by Charles Todd
Mrs. Hennessey was opening her door, her hair in a long gray plait down her back and a cast-iron frying pan in one hand, shouting, “I’ll have the police on the lot of you for breaking into my house—” And then her voice quavered to a stop.
She saw me standing there barefoot and in my nightgown, that wicked knife still gripped tightly in my hand, and then her gaze moved on to Simon, breathing hard by the door and examining bruised knuckles. I couldn’t think when I’d seen him so angry. She stopped at the sight of Jack Melton, still slumped where he’d fallen, showing no signs of regaining his senses.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Hennessey,” I said quickly, trying to reassure her. “That man by the stairs broke into my flat. Simon stopped him before he could do any harm.”
“Men aren’t allowed upstairs,” she said primly, and I felt a rising bubble of nervous laughter—the reaction to what had just happened—and I quickly suppressed it.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hennessey,” I began. “I didn’t want him there, I assure you. He’s killed at least one person, and injured another rather badly. If you’ll hand me a coat or something, I’ll see if I can find a constable.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she told me. “Go upstairs at once and dress, you can’t be seen down here like that. I’ll find the constable.”
At a look from Simon, I did as I was told. It didn’t bother me going up those dark stairs to dress, knowing that Simon was there by the outer door and Jack Melton was beyond harming anyone for the moment. But I wondered how I was going to feel later, when the dark at the top of the stairs, once friendly and safe, loomed ahead of me and I couldn’t see what was in the shadows.
I dressed in record time, still buttoning my sleeves as I hurried down the steps again.
Simon had found some rope somewhere, probably from Mrs. Hennessey’s flat, and had tied Jack Melton’s wrists. He was busy now with the man’s ankles, and none too gently.
I said to Simon after a glance at Jack Melton, “What were you doing upstairs? You know it’s not permitted.”
“I told you, I didn’t like the idea of your staying in London. I left the motorcar round the corner and came back. Mrs. Hennessey was nowhere to be seen. So I waited in that dark corner you yourself were going to use. But we won’t tell her that, if you please. I was down here in the entry.”
Jack Melton was just beginning to stir, shaking his head to clear it, then coming to the conclusion that his hands were bound. He tried to stand up, saw his ankles were tied as well, and slumped back against the stairs. Raising his head, he glared at me. I was reminded then of his brother, any charm erased by cold anger.
“You were in my way at every turn,” he said through clenched teeth. I thought his jaw must ache—I hoped it did. Simon had hit him very hard.
The outer door opened, and Mrs. Hennessey was back with Constable Vernon, a burly man with a square face and large hands. I’d seen him often on the street, and he’d nodded in passing. He came into the hall now and looked to Simon for an explanation.
Simon introduced himself, pointed to me, and said, “This man tried to kill the young woman you see there. The knife he was carrying is there on the table. Mrs. Hennessey can swear that Sister Crawford is one of her lodgers. And I’m here in place of her father, Colonel Crawford, who is presently in Somerset.”
“That’s true,” Mrs. Hennessey said, nodding. “I know her family.”
“If you’ll go upstairs to my flat, you’ll see how he broke in. I was lucky to escape.” I shivered in spite of myself. “Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard knows this man,” I ended, pointing to Jack Melton. “He’ll confirm everything we’ve said.”
The constable nodded. “You can be sure we’ll notify him.”
No one had said anything about Michael Hart. But I was beginning to think we could at least hope. I felt almost giddy with relief.
After inspecting both locks, the constable took Jack Melton into custody, and the rest of us accompanied him to the nearest station where I told a sergeant my story, supported by Mrs. Hennessey and Simon. I realized that Mrs. Hennessey was the one they listened to most intently, their impartial witness. Little did they know.
Jack Melton said nothing, his head down, his shoulders stiff with suppressed anger, refusing to give his name.
Simon quietly supplied it, trying to keep me in the background. Then he added, “I suggest you send for Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard. He may have an interest in this man.”
“That will take some time,” the sergeant on night duty said, looking from Jack Melton back to Simon. He was a middle-aged man, face lined and hair graying.
“It doesn’t matter,” Simon answered him. “Just see to Mr. Melton, and we’ll be happy to wait.”
The sergeant turned to me. “Were you harmed, Miss? You say he came into your flat. Did he hurt you?”
“The flat was dark. I didn’t even know who was there—a man, a woman—but I saw the flash of what I thought was a knife. And so I ran, slamming the door while he was in one of the other bedrooms looking for me. He followed me but I was hidden, and I threw my hairbrush down the stairs so he’d think I’d gone that way.”
“Why did you believe you’d seen a knife?’
“I was afraid, I was alone in the flat, Mrs. Hennessey was on the ground floor, asleep. And I happened to know Helen Calder, who had nearly died from stab wounds after she was attacked. I didn’t want to be a victim too.”
He considered me for a moment. Then he summoned a constable and gave him quiet instructions. The man left, and we sat there on the hard wooden benches, waiting. There was a large-faced clock high on the wall. I watched the hands creep through the minutes, and then an hour. Simon got up and paced, Mrs. Hennessey nodded where she was, her head sinking to her chest, her breathing heavy. I tried to keep myself from yawning, partly from reaction, and partly from sheer fatigue. Another hour passed, and I realized as I gazed across the room to where Jack Melton sat on one of the benches along the far wall that his anger had faded, and he was busy thinking, a harshness in his face that made me look away.
He must have followed Michael Hart’s case. He must have known who Inspector Herbert was. He must have realized that he was in an almost untenable position. But he was a very intelligent man, and he was slowly coming to the conclusion that he would be able to talk his way out of this.
The question was, what would he say? And I thought I knew. He would claim that I had invited him to the flat—lured him there—in some foolish, desperate attempt to clear Michael’s name. Everyone knew how hard I’d fought for Michael. And he could swear Simon was a part of the plot.
His head came up and his eyes met mine. I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. I saw the slight smile, as if he’d already won.
We were into the third hour now, and suddenly the outer doors opened and Inspector Herbert walked in, followed by two other men. He nodded to the desk sergeant, glanced at Jack Melton, then turned to me.
“Miss Crawford,” he said.
I realized that he looked very tired. There were circles under his eyes, and lines about his mouth that hadn’t been there before.
I got to my feet. “Inspector.”
Turning to the sergeant, he said, “Is there a room where I could speak to Miss Crawford in private?”
“Just there, sir, second door. Inspector Knoles’s office.”
Inspector Herbert nodded, then waited for me to join him. Simon, who had been sitting next to Mrs. Hennessey, moved to follow us, but Inspector Herbert shook his head.
After the briefest hesitation, Simon sat down again. But I could tell he didn’t like it.
I followed Inspector Herbert to the door of the office, and he held it for me, then shut it behind me.
“You’ve been busy,” he said. “And stubborn.”
“I had to be sure you were hanging the right man.”
His smile was a grimace. “Why are you here with Jack Melton? It appears that he and Sergeant-Major Brandon have bru
ises on their faces and hands. Tell me why.”
I explained what had happened. “I sent for you,” I ended, “because you knew what it was I feared, and why. Otherwise what happened tonight seems inexplicable. But Jack Melton was in my flat, and he was armed, and I was there alone. I could have been badly hurt, like Helen Calder, or killed, like Marjorie Evanson. Tell me why this man was in my flat? I can’t think of any reason except the fact that I knew too much about what he’d done. I didn’t invite him there—Mrs. Hennessey can tell you I was in my nightgown when she came out of her flat to find Simon Brandon trying to stop Jack Melton from escaping.”
He had listened patiently, his eyes on my face.
“I was out concluding a case when you came to Scotland Yard tonight. I returned to find your message. I went to Little Sefton, to have a look at that revolver while I could. When did you see Miss Garrison?”
I explained about my visit yesterday—was it yesterday?—and speaking to the Harts before going to see Victoria. I touched on her threat.
“And you tell me she was alive and well when you left her?”
“Yes, of course. Sergeant-Major Brandon can confirm that. And the Harts, indirectly.” I felt the first surge of unease. “Why?”
“When I arrived in Little Sefton, I found the local constable, a man named Tilmer, in Miss Garrison’s house. The sound of a shot had been reported to him, and he was investigating it when he discovered her lying on the floor of her sitting room. There was a revolver by her hand, and on the desk, a sheet of paper and an uncapped pen. It appeared she was preparing to write a note, then stopped.”
“Victoria—Miss Garrison—is dead?” I hadn’t liked her. She’d been destructive and cold and willing to inflict hurt. But her death shocked me. “But I don’t understand—” I couldn’t imagine her taking her own life. There was too much hate in her. People killed themselves for all sorts of reasons, but not for hate.
“A Mrs. Whiting reported that a motorcar stopped in front of her house. Her dog barked, and she looked out. The car stayed there for half an hour, then left. She didn’t know the motorcar, she didn’t know where the driver went. But the shot was heard before the motorcar drove away. Any thoughts on that?”
“I don’t believe I’ve met Mrs. Whiting, but I must have heard her dog bark when I was walking by in the mist. There aren’t that many motorcars in Little Sefton. She’d know most of them.”
“Do you think that Miss Garrison was killed by Melton?”
“It’s possible. I think he was afraid her anger would lead her to say things she shouldn’t. He wants Michael to hang, you see. And the case closed.”
“But there’s nothing to indicate it wasn’t suicide.”
I shook my head. “She wouldn’t. I just know—”
“Hardly evidence to present in a courtroom.”
“I don’t know how Jack Melton got to my flat. There must be a motorcar somewhere.”
He looked at me and then excused himself, leaving me there in the cluttered little office. And then he was back, asking me again to go over what had happened in the flat. I told my story a second time.
Inspector Herbert thanked me, accompanied me to the reception area, and then asked for Mrs. Hennessey. For a moment she looked a little confused and frightened, then her back straightened and she marched ahead of him like a Christian on her way to meet the lions.
I didn’t look at or speak to Simon. After ten minutes, Mrs. Hennessey came back, chatting comfortably with Inspector Herbert about “her girls,” and he thanked her for her assistance.
Simon was the last to be taken away, and he was gone for a very long time. Jack Melton, restless and impatient, his hands no longer tied, took out his watch three times. And then Simon was back, his face inscrutable.
Finally it was Jack Melton’s turn.
I watched dawn creeping in the station windows, the lamps paling before the sun’s growing brightness. The dingy paint and the wooden benches seemed shabbier than before, the floorboards scuffed and worn. There was no money, no paint, no men to wield brushes, and all of us had realized slowly but surely that the cost of war was reflected in many small ways no one had ever imagined in the autumn of 1914 when it had all begun.
Inspector Herbert returned, nodded to Simon and Mrs. Hennessey, and then said to me, “Mr. Melton is for the moment helping us with our inquiries. I see no reason for you to stay any longer. You must be very tired.”
“I’d like to know,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “what’s to come of this matter. Whether Mr. Melton will be released—whether I will be in danger again.”
He said wearily, “It’s been a long night, Miss Crawford. But I think it is safe to say that you have little to fear from Mr. Melton in the future.”
“You’ll compare that knife with the wounds Mrs. Evanson and Mrs. Calder suffered?”
“I think I know how to handle this inquiry.”
“Do you—did he kill Victoria? I’m leaving for France—please, won’t you tell me?”
“I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” he said. “My advice to you is to go home and go to bed, and leave this matter in our hands.”
I stood there, trying to find the words to ask him if this would have any bearing on Michael Hart’s case.
But he turned away, shook hands with Simon, thanked Mrs. Hennessey again, and walked back to the door of the small room where he’d interviewed us, shutting it firmly behind him. Was Jack still there, waiting? Or had they taken him away, out another door, where we couldn’t see?
I looked at Simon, but he shook his head, and I followed Mrs. Hennessey out the door toward Simon’s motorcar.
We drove in silence back to the house, and then Mrs. Hennessey said, “I don’t know when I’ve been so tired. Bess, dear, do you think you could make a cup of tea for all of us? It would help me rest.”
I wanted nothing more than my own bed, but we went into her small flat and I made tea while Simon found bread, sliced and buttered it, and added a small bottle of preserves to the tray. Mrs. Hennessey, her face lined with weariness, sat and watched us. I wondered if she was afraid, just now, to be alone, in spite of the daylight sifting through her lace curtains.
Pretending to eat, I managed to swallow a little of the bread with a bit of marmalade preserve perched on one corner, and I drank my tea. Surprisingly, it did make me feel much better.
Mrs. Hennessey wanted to know why that man, as she called Jack Melton, should wish to break into her house and attempt to murder one of her nursing sisters.
Simon said circumspectly, “It has to do with one of Bess’s patients. I shouldn’t worry about it. Melton is likely to find himself in far more trouble than he expected.”
“But you were here, I didn’t understand how you could have been here. I have quite strict rules, you see.”
Simon’s glance met mine. “I followed him into the house.”
That made perfect sense to her. She nodded, and addressed her food with an appetite, finishing her tea, then turning to Simon once more, asking him if he should care to rest on her settee before going back to Somerset.
He promised her again that all would be well, and I washed up, tucked Mrs. Hennessey into her bed, and shut the door behind me when I had finished.
Simon was waiting on the stairs, sitting there as I’d seen him sit so many times in India, able to sleep without lying down or losing touch with his surroundings. I myself had learned to do much the same in the field, catching what little rest I could when I could.
He looked up as I shut the door of Mrs. Hennessey’s flat.
“I asked him what this would mean for Michael Hart’s situation. He said that at the moment he could see no connection.”
I didn’t need to ask who Simon meant. Inspector Herbert. “Did he tell you that Victoria had shot herself? I don’t believe it for an instant! Oddly enough, I’d warned her about Jack. And surely there is some way to see if this was the same knife that killed Marjorie. It’s out of the ordi
nary, he had a collection of American weapons. The postmortem—”
“Perhaps it would be wise to see that Mr. Forbes is told that Melton is in custody and why.”
“He wasn’t interested before,” I said.
“Because it was only your word, without proof or the sanction of an arrest. Try again.”
That made sense even to my tired mind.
“I’ll write it now,” I said, pushing away any thought of my pillow. “And I’ll deliver it personally.”
“No. Let me deliver it. His clerk won’t turn me away.”
“And then, Simon, I want to go home.”
I heard the plaintive note in my voice, in spite of every effort to suppress it.
“Give me four hours. Then we’ll see to the letter before leaving London,” he promised.
I looked over my shoulder. “If he’s released—if he can talk his way out of this night’s work—will Mrs. Hennessey be safe? I have a feeling he’s cleaning house.”
“She’s not important to him. You are. That’s why it’s best for you to leave London and let Inspector Herbert sort this out.”
I went up the stairs, righted the chair that I’d left overturned, braced my door, and sat down at the table that served as a writing desk.
Two tries and a lot of thought later, I’d finished what I felt was a fair representation of the night’s events.
By that time it was half past nine. I got myself together, went lightly down the stairs so as not to rouse Mrs. Hennessey, and went to find a cab. I was lucky on the third try, and I gave the driver Helen Calder’s address.
The maid answered, and I apologized for calling so early but begged to see Mrs. Calder on urgent business.
After a wait of some minutes, I was taken to Helen Calder’s bedroom. She was awake and lying on a chaise longue with a coverlet over her knees. She was dressed, this time, and not in her bed, but her face was still wan, without spirit.
She greeted me warmly, looked again at my face, and said with concern, “Bess, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so weary.”