An Impartial Witness

by Charles Todd

  He was smiling at the story about the monkeys, but his mind wasn’t on what I was saying.

  “Did the police at least search for the spent bullets?”

  “A cursory search. I went back later to look on my own. But it’s a garden, for God’s sake, and finding anything would be a miracle.”

  “Let’s have a look together.”

  He was about to refuse me, but I stood there waiting, and finally he said disagreeably, “All right, then.”

  I wanted very much to tell him that handsome is as handsome does. But that would be sinking to the same childish level.

  Still, I was tempted.

  And what would Alicia think when she came back to find I’d gone off with Michael Hart? That her stratagem had worked?

  We walked in silence to the house where he was staying with his aunt and uncle. The grassy path branched about three-quarters of the way to the door, and stepping-stones led to a gate in a well-trimmed hedge. Through that I found myself in a very pretty formal garden. Small boxwoods lined the paths in a geometric pattern, dividing the beds. Along the far side of the garden, matching the hedge at the front gate, was a bank of lilacs, which must have been beautiful in the spring, their fragrance wafting to the chairs set out on a narrow stone terrace, rising above two shallow steps.

  “What’s behind the lilacs?”

  “The carriage drive to the stables. Beyond that a small orchard.”

  “So someone could have come as far as the lilacs without being seen.”

  “Yes. That was what the police suggested as well.”

  “And where were you standing?”

  “I was in the center, by the little sundial, my back to the lilacs. The house had felt stuffy, and I’d come out here. But I couldn’t sit still, so I walked as far as the sundial, stood there for several minutes, and was just turning back to the terrace when I heard the shots.”

  He was right. Finding the spent bullet amongst the beds of roses, peonies, larkspur, and other flowers in full bloom, much less the loamy earth they were set in, would be a miracle.

  But I looked anyway. If only to satisfy my own ambivalence about whether or not there were any shots at all. I asked him to stand where he had been at the time, and then I cast about, looking under leaves, in the earth, even in the blossoms themselves. After ten minutes, he said impatiently, “I can’t stand here much longer. You aren’t going to find anything anyway. Let’s sit on the terrace before I fall down.” He did look rather gray in the face.

  I am stubborn. Just ask the Colonel Sahib.

  “Go ahead and sit. I’ll look a little longer.”

  And five minutes later, my fingers, scything gently through the soil around a rosebush in the next bed over, came up with something hard. I picked it up, brushed it off, and looked at it.

  It was a readily identifiable .45 bullet.

  Triumphant, I carried it to Michael and dropped it into the palm of his hand.

  “Persistence,” I said simply.

  He grinned at me. “And your fingers are filthy.”

  I regarded them wryly. “So they are.”

  “Now perhaps someone will believe me!”

  But there still remained a shadow of a doubt. Michael Hart possessed his service revolver, and he could just as easily have fired that shot into the rosebushes himself, in the hope that the police would believe his story.

  I sighed. “I must go back to Somerset. I’m here on sufferance anyway. My family is convinced that you’re a blackguard and I’m in danger of being shot in your company.”

  The grin deepened. “It’s a lie. Your mother adored me. Stay, and I’ll take you to dinner somewhere.”

  I shook my head. “Thank you, but I must go.” I rose to leave, and then said, “Michael. What if we never discover who killed Marjorie? If the police can’t do it, it’s not likely that anyone else will succeed where they failed. And they keep jumping about, first this and then that likelihood. They won’t keep searching forever.”

  “I’ll keep looking if it takes me the rest of my life,” he told me grimly. “I won’t desert her as everyone else has.”

  I said good-bye and left. Alicia was watching for me, and smiled. “I saw you walking with Michael Hart to his aunt’s garden. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I agreed and then told her I must return to Somerset.

  She said, “You two didn’t quarrel, did you?”

  Several times, I answered silently, then told her, “He’s not at his best today.”

  “Don’t let that discourage you. I think he rather likes you.”

  I smiled and said, with heavy irony, “Thank you, Alicia. You send me away happier than when I arrived.”

  “Did he tell you,” she went on, “that Victoria, Marjorie Evanson’s sister, had a very public quarrel with him, just this morning. I don’t know what precipitated it. He was walking toward the church when she stopped him and suddenly there were loud voices and everyone turned to see what was happening.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “Marjorie was buried here in the churchyard. Did you know that? Not with her husband but with her family. When her body was released, Meriwether’s sister refused to let her be laid to rest in their family plot. I don’t know if Meriwether was told what her decision was. I think he’d have been very angry. But she told Victoria in no uncertain terms that Marjorie was no longer considered a part of their family.”

  I hadn’t known that or I would have visited her grave when I was here for the garden party. But I should have guessed that Serena would carry her anger that far. She hadn’t come to the service.

  Alicia was saying, “At any rate, Victoria accused Michael Hart of spending too much time there. I know he’s been there a few times, not what I would call an inordinate number, but she seemed to feel that having caused her sister so much grief in her life, it was keeping the scandal alive for him to be seen there so often.”

  “She believes that Michael Hart was the other man?”

  “I think she’s always been very jealous of the attachment between Marjorie and Michael. And so she thinks it was an unhealthy one.”

  “What does the rest of the village have to say?”

  “They’re of two minds, at a guess. Those who liked Marjorie believed the best of her. If she fell from grace, they say, it was out of loneliness. Those who are closer to Victoria and her father seem to think that Marjorie betrayed her family as well as her husband.”

  “Never mind what the truth might be?”

  “Never mind,” she agreed, nodding. With a sigh, she said, “I know how easy it is to fall from grace. I miss Gareth so terribly sometimes that I cry myself to sleep. I’m always afraid to answer the door, for fear Mr. Mason is on my doorstep this time, to deliver bad news. Sometimes after his leave is over and he’s been gone for months, I can’t quite remember the sound of my husband’s voice, or see his face as sharply as I did before. And one day someone comes along who is kind, thoughtful, his touch is real, and he’s there, and one is so hungry for companionship, for someone who admires one’s hair or makes one laugh, or just brushes one’s hand as he helps one into a motorcar, that one is susceptible. Suddenly one is alive again, and you tell yourself that you might well be a widow already and not even know it—”

  She broke off, flushing with embarrassment. A little silence fell. Then she said, “I’ve never succumbed. I’ve been faithful in thought and deed. But I’d be lying if I said that I could throw the first stone at Marjorie.” Wryly she added, “That’s why I so enjoy your feelings for Michael. It lets me feel something vicariously.”

  Misreading my expression of annoyance, she said, “I’ve made you self-conscious, haven’t I? I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject.”

  “All right, then. Why would Victoria make such a public display of her feelings? Why not speak to Michael quietly, privately, and ask him to be more discreet?”

  “I rather think she wants the world to see him as an adulterer. She wants him to be an obj
ect of contempt.”

  “Or she’s jealous.” I leaned back in my chair and regarded the ceiling. “Do you think Victoria might decide to shoot at him?”

  “At Michael? But why should she?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her truthfully. “Perhaps to frighten him. To make him leave Little Sefton and return to that clinic. To make him a laughingstock. Or to return to the idea of jealousy, to rid herself of him so that she wouldn’t be reminded day in and day out that he still cares for Marjorie, but cares nothing for her?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it in that light,” Alicia said, considering my words. “But she’s always had an uncertain temper. Spoiled children often do. She might very well decide to shoot at him—knowing that she would miss him, I mean—just to be vindictive.”

  “Would you walk with me to the churchyard, and show me Marjorie’s grave?”

  “Yes, of course. Let me get my shawl.” She was back in only a moment. I took one last look at the photograph I’d returned and then together we walked down the street to the churchyard.

  There were any number of new graves, the earth still brown, and others where the grass was just a tender green. I tried not to think that for every man who died of wounds here in England, hundreds of others were buried in makeshift cemeteries in France.

  The Garrisons were buried in a cluster of graves on the right side of the church. Besides Marjorie’s mother and father, there was a brother who had died at the age of six, and her grandparents, two uncles and their wives and a number of older-generation Garrison relatives. Marjorie’s grave was on the far side of her brother’s, as if Victoria had elected to keep for herself the space that was next to her father. After all, Marjorie, the first to die, was in no position to argue.

  There were colorful fresh flowers on the raw earth. I recognized some of them as varieties I’d seen in the garden belonging to Michael Hart’s aunt and uncle. I could in a way understand Victoria’s complaint, for these tokens were there for all to see and speculate about. They also pointed up the fact that Victoria hadn’t planted any flowers by the headstone herself. There were pansies and forget-me-nots and other low-growing blossoms rampant on the other graves. Michael was making it plain that Marjorie didn’t deserve to be ostracized by her family as well as her neighbors.

  We were standing there together when the rector came around the corner of the church and spoke to us. He remembered me from the fete, and told me he was happy to see me again.

  “Alicia has been rambling about in that empty house long enough,” he went on. “It’s nice that friends can come and stay. We hope we’ll see more of you.”

  I smiled and thanked him.

  Looking down at the grave, he said, “Did you know Mrs. Evanson?”

  I told him the truth, that I had nursed her husband and brought him home to England to recover from his burns, and I left it at that.

  “He was a very fine man,” the rector told me. “The sort you’re happy to see marrying one of the young women in your parish. A tragedy that he should die of his wounds after coming so far.”

  “Yes.” I gestured toward the grave at my feet. “Tell me about his wife.”

  “A thoroughly nice young woman. I shouldn’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but she was not really happy here. She didn’t see eye to eye with her sister or her father. I never understood what lay behind that. I was glad when she made a life for herself in London.”

  “Did Victoria visit her there?”

  “She went to London a few times,” he said, frowning, “but I don’t know that she visited Marjorie. I remember asking for news, once, when Victoria had been up to see a play. She told me she’d been too busy to call on her sister.” He smiled sadly. “A shame, really, they had only each other.”

  He left us then, and Alicia said, “You know, you really ought to speak to Mrs. Eubanks. She’s the rector’s cook now, but she was the Garrisons’ cook until she had words with Victoria’s father and walked out. That was ages ago, before the war. I’d all but forgotten.”

  I glanced at the watch pinned to my apron. A cook would be starting preparations for dinner very shortly, but it wouldn’t take long to ask my questions. “I’m so glad you remembered. And there’s just time.” I started for the rectory.

  “I’ll go with you!” Alicia said eagerly.

  “No, that’s probably not a good idea. If she’s kept any secrets all these years, she might well not wish to make them public now. And you live in the village.”

  “But that’s not fair—it was I who told you about her—”

  “Alicia, think about it for a moment—”

  She was angry. “I’ve helped you thus far. It’s really unkind of you to shut me out now. And I was the one who introduced you to Michael.”

  “Alicia—”

  “No. You’ve just used me, that’s all. I should have guessed. Victoria said you would, you know. The day of the fair. I told her she was trying to make trouble, but I see now she was right.” She turned and walked away, hurt and disappointed.

  I felt my own anger rising. I liked Alicia, I wouldn’t have upset her for the world. But thanks to Victoria’s meddling, she had taken what I’d said in the worst possible light.

  I called to her, told her I was sorry, but the damage had been done. She kept walking, and disappeared through her door without looking back. I started after her, and after a few steps, stopped. It was useless. Even if I could persuade her that I’d been wrong about Mrs. Eubanks, Alicia would think I was apologizing because I still needed her help, not because I meant it. Otherwise she would have come back when I called to her. I couldn’t help but wonder what else Victoria could have said, then recalled Alicia’s parting words about Michael Hart. She had enjoyed matchmaking, but Victoria had poisoned that as well.

  With a heavy heart I crossed the churchyard to the rectory gardens, and made my way to the kitchen yard and up the path to the outer door. It led into a passage littered with boots and coats and umbrellas that had seen better days, and thence into the kitchen.

  I opened the door, and the woman up to her elbows in flour and dough looked up, ready to say something, then stopped short.

  “Oh—you aren’t Rector. If you’re looking for him, he should be in the vestry just now. At the church.”

  “Are you Mrs. Eubanks?” I asked. But of course she must be. Short and compact, she was graying, although her face was unlined. I put her age at perhaps fifty-five.

  “I am. And who might you be, Miss?”

  “My name is Elizabeth Crawford. I’m a nursing sister, and one of my patients was Lieutenant Meriwether Evanson,” I began. “I was with the convoy that brought him to England for treatment of his burns.”

  I explained that I was visiting with Mrs. Dalton, and she nodded. “I think I saw you with her at the garden fete.”

  “Yes, I was here then as well.”

  “The poor man. We heard that he barely survived a fortnight after his wife’s death. I met him a time or two, you know. He came here to speak to Rector in regard to marrying Miss Marjorie.”

  “I’ve been learning a little about her as well. Alicia Dalton said that you could tell me more about her than anyone else in Little Sefton. Would you mind?”

  We talked for a while about the Evansons, and it was clear that Mrs. Eubanks would have been glad to go to London with them as their cook, but she had already, as she said, “gotten used to Rector’s little ways, and he to mine.”

  “I understand there was no love lost between Marjorie and her sister.”

  Mrs. Eubanks’s lips thinned into a hard line. After a moment she said, “I know Rector preaches that it’s wrong to hate anyone, but I come as close to that as never mind when it comes to Miss Victoria. She’s a piece of work.” She had been making dough as I came in, and now she turned it out onto a floured board, and began to knead it vigorously. I hoped it wouldn’t be tough as nails as a result.

  “Was she always so rude?”

  Mrs. Eubanks turned her h
ead to listen, decided that no one could overhear us, and said, “Rudeness isn’t the half of it. My sister Nancy, God rest her soul, worked with Dr. Hale, and when Miss Marjorie’s dear mother went into labor prematurely, he took Nancy with him to help. She was very good with women in labor and newborns. She had that way about her.”

  “Did she? That’s a gift.”

  “To be sure it is. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Garrison had only been married the seven months when Miss Marjorie was born, and she had that breathing trouble that so often carries off those little ones born before their time. But my sister and Dr. Hale kept her alive, and though she was sickly for months, she survived and began to thrive. It was a miracle, and Mr. Garrison paid my sister handsomely for her services, so grateful he sang her praises to everyone who would listen.”

  I couldn’t quite see where this was going, but I looked encouraging and hoped she would continue. But she set aside the dough and put the kettle on, as if the subject were finished.

  “I could do with some tea,” she said, getting out cups and the milk pitcher, and a bowl of precious honey to sweeten it. Then she went to a cupboard and brought out a plate of biscuits.

  That done, she and I sat down at the table, and she picked up the thread of her story. “All was well, then. The next child, a little boy, was born in winter with a weak chest as well, and he didn’t live very long. After that came Victoria, and she was a lusty, healthy little one, kicking and crying with such strength, you wouldn’t believe it possible. There was only four years difference in their ages, and Miss Marjorie adored her sister. But when Victoria was about twelve, their mother died.”

  The kettle was on the boil, and Mrs. Eubanks stopped to make the tea. When she had poured our cups, she sat down again.

  “Miss Marjorie and her mother were always close, I expect because she nearly died. And Miss Victoria was closer to her father, they were always out and about together. She followed him everywhere, as soon as she could walk. Slowly, with malice, that girl set out to turn her father against her sister. Little things at first, the spilled milk, the broken vase, any small mishap, and it was blamed on Miss Marjorie. Even when the old dog died. Victoria swore Miss Marjorie had poisoned it. When she was old enough to understand such things, she told her father she didn’t believe that Miss Marjorie was his true daughter, that her mother must have been pregnant when she married. And she would point out little things—the fact that Miss Marjorie looked more like her mother, and not at all like her father—I don’t know what all. The housekeeper was a friend of mine, and she’d tell me tales that made me want to cry. But in the end, Victoria Garrison got her way, and Mr. Garrison came to hate his own daughter, hated the sight of her, and nothing her mother could say changed his mind. Miss Victoria had her father’s love, but now she wanted all of her mother’s, and when she saw she wasn’t going to get it, she made the poor woman’s life a misery. And her father stood by, letting her do it. It was as if he didn’t have the courage to come right out and attack his wife himself. But he enjoyed seeing her unhappy.”