An Impartial Witness

by Charles Todd

I got out and stepped into the rear of the ambulance. And Claus had indeed pulled at his bandaging, blood already welling in the wound in his chest. I worked to stop the bleeding, and finally succeeded.

  Captain Ritter said bitterly, “The war is over for him. I don’t know whether to mourn for him or congratulate him.”

  I stayed with Claus, sending Captain Ritter to take my place next to the driver, who gave me a long look. I knew what he was asking—if this German officer was to be trusted next to the driver, where he could try a mischief.

  I said, “Captain Ritter understands I am exchanging places in order to keep this soldier alive. He will give me his word to respect this decision.”

  Captain Ritter smiled at me, and I knew he’d been weighing his chances. But he nodded, and closed the ambulance door on me before hobbling painfully to the front of the vehicle.

  We set off along the rutted road, lurching and swaying like some mad creature in the throes of despair. It was always a wonder to me when a severely wounded man survived this ride. I felt bruised and battered as we pulled in at the hospital and I could turn my patients over to the staff waiting there.

  Captain Ritter thanked me for my care of his men, and then said, “I have learned one thing in life at least. When I have given up all hope, there is still something to live for. I swore I would never be taken prisoner. And here I am, a prisoner. But I shall write to my wife now and tell her that very likely I shall survive the war after all. She will have a little peace, knowing that. It will be my good deed.”

  “There’s no shame in being taken prisoner,” I told him. “You are no use to your country dead.”

  He smiled. “I shall remember that. Good-bye, Fräulein.” And he was gone, supported by two orderlies, followed by an armed guard.

  I was to think about Captain Ritter when my mail at last caught up with me.

  When I have given up all hope, there is still something to live for.

  Michael Hart was speaking almost those same words to Simon Brandon that same afternoon. Only I wouldn’t hear about it for another two weeks.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WHEN SIMON’S LETTER arrived, the envelope was worn and splattered with mud. At least I hoped it was mud. I opened it gingerly, and drew out the sheets inside.

  Unfolding them, I looked at the heavy, angular strokes of his pen, and I had a premonition of bad news.

  Bess, it began,

  I am writing in haste, as there is a chance I shall be able to send this letter tonight. As you asked, I attended the trial. It was brought forward because Mrs. Calder regained some memory of events the night she was stabbed. Only a partial memory as it turned out, but she was able to tell the police that she’d received a message from Lieutenant Hart asking her to meet him. This was verified by her maid, who had brought the letter to her from the post. She replied that she had a dinner engagement that night—would it be possible for him to come another evening. He answered that he would meet her at nine thirty, if her dinner party ended in good time. She agreed, and was surprised that he wasn’t waiting in her house. Instead he came toward her from the shadows at the corner of her house, and she called to him to join her. That was the last thing she remembered. Because the doctors had ordered a long and careful period of convalescence, it was decided to move the trial date to accommodate the medical needs of the chief witness. I spoke to the barrister who had taken Hart’s case, and he felt that judgment could go either way—conviction or acquittal depending on the view of the jury when the evidence was presented. He believed your evidence regarding events at the railway station would be crucial, as it indicated that Hart was not Mrs. Evanson’s lover, and therefore had no reason to kill her to protect himself from charges that he was the child’s father. As she was already married, Hart could hardly be considered a jilted lover or cuckolded husband. This removed one motive for murder, and such circumstantial evidence as there was required a suitable motive. And Mrs. Calder could be shown to be recovering still, and perhaps not perfectly certain about what she thinks she remembers.

  He had told Hart how he expected to conduct the trial, and had every expectation that his principal agreed with the plan.

  The trial began on a Monday, and the general feeling was that it would last five to seven days. Your father had told me he had also arranged to attend, and we met outside the courtroom, taking our seats just as Hart was brought in.

  His shoulder had healed sufficiently for the more conspicuous bandaging to be reduced to a padded sling. His counsel objected to the prison doctor’s decision, believing it gave the jury a false impression of his ability to use that arm. Still, it was rather obvious that the shoulder was held awkwardly as he came up the stairs into the dock. I thought he appeared to be under considerable strain, but otherwise he seemed to be in control and aware of his plight.

  When he was asked how he would plead, his counsel rose to speak, but Hart was there before him, and to the absolute horror of most of the spectators, he said quite clearly and without emotion, I plead guilty to both charges.

  Pandemonium reigned for all of a minute, his counsel begging for time to confer with his client and nearly drowned out. When the bailiffs had restored order, the judge turned to Hart and said, Do you understand the consequences of your plea? And Hart replied quite steadily that he did and was ready to accept them.

  I put the letter down, staring at nothing as the words brought me so close to that courtroom that I could imagine the scene quite clearly, Lieutenant Hart in the dock, his counsel and the KC staring alternately at him and at the judge, unable to fathom what was happening. After all, everyone had been prepared for a trial, not for the rug to be pulled precipitously from under their feet. And in the center of this maelstrom, his face pale but determined, was Michael Hart.

  The effect on the jury must have been momentous. The trial couldn’t continue.

  But what in heaven’s name had possessed him? Why had he thrown his chances to the winds, and ignored the advice of the barrister retained to save him from the gallows?

  I sat there, my head reeling, my heart plummeting to the soles of my shoes.

  It was the very height of foolishness, and it made no sense.

  After a time, I picked up Simon’s letter again and turned to the second page.

  Justice Bromley asked if Hart had any more to add to his plea, and he was answered by a single shake of the head, then a very firm No.

  I needn’t tell you what happened next. The court had no choice but to accept the plea before them, and I thought of you when the judge reached for his black cap. He declared that the circumstances of the two attacks, both on women alone and vulnerable, and the brutal stabbing before one had gone into the river and the other abandoned to bleed to death on the pavement, left no room for compassion or understanding. And he condemned Michael Hart to be hanged.

  The words seemed to roll around my head, echoing through the room where I sat in the early twilight, unable to reach out and turn on the lamp beside me. Light would make it true. Sitting here in the shadows, I could almost pretend that this letter had never come.

  Or that Michael Hart had offered something, some crumb of comfort or explanation to his bald statement. Why? Even if he had done these things—which I still doubted—why had he admitted to them? Was it conscience?

  How had I been so wrong about him?

  I picked up the letter again, hoping that Simon had an answer to that question.

  But he didn’t. He and my father had left the courtroom with the rest of the spectators, all of whom were talking about this shocking turn of events.

  Simon ended the letter with a final paragraph.

  I tried to speak to his barrister, but the man refused to hear me. I had the feeling he was too angry to trust himself to talk to anyone. The Colonel and I decided the best move now would be to see Hart. If we can gain access to him. If he will see us. I have considered tearing up this letter. Or not sending it until we’ve heard what he has to say. But in all fairnes
s to you, my dear girl, it had to be sent. I wish I could be there when you read it. I wish I had better news.

  And it was signed with his name, nothing more.

  I reread the letter, still trying to absorb it.

  Why would Michael Hart condemn himself? What did he know that had made him confess to murder, whether he had done that murder or not?

  And the answer was there in front of me.

  I went back to the letter and looked for the words again. And there they were.

  Simon’s discussion with Michael’s barrister:

  He believed that your evidence regarding events at the railway station would be crucial, as it indicated that Hart was not Mrs. Evanson’s lover, and therefore had no reason to kill her to protect himself from charges that he was the child’s father. As she was already married, Hart could hardly be considered a jilted lover or cuckolded husband.

  Michael had confessed because he didn’t want the world to hear about Marjorie’s lover, Marjorie’s infidelity, Marjorie’s shame. It would have had to come out. It would be in all the newspapers, the gossip of London, a nine-day’s wonder, and at the end of it, Marjorie would have been seen as the woman who betrayed her severely burned husband, the husband who had killed himself rather than live with the truth.

  Whether Michael was guilty or not, he had given her one last gift of love—his silence.

  Still, the Colonel Sahib would have something to say on that subject. “Gallantry,” he often told his men, “is an act of great courage under fire, of bravery beyond the call of duty. But if it kills your comrades as well or puts the battle in jeopardy, then it is arrant pride and foolishness. Learn to know the difference.”

  But then Michael was only putting himself in jeopardy.

  I set the letter down and went to my small trunk. Lifting the lid, I searched through my belongings for the photograph of Marjorie Evanson that I still carried with me because no one else seemed to want it.

  I found the frame, turned it over, and looked at the face of the dead woman, trying to think what it was about her that had made two men love her so fiercely.

  She was quite pretty, with fair hair and what must have been blue eyes, but that wasn’t the person, only an outward reflection.

  There must have been some quality that the camera couldn’t capture, something in her smile or a vulnerability that appealed to men.

  There were prettier women—Diana, my flatmate, was certainly far more beautiful.

  Possibly Raymond Melton had seen her as a challenge. Some men liked that.

  It occurred to me that I should send this photograph to Michael Hart. If he hadn’t killed her, he would take comfort in it.

  Perhaps he would whether he had killed her or not.

  But it seemed a betrayal of her husband, who had clung to this photograph through the darkest hours of his life.

  And how Victoria Garrison and Serena Melton must be celebrating now. They had got what they wanted, both of them.

  I took a deep breath and put the frame back in my trunk and closed the lid.

  The practical question now was what to do about Michael?

  Did I take him at his word? Or should I go on searching for a murderer?

  I turned, pulled on my boots, and went to see Matron.

  If I could have leave, I could go to England and try once more to get to the bottom of Marjorie Evanson’s death.

  But Matron, swamped with wounded, refused to consider my request for leave, although I told her that it could be a matter of life or death.

  “We’re shorthanded, Sister Crawford. And your love affair will just have to wait.”

  “It isn’t a love—”

  She cut me short. “You aren’t the first nursing sister to come to me with such a request. Nor will you be the last. I was young, like you. I can appreciate the fact that your world feels as if it’s coming to an end. But men are dying here, and I will thank you to concentrate on their needs, not your own. Selfishness has no place on the battlefield.”

  With that she dismissed me, and I had no option but to walk out of her office and return to my quarters.

  Consoling myself as best I could, I wrote a letter to Simon, and set it out for the post. If only he’d told me when the date of execution was. But perhaps he didn’t know. I had a feeling that Michael would ask that it not be delayed. And he would go to the gallows before Christmas.

  A thought came to mind. Inspector Herbert had been in no hurry to send for Captain Raymond Melton, because he believed that my encounter with Marjorie in the railway station had sufficiently explained his role in her life: lover, rejecting her, unwilling to believe the child she was carrying was his—but in no way connecting him to her murder. His alibi was about as sound as one could be.

  But what if I could break it?

  I had two hours before I was scheduled to return to duty.

  I set about searching for Raymond Melton.

  My father had commanded a regiment. There were soldiers from that regiment scattered across France, combined with other units, making up the armies in the field.

  I only had to find one or two of its present officers, and the rest would be easy.

  It was three days before someone from my father’s regiment was brought in to our station, and he was walking wounded, his arm laid open by machine-gun fire. I asked the sister who was already cutting away his sleeve if I could attend to the young lieutenant.

  He smiled as I came over to him, and I think he believed I must be flirting with him when I asked his name.

  “Timothy Alston,” he said. “And yours, Sister?”

  I told him, and added, “I expect you might know of my father. Colonel Crawford.”

  “My God, yes,” he answered, giving me a very different sort of look. And then he winced as I began to clean his wound. “How is he?”

  “Fighting this war from London, much to his chagrin.”

  “They still tell stories about his time in India, you know,” he went on. “I never had the pleasure of serving under him. I joined after he retired, but I’d have been proud to be one of his men.”

  “He would be very pleased to hear that,” I told Lieutenant Alston truthfully. “He misses his command.”

  “There was the tiger hunt that nearly killed a maharajah. Has he ever told you about that? The beast leapt right into the blind, directly in the face of the maharajah, and no one could move. The maharajah was certain to be clawed to death. And then your father swung a rifle and gave the tiger an almighty whack on the side of his head—there was no room to shoot, too dangerous, but the tiger turned, looked at your father, and everyone in the blind thought he was going to attack. Then the tiger wheeled about and leapt out of the blind, disappearing into the high grass before anyone could bring a gun to bear. They say he came back to that blind, you know, the day your father marched away, and stood there, head down, mourning the loss of a brave man.”

  I’d heard the story from others, and those who told me, his bearers among them, swore it was true. But I said only, “I expect the tiger was still looking for the maharajah.”

  Lieutenant Alston laughed. As I was binding the wound, I asked casually, “By the bye, have you run into a Captain Melton in the Wiltshire Fusiliers? I’ve been trying to find him. I was at his brother’s birthday party.”

  “Melton? Name doesn’t ring a bell. But I’ll put the word out, if you like. One of us is bound to come across him.”

  I thanked him, turned him over to the doctor for suturing, told him to keep the bandaging clean for at least three days, and then he was gone, back to the fighting.

  I wondered if he’d remember my request. But ten days later, I received a message from Lieutenant Alston. He told me that Captain Melton had been seen not three miles away, where he was in rotation from the Front.

  This time, with Matron’s blessing and the excuse of needing medical supplies, I commandeered an ambulance and went to find the Fusiliers.

  They were well behind the lines, men str
etched out on cots, even on the ground, or smoking and pacing, writing letters, shaving, reading—anything to put the war behind them for a few precious hours. The rows of tents gleamed in the morning sun, and I felt at home as I walked down between them. The guns were loud here, our own and the Germans’, and the sharp chatter of a Vickers could be heard faintly in the distance. But tired men ignored everything but the pursuit of peace for as long as possible.

  I smiled and asked for Captain Melton. The young officer who had risen to greet me looked around him and then said, “I expect he’s still in hospital, Sister.”

  Alarmed, I asked, “Is it serious?”

  “Um, I’d rather not say.”

  Which usually meant dysentery. I thanked him, returned to the ambulance, and found my way to the rear hospital where more serious casualties were taken.

  The first sister I met as I walked through the door was young and flushed with excitement.

  “Rumor says the Prince of Wales is coming here to speak to the wounded,” she exclaimed. “Everything is at sixes and sevens.”

  I gave her a list of the supplies I needed, then asked if there was a Captain Melton in the officers’ ward.

  She pointed the way, then rushed off to finish my errand before the Prince arrived.

  She was right that the hospital was at sixes and sevens. Another sister told me that the Prince was coming to pin a medal on someone. Victoria Cross, she thought. Someone else said that the Prince was coming to see one of his former equerries who was just out of surgery for life-threatening wounds.

  Threading my way to the busy ward, I went down the row of cots and looked at each patient, hoping to find Captain Melton without drawing more attention than necessary to my visit. A few patients were heavily bandaged, and I asked quietly, “Captain Melton?” only to receive a shake of the head in return.