An Impartial Witness

by Charles Todd

  “I was a guest there one weekend. Simon, he must have known Marjorie—that’s the only reason he’d have been asked to the party.”

  “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d jump to conclusions.”

  I let it drop. But the rest of the way home to Somerset my mind was busy.

  Inspector Herbert had asked me if the face in the photograph was the man I’d seen in the railway station with Marjorie Evanson. And I’d replied that he wasn’t.

  Granted, a good deal ot time had passed since that night. But Inspector Herbert must have believed that I could still recognize him. Otherwise, why send the photograph?

  If there was some evidence I didn’t know about, why hadn’t he said so? Something that pointed to Lieutenant Fordham, something to show that the man at the station had had nothing to do with Marjorie’s death later that night. Yet he’d asked if they were one and the same.

  Surely he wouldn’t simply close the case now, whatever evidence he had uncovered, and never identify Marjorie Evanson’s lover? Yes, Lieutenant Fordham had taken his own life, there could be no trial, the matter could be hushed up and the family’s good name protected. But what about justice for Marjorie and her good name?

  The silence, keeping the facts of the lieutenant’s death out of the press, adjourning the inquest—it all made a certain sense whether I was comfortable with it or not.

  After all, it was her murderer Scotland Yard wanted. It didn’t matter about her private life if that private life had nothing to do with her death. Even if it had been responsible for her husband’s suicide, the police could wash their hands of the case.

  That seemed so unfair to Marjorie, so unfair to her husband, and to the families that grieved for them.

  “You’ve been quiet. Are you all right?” Simon was asking as we came down the street and could see the house gates just ahead.

  “A little tired, that’s all.”

  Thinking that I must be remembering what I’d left behind in France, he said, “If you need to talk to someone…” He left the rest unfinished.

  I thanked him, and then I was being welcomed with open arms. There was no fatted calf, there not being one handy for this occasion or any other, but I was safe and at home.

  It wasn’t until after dinner that I found a moment to put through a call to Scotland Yard. I only wanted to be reassured, told that I was wrong about Lieutenant Fordham.

  A constable at the other end identified himself and asked how he could help me. I asked for Inspector Herbert.

  “Your name, please?”

  I gave it.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Crawford. Inspector Herbert isn’t in at present.”

  “When do you expect him to return?” I asked.

  “I can’t say, Miss.”

  “Tonight? Tomorrow?”

  “I can’t say, Miss.”

  I waited for him to ask if there was a message. But there was only silence.

  I thanked him and put up the receiver.

  Then I went to find my mother.

  For someone who had spent most of her married life following my father around the world, she seemed to know half of England.

  My father always explained that without any difficulty. “In the first place,” he’d told me soon after we’d returned to Britain, “she needs to know anyone of importance, with an eye to providing you with a suitable husband.”

  Shocked, I’d blurted, “I’ll find my own husband, thank you!”

  “I’m sure you’ll try,” he’d replied doubtfully. “In the second place, if you’ve never noticed it for yourself, your mother has a winning way. People flock to her, wanting to be her friend. I’ve never understood it, to tell you the truth. But I’ve found that fact helpful more times than I’ve chosen to tell her.”

  Laughing, I’d answered, “Come to think of it, you’re right.”

  “And lastly, who will people think of the instant they suspect trouble is stalking them? Complete strangers, mind you, but they’ll turn up on our doorstep seeking an audience with your mother for her advice.”

  I could clearly remember asking my mother when I was a child in India why there were always people at our door, natives and Europeans alike. She’d answered, “I never know, my dear. I think the wind blows my name to them.”

  And for days, I’d watched and listened, hoping to hear her name in the wind for myself.

  At the moment, knowing half of England was going to come in handy.

  My father had gone out to walk—a habit left over from his days in the Army—and my mother was reading in the small sitting room she used most often.

  She looked up. “There you are. I thought there was something on your mind. I sensed it at dinner.” Drawing up another chair, she said, “Is it France?”

  “Not France. Do you think, Mother, you could arrange an introduction to someone who lives in or near Little Sefton, in Hampshire?”

  “And what, pray, is in Little Sefton that takes you away just as you’ve walked in the door?” my suspicious mother wanted to know.

  “It’s where Marjorie Evanson grew up.”

  She repeated the name, then said, “Isn’t she the woman who was found murdered in London not so very long ago?” She picked up her knitting.

  “In fact, yes. I knew her husband. He died of a broken heart after she was found dead. He had a long recovery ahead of him. Severe burns. I expect he had nothing to live for after that. He was devoted to her.”

  “One of your wounded? I see. Meddling again, are you?”

  I tried a smile, to see if it would help. “Not so much meddling as trying to understand why the police haven’t made more progress. Or if they have, why they’ve kept it quiet. Most of us live in London peacefully. We aren’t murdered in our beds or on the streets, and tossed into the river.”

  “I should hope not,” my mother said, not losing a stitch. “Your father has gone to great lengths to enlist Mrs. Hennessey in his campaign to see you safe.”

  I had to laugh. Still, I answered her, “I can take care of myself.”

  The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I had a flash of memory, of the German pilot firing his machine gun and the bullets tearing up the earth toward me.

  “I’m quite sure Marjorie Evanson felt exactly the same,” she reminded me.

  “Yes,” I began, ready to argue the point, then thought better of it. “The truth is, I have a photograph of her.” I went on to explain how I had come into possession of it. “I’m not sure—given the circumstances—that Marjorie Evanson’s family will want it any more than Serena Melton did. I thought perhaps I should find out before I sent it.”

  “And quite right,” my mother nodded. “Tell me more about this man you saw at the station. Why do you think he’s never come forward?”

  “I have no way of knowing whether he has or not. I rather think not. But something happened recently that made me believe the police are looking in the wrong direction.”

  “Perhaps he has a good reason for not contacting the police. That’s to say, if he knows they’re looking for him. Either he’s married, or he’s in a position that would make an affair with a married woman bad for his reputation.”

  Depend on my mother to reach the heart of the matter.

  “It doesn’t speak well for him, I agree.”

  “Are the police quite sure he had nothing to do with Mrs. Evanson’s death?” She turned the heel of the stocking she was knitting. Then she looked up at me.

  “They felt it was possible, but not likely. I don’t see how he could have managed it. Once they find him, they’ll know whether he met his ship on time or not.”

  “Has it occurred to you, my dear, that if you’re the only person who can identify this man, it might put you in some danger? Especially if he killed Mrs. Evanson. And even if he didn’t.”

  “I don’t think it’s very likely that he even knows I exist.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. If you saw him, how can you be so c
ertain he didn’t see you standing there staring at the two of them?”

  “He didn’t look my way. He was staring straight ahead.”

  “But you were looking at Mrs. Evanson.”

  A point well taken.

  I said, “All the more reason to rid myself of this photograph as soon as may be. And put the Evansons out of my mind.”

  But I wasn’t sure I could do that. And so I added, to ease some of the worry I could read in my mother’s eyes, “He could be dead, of course. For all we know.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him. And Scotland Yard can find him without your help.”

  “The thing is, they have no name, no photograph, only my description.” I sighed. “It’s been long enough now. I have a feeling Mrs. Evanson’s murder will never be solved. And I find that abominable. He was my patient—her husband—and that makes it personal.”

  “Yes, you always did have an extraordinary sense of fair play. For better or for worse. Well, perhaps it would be wisest if I helped you, and made certain you don’t come to grief.”

  She sat there, staring into space, thinking. I said nothing, almost afraid that if I spoke, she might change her mind.

  Finally she said, “Do you remember Dorothea Mitchell?”

  “She was a school chum of yours.”

  “We’ve kept in touch all these years, and I’ve met her in London a time or two for lunch. I’ll have a word with her.”

  I was reminded of what my father had said in his second point about my mother, that she won and kept friends easily.

  And so it was that Dorothea Mitchell—now Dorothea Worth—was engaged to find someone in her own vast acquaintance who could provide an introduction into Little Sefton for me. It didn’t take her very long.

  Mrs. Worth knew someone in Gloucester who had a friend in St. Albans whose younger sister happened to live in Little Sefton, Hampshire.

  It was that simple.

  Armed with a letter from my mother, I drove myself to Little Sefton—a good four-hour journey—and presented myself at the door of one Alicia Dalton.

  I’d expected someone of my mother’s age, but the woman who answered my knock was only about ten years older than I was. She was fair, with blue eyes, and her smile was warm.

  “Miss Crawford? How nice to meet you. Do come in.”

  The house was stone, with lovely windows and colorful flower beds that ran down the short drive to the gates. Inside it was cool, with high ceilings and paneling in the hall, stairs running up to one side and a passage to other rooms on the left.

  “I’ve been looking forward to your visit ever since my sister wrote to me. She didn’t tell me why you were so interested in Little Sefton, but I was delighted to have your company even if only for a short while. My husband just went back to France, and I’ve been fighting tears and melancholy for two days.”

  “I’m interested in Marjorie Evanson,” I told her truthfully. “I knew her husband—he was one of my patients after his last crash—and her death has been on my mind as well as his. I thought perhaps it would help if I came here and tried to put the past to rest.”

  That wasn’t the whole truth. But it would do as a start.

  “I knew Marjorie, of course. Not well—she was a rather private person, even as a child. But do come in, you’ll want to settle yourself in your room, and then we can sit in the garden and talk.” As she led the way upstairs, she said over her shoulder, “You’re in luck, actually. We’re having a garden party to raise money for children whose fathers have been killed. I’ll take you around and introduce you to people.”

  She chattered all the way to my room, which was down the passage to the left, and when she opened the door, I smiled.

  The room was large and airy, with windows looking out across the gardens toward the church that stood on a slight rise to the north, the rooftops of cottages clustered around it. The coverlet on the bed was a soft yellow, with flowers embroidered in a circle in the center, and the window curtains were cream with pale green ties.

  “How lovely!” I said.

  “I’m glad you like it. It’s Gareth’s sister’s room. She’s in London awaiting the birth of her first child. It’s a nervous time, and she wanted to be near her doctors. I’ll leave you to freshen up. Come down the stairs, go to the second door on your left, and I’ll have tea waiting.”

  I thanked her, changed out of my traveling clothes and into a dress that was more comfortable in the afternoon heat, then went down to find Alicia.

  She was in a small room with delicate French furnishings, a very feminine room with walls painted a soft rose and trimmed in cream.

  We were soon on first-name terms, and I discovered that she was a fund of information about Marjorie.

  “She has a sister, you know. Victoria. Marjorie was always in her shadow, a quiet girl who never fussed about anything, tried hard to please, and was never in trouble of any kind.”

  “Marjorie is younger than Victoria?”

  “Oh, no, Victoria was several years younger, but you’d never guess it, really. She was domineering from childhood, always wanting her own way, always making certain that no one forgot her. I thought her quite bossy, and said as much to Marjorie one day when we were twelve. She gave me her quiet little smile, and said, ‘Yes, it’s simpler to give in than to fight. There’s peace at home when Victoria is happy.’ I told her that was arrant foolishness, that Victoria needed to learn her manners and her place. But her father doted on her, you see—Victoria, I mean—and he thought her behavior was a mark of strong character. In truth, she was quite spoiled.”

  “And Marjorie always let her have her way?”

  “At least while she was living at home. But when Marjorie went away to school, and then to live with her aunt in London, on her next visit here she surprised us all by telling Victoria she was a bully. Publicly.”

  I laughed. “And what did Victoria have to say about that?”

  “She left in a huff, vowing never to darken the door of any house where Marjorie might be invited. But it must have given her pause, because Marjorie and she were on better terms for a time.”

  “Does this aunt still live in London?”

  “She died just after Marjorie and Meriwether were married. There’s a distant cousin, Helen Calder, but no other family that I know of.”

  I found myself wondering how Serena Melton, Lieutenant Evanson’s sister, and Victoria, Marjorie’s sister, had got on. Like oil and water, very likely. They were both strong-willed women.

  “Did the family approve of Marjorie’s marriage to Meriwether Evanson?”

  Alicia refilled my cup as she answered.

  “It was a very good match. I think Mr. Garrison was pleased. Victoria wasn’t. All the same, she was soon enjoying being the only child in the bosom of her family, and until her father’s death, she showed no interest in leaving home. The Garrison house was left to her.”

  “Did you know Lieutenant Evanson well?”

  “I stayed with Marjorie and Meriwether in London for two weeks in the autumn of 1915. I’d seen Gareth off to the France and I needed cheering up.”

  “How did they get on?”

  “It was a love match, you know. They were quite happy. I think Marjorie had hoped that she might have a child before very long, but it never happened. Probably for the best, with both parents dead now.”

  It was a very practical point of view. But I thought perhaps Alicia was convincing herself that it was just as well she had no children yet.

  If Victoria and Marjorie hadn’t got on, I’d probably come here on a wild-goose chase. Still, sudden death could change attitudes, smooth over rifts.

  As if she’d read my thoughts, Alicia said, “I couldn’t believe it when I heard that Marjorie was murdered. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered. It was rather frightening. I couldn’t help but wonder how it had happened. I mean, no one walks up to you and says, ‘Hallo, I’ve just decided to kill you.’ It’s hard to comprehend.” She shivered.
>
  I said, “I expect there must have been a reason. Love. Hate. Fear. Greed. Passion. Some strong emotion that got out of hand.”

  “They did say that her purse was missing. It doesn’t bear thinking of—killed for a few pounds. And then Meriwether dying so soon afterward. I saw Serena Melton at her brother’s funeral, and she was in such distress. I heard her say to the rector, ‘It’s not fair, you know, for me to lose Merry on her account.’ Meaning Marjorie. I thought it was a terrible thing to say. But they were close, Serena and her brother. I remember Marjorie telling me once that their parents had died at a very young age, and the two of them had depended on each other for support. Their guardian was not particularly good at dealing with distraught children, and left them to their own devices. A roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, food on their table and he felt his duty was more than satisfactorily done.”

  It explained Serena’s feelings for her brother. Serena and Meriwether had been thrown together in a time of grief, when there was quite simply no one else to comfort them. It was a powerful tie.

  I also understood why Marjorie might not have turned to her own sister, in her distress. Then where had she gone?

  “What about Marjorie’s mother? How did she feel about her daughters?”

  “She’s dead.” Alicia’s answer was short.

  Marjorie had been utterly alone. No wonder she had been crying as if her heart were broken.

  If anyone had a reason for suicide, she did. And yet she’d been murdered.

  The garden party the next day was held at the rectory, and according to Alicia, it was a pale shadow of former days, when food was plentiful and two-thirds of the male population wasn’t away fighting a war.

  The food was makeshift, the women were in black rather than the usual array of summer dresses bought or made for the occasion, with matching hats to protect one’s complexion. And except for the rector, the men were in uniform.