An Impartial Witness

by Charles Todd

  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 them.

  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 Somme 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?

  I hadn’t learned a great deal about Raymond Melton, and only a little about Lieutenant Fordham.

  But as I climbed the stairs to my flat, calling good night to Mrs. Hennessey who had come out to ask me if I’d enjoyed my evening, I wondered why Jack Melton and his brother were estranged. Because he knew what sort of person Raymond Melton was?

  What had been the fascination there for Marjorie? Attention when she needed comforting, her fears for Meriwether smoothed away? Sometimes very cold men could be utterly charming when it served their purpose. I preferred someone like Michael Hart, who made no bones about flirting, enjoying it and expecting no harm to come of it.

  Like the woman at the garden party, I remembered as I drifted into sleep. Henry’s wife, who had been amused by Michael’s flattery, gave it back in full measure, and made both of them laugh.

  Someone was knocking at the flat door. I heard it in my dreams before I realized that the sound was real. Surfacing from sleep, I tried to think what time it was, and if I’d overslept. I fumbled for my slippers and my dressing gown and made my way through the dark flat. But the windows told me it wasn’t the middle of the night, as I’d first thought, or late morning. Dawn had broken and the first rays of the sun were touching the rooftops opposite.

  I opened the door to Mrs. Hennessey, her gray hair in a long plait that fell down over the collar of her dressing gown.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” I asked, thinking she must be ill.

  “My dear, it’s Sergeant-Major Brandon. He says it’s most urgent that he speak to you. I do hope it isn’t your parents—”

  My mind was racing ahead of me as I brushed past her and went headlong down the stairs, nearly flinging myself into Simon’s arms as I tripped on the last three steps.

  “What is it?” I said again, tensed for the blow to come.

  “I told Mrs. Hennessey not to frighten you,” he said, angry. “It’s a police matter, but important enough to make sure you were safely here.”

  Mrs. Hennessey had seen me come in. She could have told Simon—and then I realized that he had been frowning with worry until he saw me on the stairs.

  “Do you know a Mrs. Calder?” he continued, and I tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

  “Calder? Yes—she’s a friend of Marjorie’s. Marjorie Evanson.”

  “She was attacked last night and nearly killed.”

  “She—” I began and had to stop to catch my breath. “Nearly killed?”

  Mrs. Hennessey had made her way down the stairs and said to Simon, “If you wish to use my sitting room—”

  He thanked her and we went into her flat, where a lamp was burning in the small room where she sat in the evening. She asked if we’d like a cup of tea, but Simon shook his head. With that she left us alone, but knowing Mrs. Hennessey, she wouldn’t be far, even though she knew that Simon was a family friend. Her staunch Victorian upbringing wouldn’t allow her to eavesdrop, but she would be able to hear if I screamed or had to fight for my virtue, since I was not properly dressed to receive a gentleman.

  Simon must have read my mind because he smiled grimly and said, “You had better sit over there. God forbid that we should not observe the proprieties.”

  I sat down on one side of the hearth and he took the chair on the other.

  “Mrs. Calder?” I reminded him.

  “She had gone to dine with friends. Mr. and Mrs. Murray put her into a cab at the end, and she went directly to her house. That’s been established. But she didn’t go in. The maid waiting up for her was drowsing in her chair, but she would have heard any disturbance on the doorstep.”

  “Then it was someone Mrs. Calder knew,” I said. “She wouldn’t have gone anywhere with a stranger, not after what happened to Marjorie Evanson.” I tried to think. “Have the police found the cabbie?”

  “They have, and he doesn’t recall anyone walking along the street or standing in the shadows of a tree. But he’s an old man, he might not have noticed. At any rate, she got down at Hamilton Place, paid the cabbie, and the last he saw of her, she was walking toward her door. An hour later, a constable walking through Hamilton Place heard something in the square, and alert man that he is, went to investigate. He discovered Mrs. Calder lying in a stand of shrubbery, stabbed and bleeding heavily. She’s in hospital now and undergoing surgery. No one has been able to question her. But she wasn’t robbed or interfered with in any way. Because of the unsolved attack on Mrs. Evanson, someone, probably the Metropolitan police, thought to bring in Inspector Herbert.”

  “Oh, dear.” I put my hands up to my face, pressing them against the flesh, trying to absorb everything Simon was telling me. And then I realized that it was Simon telling me. Letting my hands fall I said, “How is it that you know all this?”

  “Inspector Herbert put in a call to Somerset—he must have thought you were going directly home, but he was taking no chances. You father called me at my club. I came directly here.” He paused. “Bess. How much did this Mrs. Calder know about Marjorie Evanson’s love affair? Did she know the name of the man?”

  “She told me she didn’t—” But Serena Melton believed Mrs. Calder knew more than she wished to tell even the police. That she foun
d her cousin Marjorie’s behavior distasteful and was trying to distance herself from it. “Serena Melton believes she does. And if that’s true, someone else could as well.” Michael Hart had not suggested we talk to Helen Calder. The thought rose like a black shadow in my mind. Had he believed that if Helen knew the name of the man Marjorie had been seeing, it was possible that she also knew Marjorie intended to meet him that evening?

  I pushed the thought away. There could be a little jealousy there, because Helen really was a cousin, and Michael was not. But the thought lingered.

  Simon was saying, “The police can’t be certain that her attack is related to Mrs. Evanson’s death, but they’re treating it as likely.”

  “She must know who it was. She isn’t the kind of woman who would take risks. Is she—will she survive?” With critical stabbing wounds, infection was often the deciding factor in living or dying.

  Simon shook his head. “It’s touch and go, I should think. My first responsibility was to look in on you. To see if you’d also been lured out into the night. Mrs. Hennessey couldn’t stop a determined killer.”

  He was right. If someone knew just what to say—that my mother had suddenly taken ill or something had happened to Simon or my father—I’d go with them. Especially if I thought Mrs. Hennessey had allowed them in this emergency to come directly to my door. It would never occur to me that she was already dead. What, then, had someone said to Mrs. Calder that made her turn away from her door and follow him—or her?

  “I’m wide awake,” I said. “It’s no use going back to bed. Do you think, if we went to the hospital, Matron might tell me about the surgery and what the prognosis is for Helen Calder?”

  “It’s worth trying.”

  I left him there in the sitting room and went up to dress. I decided to wear my uniform, though I sighed when I put on the nicely starched cuffs and apron that I’d ironed only hours ago.

  Simon drove me to St. Martin’s Hospital, where we made our way to the surgical wards. But Mrs. Calder was still in surgery, I was told, and not expected to be brought into the ward until she was stable.