by Charles Todd
Little Sefton was small enough for everyone to know everyone, and I was one of the handful of outsiders in their midst. Alicia and I walked across the green lawn to the booths set out on the grass, their poles decorated with loops of flowers and bows of ribbons and bright fabrics. People nodded to us as we passed, and children ran about playing, chased by excited dogs.
Alicia was saying, “Let me present you to Rector Stevens. He’s a lovely man. Do you play chess, by any chance? He quite fancies himself as the best player in Hampshire.”
Not wanting to spend my afternoon in a chess match, I hemmed and hummed a bit, and Alicia said, “Well, never mind. One of the wounded is sure to oblige him.”
I had seen far too many of those, walking with canes, arms in slings, or even being wheeled in invalid chairs.
She began to point out people to me. “That woman in puce. She was housemaid to Marjorie’s mother. She puts up the best pickle relish in the county. Over there, the one with red hair—she was a friend of Marjorie’s mother—” The list went on, and then Alicia stopped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Victoria is here. I’d never have guessed it. I owe the rector’s wife a dozen brown eggs.”
“You had a wager on whether or not she was coming?”
“Oh, yes. I was nearly certain that with everyone discussing poor Marjorie’s death, she wouldn’t wish to be here.”
I looked at Marjorie’s sister. She was about my height, with fair hair and hazel eyes. But her mouth, unlike Marjorie’s more generous one, was thin lipped, and I found myself thinking that I shouldn’t like to cross her.
A family resemblance was there all the same, especially around the eyes, but I wouldn’t have picked Victoria out on my own as Marjorie’s sister.
Victoria turned away as we came nearer, and the rector was engaged with an older man who was speaking earnestly to him.
Alicia said, “That’s Mr. Hart. A gentleman farmer. He owns the largest farm in Little Sefton. He’s kind enough to send his workmen around to help with things like repairing chimneys or patching roofs or heavy lifting. It’s a blessing, with Gareth in France.” She turned away, to allow the two men a little privacy. “And that handsome devil sitting in the white elephant booth—the one with his arm in bandages—has been breaking hearts since he arrived a few weeks ago. He’s staying with the Harts. Their nephew.”
I could see the man she spoke of. An officer in the Wiltshire regiment, tall, very fair, a deep voice and a laugh that began in his chest and a smile that was devastatingly sweet. But with a roving eye as well. I watched him try his charm on a girl of perhaps fourteen, who blushed to the roots of her hair, then he switched his attention to her mother, but she must have been used to it. I heard her say, “Oh, behave yourself, Michael. One would think you were the Prince of Wales, the way you carry on.”
He laughed and leaned across the booth’s counter to kiss her cheek. “Dear Mrs. Lucas, if I ever marry anyone, it will be you.”
She nodded. “Yes, and what shall I tell Henry when we elope?”
Henry must have been her husband, because Michael dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level and asked, “Must we tell him?” He looked around. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him today. His back, again?”
“Sadly, yes. He’s gone to see a doctor in Salisbury.”
She moved on and he turned our way. “Ah, a new blossom in our garden,” he exclaimed, seeing me. “And who is this, pray?” he asked Alicia.
Alicia took me across to the booth, presenting me. “Bess Crawford, this is Michael Hart. He’s not to be trusted.”
He bowed over my hand and welcomed me to the fete.
Close to, I could see the lines of strain around his mouth and the shadows in those wonderfully blue eyes.
“How is your shoulder?” I asked.
“Never better.” But it was a lie. “I’ll be returning to the Front by September, they tell me.”
“How many surgeries have you had?”
“Enough for a lifetime,” he replied tersely, and then laughed to cover his lapse.
Alicia left me there while she spoke to an elderly woman leaning heavily on a cane.
Michael Hart said, “Do you need a white elephant?” He was pointing to one—literally—made of porcelain. It was quite charming, and so I bought it, and he wrapped it carefully before handing it to me. I paid him and was about to turn away when he caught my hand in his good one, and said in a low voice, “No, don’t go.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Victoria bearing down on us, and I stayed for the opportunity to meet her. But when she realized that I had no intention of leaving, even after my purchase was completed, she veered away.
“Do you know her?” I asked, interested to hear what he had to say.
“I knew her sister,” he said in that same terse manner.
Marjorie.
He was beckoning to a woman just coming up the grassy avenue. “Mrs. Hampton, would you mind the booth for a bit?”
She came over to him and said at once, “Do go and sit down, Michael. You must be in terrible pain. I thought someone was to assist you?”
“No one came,” he told her. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Take as long as you like.” She noticed the little box stuffed with coins and said, “I see you’ve done quite well. I told the rector’s wife you were the perfect one to sell our little treasures.”
Once more I began to turn away, but Michael took my arm and said, “Stay with me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I DID AS HE ASKED. The debonair officer had vanished, and there was perspiration on Lieutenant Hart’s face, a tightness to his mouth. I’d seen this happen with wounded men. Off parade, so to speak, they let down their guard and admitted that they were in pain.
We walked together along a short path that led to the side door of the rectory. He reached for it out of habit, but I was there first and held it for him. Inside it was cool and dim, and I realized we were in a small plant room, where secateurs and trowels, baskets and pots lined the shelves on either side. Below were vases of all kinds. A dry sink where plants could be repotted or divided held a vase of wilting blossoms. Here flower arrangements were made up or cuttings were prepared for setting out.
My escort led the way through the second door and into a wider passage, then up a short flight of steps to a book-lined room that was clearly the rector’s study.
“No one will think to look for us here.” He sank into a leather armchair to one side of the desk, and closed his eyes.
I took the one opposite him. After a moment, he opened his eyes and said, “You’re a good sport, Sister Crawford. Thank you.”
I smiled. “Not at all. Is there anything I can bring you? Water? A pillow?”
“I’m all right.”
Which I translated as, Don’t fuss.
After a time, as the pain eased, he said, “I didn’t know Victoria would be here today. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I owe you some explanation. Victoria’s sister was killed some weeks ago. Victoria appears to think I know something about that. She hounds me every time she sees me. I couldn’t deal with it today.”
“And do you know something?”
He’d closed his eyes again. “I don’t make a habit of killing women.”
Which wasn’t precisely an answer to my question.
“You’ll hear about it soon enough if you stay in Little Sefton for very long,” he went on after a moment, as if he’d made up his mind. “Marjorie Evanson was murdered in London. She was a friend of mine. Her sister is not.”
“I didn’t know Mrs. Evanson, but I was in charge of the wounded when her husband, Lieutenant Evanson, was brought home with burns.”
Those marvelous eyes opened and seemed to spear me. “Were you indeed? A small world. I liked Merry, you know. The first time I met him, I knew he’d be right for Marjorie.”
“Alicia told me you were a nephew of the Harts.”
“I often stayed with my aunt and uncle on school holidays. My father was in the Army and my parents were half a world away most of the time. That’s how I came to know Marjorie. She lived close by. A sweet girl. I liked her immensely. I wasn’t in love with her,” he added hastily, “but I liked her. We played together as children and sometimes she’d confide in me, and I in her. I think our two families are related somehow—a distant this or that. So we called each other cousin, Marjorie and I. She had no brother, and I had no sister. It was a good relationship.”
I believed him. There was the ring of truth in his voice now.
“I read something about her death. Did the police ever discover who had killed her?”
“I don’t know that they’ve made any progress at all. Although I’d had my suspicions that something was wrong.”
“Had you?”
“About five or six months ago—you won’t say anything to Alicia about this, will you?” I promised and he went on. “About five or six months ago, late winter anyway, her letters changed. They were shorter and not as full of news. Distracted. Unlike her. I put it down to worry about Merry—his squadron had been posted to France. And then the letters were fewer, as if she’d written out of duty when she remembered she owed me one.”
“Did you see her after that?”
He sat up as a clock somewhere in the house struck the hour. “I must return to the booth. I don’t know what possessed me to agree to man it.”
I considered him. Friend or not, cousin or not, Michael Hart was very attractive. But he wasn’t the man I’d seen with Marjorie Evanson in London.
I was tempted to ask him if he knew Lieutenant Fordham, but they were in the same regiment, and Simon had told me that the lieutenant’s death had been kept out of the newspapers. Instead I asked, “There might have been another man. Had you thought of that?”
His eyes sharpened, and an ugly twist reshaped his mouth. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”
I shrugged. “You suggested there was a change in her. There’s usually a reason for it. Perhaps there was something she didn’t want to tell you or was afraid you’d read between the lines in her letters.”
He got up and swung around the room, as if he were trying to find a way out of it, like an animal pacing his cage at a zoo. “That’s nonsense. Besides, it doesn’t explain her murder, does it?”
When I said nothing, he went on as much to himself as to me. “I can’t drive, and I’m forbidden to take the train. I need to go to London. To talk to her friends. There was a women’s group she belonged to, they met every week. I asked my uncle to drive me there, but he has his hands full with the farm just now—everyone is shorthanded, I know that’s true, but still—” He took a deep breath. “It’s been weeks already.”
“What does Victoria have to say? Surely Marjorie confided in her.”
“She wouldn’t tell me even if she knew the name of Marjorie’s killer. She was an insufferable little beast, always prying, always tattling. Neither of us could abide her. Marjorie tried to make peace with her, but confide in her? Never.” He considered me. “Have a motorcar here, do you?”
“Yes, I—”
“Excellent. You can drive me to London, if you please. I’ll start with the servants. They’ll talk to me. I helped her choose most of them when she opened the house.”
It was tempting. But I said, “My family lives in Somerset. I’ll be going back there, not to London.”
“How long have you known Alicia?” he asked shrewdly. “You don’t strike me as old friends. I’ve known Alicia for years, and I’ve never seen you in Little Sefton before. You said you knew Meriwether. Did his sister send you here? I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“I told you the truth. I brought Lieutenant Evanson back to England, to Laurel House. He had a photograph of his wife, and it was pinned to his tunic where I could see it every day. He wouldn’t let it out of his sight. I couldn’t help but see it.”
I didn’t tell him that it was even now in my valise at Alicia’s house. But I found myself adding, “I was told by Matron that Lieutenant Evanson’s family didn’t want it buried with him.”
Under his breath he swore with some feeling. “Serena’s doing, very likely. I think she felt as elder sister she ought to have a say in the woman Evanson married. She’d introduced him to several friends of hers, but nothing came of that.”
I could hear people talking in the passage. “We should go out to the garden. They’ll be looking for you.”
“I’ve lost interest in the blasted white elephant booth.”
“It is for a good cause,” I reminded him.
“I’d rather give them the money and be done with it.”
“That’s charity.”
Suddenly he chuckled, that same deep rumble that began in his chest before erupting into deep laughter.
“You’re an extraordinary woman, Sister Crawford. I think Marjorie would have approved of you.” Cradling his shoulder, he added with resignation, “Come along then. But think about it, won’t you? Driving to London, I mean.”
We walked together out of the rector’s study, down the passage, and back to the fete.
As we stepped out into the gardens, Alicia raised her eyebrows at the sight of us together, and on the other side of the palm reader’s booth, Victoria was staring.
I could almost read their minds as they wondered how I had so successfully cornered the Prince of Wales.
Behind me, Michael Hart said just loud enough for me to hear him, “Is this where you slap my face and walk away?”
Unable to stop myself, I smiled broadly.
But Michael had already slipped away and left me standing there alone.
The rector stepped into the breach and introduced himself, welcoming me to Little Sefton and asking where I was from. “Somerset,” I told him, and then we played the social game of do you know…
We did indeed have a connection in common. It seems that the chaplain of my father’s old regiment—now long since retired to grow roses and tomatoes in Derbyshire—had been a friend of the rector’s father, and with those bona fides, I was accepted into the bosom of Little Sefton.
The afternoon turned out to be lovely in every sense. I found I was enjoying myself as the rector and Alicia between them presented me to everyone. I took my turn in the white elephant booth, and even sold tickets for the little raffle. Michael was least in sight, and I heard someone, a woman, say, “He’s probably gone to have a lie down. He told me that Sister Crawford had advised him to rest and take a little something for his pain.”
My back was to the speakers, and so I couldn’t see who answered that remark.
“I wonder if she knows that he’s altogether too fond of that little something for the pain.” Another woman’s voice.
Just as I turned to see who it was, I found myself almost face-to-face with Victoria.
I had wondered if—when—she might speak to me. She had no way of knowing who I was, but seeing me with Michael had for some reason ruffled her feathers.
As if to prove it, her first words were, “Have you known Michael very long?”
“Approximately two hours,” I answered with a smile, refusing to be drawn.
“Alicia told me she hadn’t realized you were acquainted with him, or she wouldn’t have invited you to Little Sefton. She doesn’t care to be used in this way.”
Alicia had said nothing of the sort. She knew why I was here.
“How odd,” I replied. “It was she who introduced us. She did mention that he was considered the exclusive property of someone—Victoria, I believe she was?”
Her face went beet red.
“I’m Victoria Garrison. And that man is of no interest to me.”
“I’m Elizabeth Crawford,” I went on. “Are you by any chance related to Marjorie Evanson?”
“It’s clear to me that you’ve been reading the London papers. Who told you that Garrison was her maiden name? Alicia, of course. Our little scandal attra
cts all manner of curiosity seekers.”
“As a matter of fact,” I answered her serenely, “I was Lieutenant Evanson’s nurse while he was in hospital in France.”
That stopped her cold. But she recovered quickly. “Did Serena Melton send you here to annoy me?”
Intrigued by the fact that both she and Michael Hart had leapt to that conclusion, I hesitated a second too long.
She turned away, then swung around again to face me. “Well, you can tell her for me that while a murder in the family is not something to cry from the rooftops, a suicide is even worse.” And she walked off, her shoulders stiff with anger.
I stood there thinking it was sad that two families had been torn apart by one act of violence, rather than being brought together in common grief.
Behind me, Mrs. Hart said quietly, “Poor girl. She’s taken her sister’s death hard. They were never close. Perhaps she has come to regret that now.”
I hadn’t heard her come up behind me. I’d have liked to disagree with her, but said, “I’m sorry.”
“Victoria takes after her father. He was a hard man to like. Marjorie was more like her mother, which is probably why Mr. Garrison was fonder of Victoria.” She shifted the course of the conversation. “Alicia tells me you’ve come just for the weekend. Have you known each other long?”
“She’s the friend of a friend who thought we might enjoy each other’s company,” I answered. “And we have, I must say.”
“She’s missed Gareth terribly. Of course there are no children. That’s been a sorrow for both of them. One might say early days, but for the war. One can only pray that Gareth returns safely. I fear for Michael. You’re a nursing sister. Will that shoulder heal cleanly? I don’t know what they’ve said to Michael. He puts up a good front, and we try not to ask too many questions. I do know he secretly dreads the possibility that he might lose his arm. I’ve heard him cry out at night, dreaming they’re taking it.”
“It’s too soon to judge these things,” I said, the only hope I could offer, not knowing the details of the case. “I’m surprised he’s out of hospital. But that’s a good sign, you know. When was he wounded?”