An Impartial Witness

by Charles Todd

  Opening the outer door, I saw her peering out her own door, and then she came to greet me.

  “You look tired. Have you just come home from the Front?”

  “I’ve been in Somerset,” I told her. But that wasn’t altogether true.

  She came closer, as if to see me better. “You aren’t grieving for that young man they just took up for murder?”

  “No, not grieving. Just sad. I’m not sure he’s guilty.”

  “If a judge feels he is, then he is,” she said, nodding. “They’re nobody’s fools, are judges.”

  “No.” I didn’t feel like arguing with her. But talking about Michael suddenly reminded me of Inspector Herbert. I turned around and started back through the door I’d just come in. “If Mary comes down to ask for me, tell her I’ll return shortly.”

  I thought about driving, then decided to find a cab. But that wasted precious minutes, and I was almost on the edge of my seat as I reached Trafalgar Square. Scotland Yard was within walking distance now.

  The constable guarding the door told me that he thought Inspector Herbert had already left for the day.

  “It’s very important. Could you ask to be sure?”

  He must have heard those words—it’s very important—a thousand times over, but he nodded and went away to find out where Inspector Herbert might be.

  I felt I had waited an hour or more, but then the constable came back, and with him another man, a Sergeant Miller, who led me up the stairs and down the passage to Inspector Herbert’s office. I thanked the sergeant, took a deep breath, and knocked lightly on the door.

  Inspector Herbert’s voice bade me enter. But as I walked through the door, his face changed. “They said a young woman—no one gave me your name.”

  “They weren’t sure you were here. May I speak to you?”

  “If it’s about Michael Hart’s execution, there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.”

  “I haven’t come about that. But I’d like to know—were you in the courtroom when he pleaded guilty?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. I was,” he said finally.

  “What did you think? What did you feel?”

  “Surprise, like everyone else. I’d been told our case was sound, but that it wasn’t a certainty. For one thing, Hart is a handsome man. He had some public sympathy. A male jury wouldn’t be swayed by that, of course, but even jurors have wives and daughters. I was prepared for anything, to tell you the truth. But not for a guilty plea. I expected Hart to take his chances.”

  “Do you know why he did it?”

  “I have my suspicions. The prison surgeon’s report, that Hart’s arm is likely to be useless, was a factor, I’m sure. In fact, I was told he was put on a suicide watch after the doctor completed his examination.”

  “Have you visited Michael in prison?”

  Inspector Herbert, who had been speaking directly to me as I stood there before his desk, looked toward a filing cabinet against the left-hand wall. “No. I saw no point in going there. I don’t think he’d have cared for my sympathy.”

  “The other reason for his plea was to spare Marjorie’s memory and reputation. He wouldn’t have wanted her name to be dragged through the court.”

  “There’s that,” he conceded.

  “Can you arrange for me to see Lieutenant Hart?”

  “I don’t feel that’s wise. Besides, he’s asked to have visitors turned away. There was a list.” He fished around on his cluttered desk, and came up with a sheet of paper. Reading from it, he said, “Victoria Garrison is at the top of the list. She’s the sister of his first victim.”

  I made no answer. Looking up, he said irritably, “Do sit down, Miss Crawford. I don’t bite.”

  I sat down and waited.

  “The next names on the list are his aunt and uncle. After theirs comes yours.”

  I took a deep breath. I’d expected that, but it still hurt.

  He set the list aside. “For what it’s worth, I believe he cared for you, Miss Crawford.”

  “That’s nowhere near the truth, Inspector, and you know it. He loved Marjorie Evanson. No one else. I believe he liked me, as I liked him. That was as far as it went.”

  Caught in trying to be kind, Inspector Herbert was flustered. He set the list aside and turned to look out at the reflection of London’s lights against the low clouds that had been rolling in for the past hour or so. When he turned back, he was himself again.

  “Miss Crawford, just what is it you want?”

  “I want to tell you a story. You owe it to me to listen—I gave you considerable help in closing this inquiry.”

  “I don’t have time—”

  “I shan’t be long.” I wasn’t overawed by Scotland Yard. As a nurse I’d learned to deal with patients, their families, Matron—who could be far more intimidating than Inspector Herbert—impatient doctors, and officers of every rank. Still, I would need to be brief, on the mark, or I’d lose this one chance.

  “For one thing, I spoke to Captain Melton in France. He’s in hospital there—or was, before I left. He admitted to being in the railway station with Mrs. Evanson, but wouldn’t admit that he was her lover. I’d thought he was. And for a time, so did you. In fact, you had decided not to pursue questioning him, as his statement was irrelevant to Mrs. Evanson’s murder. His alibi was the train to Portsmouth.”

  He was wary now. “And that’s it?”

  “He was very smug during our conversation. He finally told me that he had not left the train before Portsmouth. I realized later he could have telephoned someone before boarding his ship. Remember, I couldn’t understand why he left her there, without even seeing that she had a cup of tea in the canteen or someone to take her home. Why he was so distant.”

  “Very callous of him, I agree. But get to the point, if you please.”

  “That is my point. If he wasn’t the child’s father, why was he there that day? Because Melton knew the man who actually was her lover. And he had been sent there to deal with Marjorie, if he could. Somehow I wasn’t surprised—Raymond Melton was hardly the sort of man to attract someone like Marjorie Evanson. What’s more, I also realized he was too much like her father.”

  “You’re concluding that we still don’t know the name of her lover. Does it matter?”

  “If you had seduced a married woman and suspected she was carrying your child, how many people would you tell? And if you needed a friend to help by meeting a weeping woman in a very public place, where would you turn?”

  Inspector Herbert hesitated. Then against his will he said, “I doubt I’d have told anyone. I’d have dealt with it myself.”

  I smiled. “Because you’re an honorable man. You wouldn’t have enticed Marjorie Evanson into doing something that was going to ruin her life.” Then I asked, “Do you have a brother, Inspector Herbert? If you dared not be seen in a compromising situation because you were often in London and your face was known because you were at the Admiralty, would you have asked your brother to meet this nuisance of a woman for you? After all, he was passing through on the train and in the short stopover here, he could give her a message for you. And the message was, since the affair had been over for months now, you couldn’t be sure the child she was carrying was yours. And that you were sorry, but there it was.”

  “I don’t have a brother.” He paused, watching me. “But Melton does.”

  “Of course if your brother had agreed to do this for you, you’d want to know—before he sailed for France—whether he’d been successful in putting this distraught woman off. You’d ask him to find a telephone before he took ship.”

  “Miss Crawford, you told me that you’d not come here to stop Hart’s execution.”

  “I haven’t,” I said. “I thought perhaps you’d like to hear what went on after that conversation I witnessed at the railway station. I’ve tried to piece it together from actual facts. It isn’t all my imagination.”

  “Yes, I understand. And it’s just as well to have this matter clo
sed.” He cleared his throat.

  “And there are telephones to be found in Portsmouth, are there not? It would be possible to put in a call. Perhaps only three words: I got nowhere. Then report to your transport in good time and arrive in France in good time.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Of course, allowing for the time to travel from London to Portsmouth—several hours—you’d probably await your brother’s call in London. Not at home. At the Marlborough Hotel, for instance. Or a quieter place where you weren’t readily recognized. There was always the possibility that it would take more than three words. That there was a problem that the brother couldn’t handle in your place.”

  Inspector Herbert said nothing.

  “You would have had to know where to find Marjorie, of course. And your brother would have been instructed—in the event something didn’t go as planned—to ask her to meet you at a time and place where you could deal with the unpleasant situation.” I paused. “‘I’ll have to call Jack when I reach Portsmouth. Meet him at nine o’clock at this park or that small restaurant where neither of you is known, or by the river, where you’d have a little privacy.’ And Marjorie would have walked for a while, to get her emotions under control, then hurried to make sure she wasn’t late at the designated place, just in case it was a trick of some kind. You might say you hadn’t seen her and left, or that you were early and couldn’t wait. Which meant she would have to see Michael afterward, when she knew for certain what she wanted to tell him. She would have met you and walked a little way with you, along the river, talking about what was to be done. She wouldn’t have been afraid. And so you could have stabbed her at any time. It was raining, there weren’t many people strolling by the river on such a night, and you’d take your chance when it was offered, whatever you had to promise in the meantime. It was too dark to see if she was dead, so for good measure you shoved her into the river. To drown.”

  “A very neat reconstruction, Miss Crawford. I doubt that it’s more than that.”

  “Yes, well, Jack Melton had a better reason for murdering Marjorie than Michael Hart had. What’s more, he gave himself away when I spoke to him outside the Marlborough Hotel weeks ago. I told you about that encounter, because I’d lost my temper and confessed to him I’d seen the man with Marjorie at the railway station. He lost his temper as well, accused me of blackmail and then told me that Michael Hart had been in London the night she was killed. If Jack Melton was spending a quiet evening at home, how would he know that? No one did. Except for the physician who treated Michael, and possibly Marjorie Evanson, if she knew about his eye. She might well have told Jack Melton what she was planning to do, a threat to hold over him, to make him keep his promise. She’d had time to think about it. Four hours at the very least.”

  I’d finished. Before he could reply, I stood up and added, “My reconstruction is as valid as yours, I think. Who knows which is actually right? Probably only Jack Melton and Michael Hart. Although I think Jack’s wife is beginning to wonder. What will happen to her if she works it out as well? Thank you for your time, Inspector. I am sorry that I ever led you to Michael Hart, but that’s water over the dam, I’m afraid.”

  As I reached the door, he said to me, “We would have found him in time.”

  “Or would you have interviewed Raymond Melton, as I did, and seen that brief flicker of satisfaction when he told me he never left the train before Portsmouth? Of course he never left it. He needn’t have. Good-bye.”

  And I closed the door before he could say anything else.

  A constable was waiting to escort me to the street, and I stepped out into the night air, feeling it cool and fresh on my face, and found myself thinking that Michael would see the light of day for the last time when he went to the gallows.

  One more day gone.

  But not quite.

  I went to see Helen Calder. To my surprise, she was at home. But I was informed that she wasn’t receiving visitors.

  “Tell her that it’s Bess Crawford. Ask her if she’ll see me for just a few minutes.”

  And she did.

  I was taken back to the sitting room, which had been transformed with a bed and chair and the other accoutrements of a sickroom.

  Mrs. Calder was already in bed, her hair brushed and hanging to her shoulders, wearing a very becoming nightgown in a pale lavender covered by a darker lavender shawl.

  “Miss Crawford,” she said, and I could hear the wariness in her voice.

  “I haven’t come to worry you,” I told her straightaway. “I’m here to ask how you are. I haven’t been back in England for very long or I’d have come sooner. Are you recovering on schedule?” For she seemed pale, her hands restless on the coverlet.

  “The doctor says I’m quite recovered, but I don’t feel that I am. I seem so tired, and I don’t have the energy to go anywhere or do anything. This bed should have been taken down days ago, but I still find it difficult to climb the stairs.” There was the underlying complaining note of the invalid beneath the words.

  “You look so well,” I said, asking silent forgiveness for the lie. “I was hoping for good news.”

  “I haven’t slept well in some time. Not since—not for some time.”

  I understood. Not since her words had sent Michael Hart to trial. I said, “Never mind, that will come in time. You’ve been very ill, you know. It isn’t surprising that you still feel a little uncomfortable.”

  “It isn’t pain. I mean to say, I don’t hurt. I’m just dreadfully tired.”

  And that was depression. Her feeling of guilt a burden she didn’t recognize.

  “Do you want to talk about Michael?” I asked gently. “Perhaps you’ll feel better afterward.”

  She began to cry. “I can’t help it. He was coming to see me—I expected him—and his was the name I spoke when that policeman found me in the garden.”

  “You told the truth, you know. As far as you remembered it. There’s no guilt in that.”

  “But he’s to hang, and how am I ever to forget that it was my words that sealed his fate? What if I haven’t remembered it properly, what if it’s confused because of my injuries, and I only remember next month or next year? When it’s too late?”

  “He condemned himself.”

  “He did it for Marjorie’s sake, I’ve no doubt of that. He would do. When things appeared to be so hopeless anyway, he could at least spare her.” She found a fresh handkerchief, but the tears hadn’t stopped. “I find it so hard to believe that he could have killed her. Not when he loved her so. If he were that sort of person, he’d have killed her before she could marry Meriwether. I lay awake trying to see the face of the person who attacked me. I try and try, and nothing comes. What am I to do when—after—Michael is dead, and I see that face clearly? And know beyond a shadow of any doubt that it wasn’t him?”

  I felt pity for her. Her life would never be the same, through no fault of her own. And she was right, she would be forever haunted, whether the face came clearly to her or not. There would always be that uncertainty, and that burden of guilt.

  I said, to change the subject, “Were they able to bring your husband home from France?”

  “Oh, yes, he came. I was so grateful, I felt so safe when he was with me. But he had to go back, once I was out of danger. Compassionate leave, they called it. He was so angry, you know. He said if he could find the person who did this, he’d kill the man with his bare hands. And I think he would have done. I never told him about saying Michael’s name over and over again. Then he was gone and it was too late.”

  “It was the only thing you could do.” I hesitated. “Tell me, did you ever see Marjorie with someone named Jack Melton? Or hear her mention him?”

  “I know him, of course I do. He’s Serena’s husband. He was at the wedding.”

  “But afterward. More recently, perhaps. Did Marjorie tell you that she’d run into him by chance?”

  “I don’t think so.” She frowned, trying to remember. “But
she probably wouldn’t have. He’s in London from time to time. He’s taken me to lunch once or twice, and I’m sure he’s taken Marjorie as well. You know how it is, London is so full of strangers these days. One walks down the street and feels as if one is in a foreign city. When one encounters a familiar face, it’s almost a relief.”

  I tried to think of another way to bring up Jack Melton, without giving her more reasons for feeling terrible about Michael’s fate. But then I remembered Victoria, and switched the subject again. “Did Victoria come often to London to see Marjorie?”

  “Oh, never. She was at the engagement party of course, and the wedding. That’s about the only time I remember seeing her at Marjorie’s house. And she never came here. She knew how I felt about her, the way she’d treated her mother.”

  “I’m told she did come to London often, for several months in a row. And then she stopped coming. The Harts wondered if she was spying on Marjorie.”

  “Spying on her? I can’t imagine why. Well, Marjorie did say that she had run into her while looking for a wedding present for a friend. That was in May, I think. But that was it, Marjorie was in a hurry and got out of the encounter as quickly as possible. She said Victoria wanted to know how Meriwether was, and seemed inclined to talk. But Marjorie wasn’t in the mood.”

  And had Victoria’s curiosity been tweaked, and had she followed her sister to see where she was in such a hurry to go?

  I wouldn’t put it past her.

  “What is it that makes Victoria carry such a grudge? Was it just Michael? She seemed to have everything else she wanted—the house, Marjorie settled, out of sight and mind in London. What else was there to take away?”

  “It’s the will. Not many people know. The Garrison house was left to Victoria, of course, but the estate was divided fairly evenly. Much to Victoria’s chagrin, let me tell you! There was a scene in the solicitor’s office. I’d gone with Marjorie as moral support, and I was very glad I had, although it was a dreadful time, I must say! And on top of that was the way the trust was constructed. I don’t understand all of it, but from what I gathered—what Marjorie gathered from the actual reading and told me—was distinctly odd. Neither daughter inherits anything outright.”