your men. You don't let them down. Fordham lost most of his men in a charge ordered against a section of line that reconnaissance had indicated was poorly defended and certain to fold. But the Germans had put in a concealed machine-gun nest during the night, and they held their fire until Fordham and his men were within easy range. They were wiped out-he was one of only a handful of wounded who somehow made it back to their own lines. The rest were dead before they knew what they were up against. He blamed himself for trusting HQ. He felt he'd betrayed the dead, and refused all treatment when they got him back to the nearest aid station. One of the nursing sisters put a needle into his arm and that was that. He was more sensible when he came out of surgery."

  I recalled the incident-although I hadn't known it was Captain Fordham who'd fought the nursing staff. Diana had been there, had witnessed the struggle to treat the wounded man, and she had told us about it. Even she hadn't learned why the officer had gone mad, only that in spite of his severe injuries he'd fought like a tiger.

  But this went far to explain Fordham's suicide. Still, if he'd been intent on taking his own life, why wait until he was nearly mended?

  Trying for a lighter note on which to end the evening, I asked Freddy if I could write to him in France.

  He said, "I was trying to get up the courage to ask just that."

  And then it was time to say good-bye. As we stood outside the door of Mrs. Hennessey's house, I wished him safe in France and he held my hand longer than was needful. "Thank you, Bess, for a happy evening. I've enjoyed it more than I can say."

  With that he was gone, walking to the borrowed motorcar with swift strides, not looking back even as he drove away. I watched him go, watched his taillights vanish around the far corner of our street, and with a sigh, said a silent prayer that he would come home whole. Then I turned and went inside. Where had Simon got to?