by Charles Todd
I tried a smile, to see if it would help. "Not so much meddling as trying to understand why the police haven't made more progress. Or if they have, why they've kept it quiet. Most of us live in London peacefully. We aren't murdered in our beds or on the streets, and tossed into the river."
"I should hope not," my mother said, not losing a stitch. "Your father has gone to great lengths to enlist Mrs. Hennessey in his campaign to see you safe."
I had to laugh. Still, I answered her, "I can take care of myself."
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I had a flash of memory, of the German pilot firing his machine gun and the bullets tearing up the earth toward me.
"I'm quite sure Marjorie Evanson felt exactly the same," she reminded me.
"Yes," I began, ready to argue the point, then thought better of it. "The truth is, I have a photograph of her." I went on to explain how I had come into possession of it. "I'm not sure-given the circumstances-that Marjorie Evanson's family will want it any more than Serena Melton did. I thought perhaps I should find out before I sent it."
"And quite right," my mother nodded. "Tell me more about this man you saw at the station. Why do you think he's never come forward?"
"I have no way of knowing whether he has or not. I rather think not. But something happened recently that made me believe the police are looking in the wrong direction."
"Perhaps he has a good reason for not contacting the police. That's to say, if he knows they're looking for him. Either he's married, or he's in a position that would make an affair with a married woman bad for his reputation."
Depend on my mother to reach the heart of the matter.
"It doesn't speak well for him, I agree."
"Are the police quite sure he had nothing to do with Mrs. Evanson's death?" She turned the heel of the stocking she was knitting. Then she looked up at me.
"They felt it was possible, but not likely. I don't see how he could have managed it. Once they find him, they'll know whether he met his ship on time or not."
"Has it occurred to you, my dear, that if you're the only person who can identify this man, it might put you in some danger? Especially if he killed Mrs. Evanson. And even if he didn't."
"I don't think it's very likely that he even knows I exist."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that. If you saw him, how can you be so certain he didn't see you standing there staring at the two of them?"
"He didn't look my way. He was staring straight ahead."
"But you were looking at Mrs. Evanson."
A point well taken.
I said, "All the more reason to rid myself of this photograph as soon as may be. And put the Evansons out of my mind."
But I wasn't sure I could do that. And so I added, to ease some of the worry I could read in my mother's eyes, "He could be dead, of course. For all we know."
"Don't make excuses for him. And Scotland Yard can find him without your help."
"The thing is, they have no name, no photograph, only my description." I sighed. "It's been long enough now. I have a feeling Mrs. Evanson's murder will never be solved. And I find that abominable. He was my patient-her husband-and that makes it personal."
"Yes, you always did have an extraordinary sense of fair play. For better or for worse. Well, perhaps it would be wisest if I helped you, and made certain you don't come to grief."
She sat there, staring into space, thinking. I said nothing, almost afraid that if I spoke, she might change her mind.
Finally she said, "Do you remember Dorothea Mitchell?"
"She was a school chum of yours."
"We've kept in touch all these years, and I've met her in London a time or two for lunch. I'll have a word with her."
I was reminded of what my father had said in his second point about my mother, that she won and kept friends easily.
And so it was that Dorothea Mitchell-now Dorothea Worth-was engaged to find someone in her own vast acquaintance who could provide an introduction into Little Sefton for me. It didn't take her very long.
Mrs. Worth knew someone in Gloucester who had a friend in St. Albans whose younger sister happened to live in Little Sefton, Hampshire.
It was that simple.
Armed with a letter from my mother, I drove myself to Little Sefton-a good four-hour journey-and presented myself at the door of one Alicia Dalton.
I'd expected someone of my mother's age, but the woman who answered my knock was only about ten years older than I was. She was fair, with blue eyes, and her smile was warm.
"Miss Crawford? How nice to meet you. Do come in."
The house was stone, with lovely windows and colorful flower beds that ran down the short drive to the gates. Inside it was cool, with high ceilings and paneling in the hall, stairs running up to one side and a passage to other rooms on the left.
"I've been looking forward to your visit ever since my sister wrote to me. She didn't tell me why you were so interested in Little Sefton, but I was delighted to have your company even if only for a short while. My husband just went back to France, and I've been fighting tears and melancholy for two days."
"I'm interested in Marjorie Evanson," I told her truthfully. "I knew her husband-he was one of my patients after his last crash-and her death has been on my mind as well as his. I thought perhaps it would help if I came here and tried to put the past to rest."
That wasn't the whole truth. But it would do as a start.
"I knew Marjorie, of course. Not well-she was a rather private person, even as a child. But do come in, you'll want to settle yourself in your room, and then we can sit in the garden and talk." As she led the way upstairs, she said over her shoulder, "You're in luck, actually. We're having a garden party to raise money for children whose fathers have been killed. I'll take you around and introduce you to people."
She chattered all the way to my room, which was down the passage to the left, and when she opened the door, I smiled.
The room was large and airy, with windows looking out across the gardens toward the church that stood on a slight rise to the north, the rooftops of cottages clustered around it. The coverlet on the bed was a soft yellow, with flowers embroidered in a circle in the center, and the window curtains were cream with pale green ties.
"How lovely!" I said.
"I'm glad you like it. It's Gareth's sister's room. She's in London awaiting the birth of her first child. It's a nervous time, and she wanted to be near her doctors. I'll leave you to freshen up. Come down the stairs, go to the second door on your left, and I'll have tea waiting."
I thanked her, changed out of my traveling clothes and into a dress that was more comfortable in the afternoon heat, then went down to find Alicia.
She was in a small room with delicate French furnishings, a very feminine room with walls painted a soft rose and trimmed in cream.
We were soon on first-name terms, and I discovered that she was a fund of information about Marjorie.
"She has a sister, you know. Victoria. Marjorie was always in her shadow, a quiet girl who never fussed about anything, tried hard to please, and was never in trouble of any kind."
"Marjorie is younger than Victoria?"
"Oh, no, Victoria was several years younger, but you'd never guess it, really. She was domineering from childhood, always wanting her own way, always making certain that no one forgot her. I thought her quite bossy, and said as much to Marjorie one day when we were twelve. She gave me her quiet little smile, and said, 'Yes, it's simpler to give in than to fight. There's peace at home when Victoria is happy.' I told her that was arrant foolishness, that Victoria needed to learn her manners and her place. But her father doted on her, you see-Victoria, I mean-and he thought her behavior was a mark of strong character. In truth, she was quite spoiled."
"And Marjorie always let her have her way?"
"At least while she was living at home. But when Marjorie went away to school, and then to live with her aunt in London, on her next visit here she surpri
sed us all by telling Victoria she was a bully. Publicly."
I laughed. "And what did Victoria have to say about that?"
"She left in a huff, vowing never to darken the door of any house where Marjorie might be invited. But it must have given her pause, because Marjorie and she were on better terms for a time."
"Does this aunt still live in London?"
"She died just after Marjorie and Meriwether were married. There's a distant cousin, Helen Calder, but no other family that I know of."
I found myself wondering how Serena Melton, Lieutenant Evanson's sister, and Victoria, Marjorie's sister, had got on. Like oil and water, very likely. They were both strong-willed women.
"Did the family approve of Marjorie's marriage to Meriwether Evanson?"
Alicia refilled my cup as she answered.
"It was a very good match. I think Mr. Garrison was pleased. Victoria wasn't. All the same, she was soon enjoying being the only child in the bosom of her family, and until her father's death, she showed no interest in leaving home. The Garrison house was left to her."
"Did you know Lieutenant Evanson well?"
"I stayed with Marjorie and Meriwether in London for two weeks in the autumn of 1915. I'd seen Gareth off to the France and I needed cheering up."
"How did they get on?"
"It was a love match, you know. They were quite happy. I think Marjorie had hoped that she might have a child before very long, but it never happened. Probably for the best, with both parents dead now."
It was a very practical point of view. But I thought perhaps Alicia was convincing herself that it was just as well she had no children yet.
If Victoria and Marjorie hadn't got on, I'd probably come here on a wild-goose chase. Still, sudden death could change attitudes, smooth over rifts.
As if she'd read my thoughts, Alicia said, "I couldn't believe it when I heard that Marjorie was murdered. I've never known anyone who was murdered. It was rather frightening. I couldn't help but wonder how it had happened. I mean, no one walks up to you and says, 'Hallo, I've just decided to kill you.' It's hard to comprehend." She shivered.
I said, "I expect there must have been a reason. Love. Hate. Fear. Greed. Passion. Some strong emotion that got out of hand."
"They did say that her purse was missing. It doesn't bear thinking of-killed for a few pounds. And then Meriwether dying so soon afterward. I saw Serena Melton at her brother's funeral, and she was in such distress. I heard her say to the rector, 'It's not fair, you know, for me to lose Merry on her account.' Meaning Marjorie. I thought it was a terrible thing to say. But they were close, Serena and her brother. I remember Marjorie telling me once that their parents had died at a very young age, and the two of them had depended on each other for support. Their guardian was not particularly good at dealing with distraught children, and left them to their own devices. A roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, food on their table and he felt his duty was more than satisfactorily done."
It explained Serena's feelings for her brother. Serena and Meriwether had been thrown together in a time of grief, when there was quite simply no one else to comfort them. It was a powerful tie.
I also understood why Marjorie might not have turned to her own sister, in her distress. Then where had she gone?
"What about Marjorie's mother? How did she feel about her daughters?"
"She's dead." Alicia's answer was short.
Marjorie had been utterly alone. No wonder she had been crying as if her heart were broken.
If anyone had a reason for suicide, she did. And yet she'd been murdered.
The garden party the next day was held at the rectory, and according to Alicia, it was a pale shadow of former days, when food was plentiful and two-thirds of the male population wasn't away fighting a war.
The food was makeshift, the women were in black rather than the usual array of summer dresses bought or made for the occasion, with matching hats to protect one's complexion. And except for the rector, the men were in uniform.
Little Sefton was small enough for everyone to know everyone, and I was one of the handful of outsiders in their midst. Alicia and I walked across the green lawn to the booths set out on the grass, their poles decorated with loops of flowers and bows of ribbons and bright fabrics. People nodded to us as we passed, and children ran about playing, chased by excited dogs.
Alicia was saying, "Let me present you to Rector Stevens. He's a lovely man. Do you play chess, by any chance? He quite fancies himself as the best player in Hampshire."
Not wanting to spend my afternoon in a chess match, I hemmed and hummed a bit, and Alicia said, "Well, never mind. One of the wounded is sure to oblige him."
I had seen far too many of those, walking with canes, arms in slings, or even being wheeled in invalid chairs.
She began to point out people to me. "That woman in puce. She was housemaid to Marjorie's mother. She puts up the best pickle relish in the county. Over there, the one with red hair-she was a friend of Marjorie's mother-" The list went on, and then Alicia stopped.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Victoria is here. I'd never have guessed it. I owe the rector's wife a dozen brown eggs."
"You had a wager on whether or not she was coming?"
"Oh, yes. I was nearly certain that with everyone discussing poor Marjorie's death, she wouldn't wish to be here."
I looked at Marjorie's sister. She was about my height, with fair hair and hazel eyes. But her mouth, unlike Marjorie's more generous one, was thin lipped, and I found myself thinking that I shouldn't like to cross her.
A family resemblance was there all the same, especially around the eyes, but I wouldn't have picked Victoria out on my own as Marjorie's sister.
Victoria turned away as we came nearer, and the rector was engaged with an older man who was speaking earnestly to him.
Alicia said, "That's Mr. Hart. A gentleman farmer. He owns the largest farm in Little Sefton. He's kind enough to send his workmen around to help with things like repairing chimneys or patching roofs or heavy lifting. It's a blessing, with Gareth in France." She turned away, to allow the two men a little privacy. "And that handsome devil sitting in the white elephant booth-the one with his arm in bandages-has been breaking hearts since he arrived a few weeks ago. He's staying with the Harts. Their nephew."
I could see the man she spoke of. An officer in the Wiltshire regiment, tall, very fair, a deep voice and a laugh that began in his chest and a smile that was devastatingly sweet. But with a roving eye as well. I watched him try his charm on a girl of perhaps fourteen, who blushed to the roots of her hair, then he switched his attention to her mother, but she must have been used to it. I heard her say, "Oh, behave yourself, Michael. One would think you were the Prince of Wales, the way you carry on."
He laughed and leaned across the booth's counter to kiss her cheek. "Dear Mrs. Lucas, if I ever marry anyone, it will be you."
She nodded. "Yes, and what shall I tell Henry when we elope?"
Henry must have been her husband, because Michael dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level and asked, "Must we tell him?" He looked around. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen him today. His back, again?"
"Sadly, yes. He's gone to see a doctor in Salisbury."
She moved on and he turned our way. "Ah, a new blossom in our garden," he exclaimed, seeing me. "And who is this, pray?" he asked Alicia.
Alicia took me across to the booth, presenting me. "Bess Crawford, this is Michael Hart. He's not to be trusted."
He bowed over my hand and welcomed me to the fete.
Close to, I could see the lines of strain around his mouth and the shadows in those wonderfully blue eyes.
"How is your shoulder?" I asked.
"Never better." But it was a lie. "I'll be returning to the Front by September, they tell me."
"How many surgeries have you had?"
"Enough for a lifetime," he replied tersely, and then laughed to cover his lapse.
&nbs
p; Alicia left me there while she spoke to an elderly woman leaning heavily on a cane.
Michael Hart said, "Do you need a white elephant?" He was pointing to one-literally-made of porcelain. It was quite charming, and so I bought it, and he wrapped it carefully before handing it to me. I paid him and was about to turn away when he caught my hand in his good one, and said in a low voice, "No, don't go."
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Victoria bearing down on us, and I stayed for the opportunity to meet her. But when she realized that I had no intention of leaving, even after my purchase was completed, she veered away.
"Do you know her?" I asked, interested to hear what he had to say.
"I knew her sister," he said in that same terse manner.
Marjorie.
He was beckoning to a woman just coming up the grassy avenue. "Mrs. Hampton, would you mind the booth for a bit?"
She came over to him and said at once, "Do go and sit down, Michael. You must be in terrible pain. I thought someone was to assist you?"
"No one came," he told her. "I'll be back in half an hour."
"Take as long as you like." She noticed the little box stuffed with coins and said, "I see you've done quite well. I told the rector's wife you were the perfect one to sell our little treasures."
Once more I began to turn away, but Michael took my arm and said, "Stay with me."
CHAPTER EIGHT
I did as he asked. The debonair officer had vanished, and there was perspiration on Lieutenant Hart's face, a tightness to his mouth. I'd seen this happen with wounded men. Off parade, so to speak, they let down their guard and admitted that they were in pain.
We walked together along a short path that led to the side door of the rectory. He reached for it out of habit, but I was there first and held it for him. Inside it was cool and dim, and I realized we were in a small plant room, where secateurs and trowels, baskets and pots lined the shelves on either side. Below were vases of all kinds. A dry sink where plants could be repotted or divided held a vase of wilting blossoms. Here flower arrangements were made up or cuttings were prepared for setting out.
My escort led the way through the second door and into a wider passage, then up a short flight of steps to a book-lined room that was clearly the rector's study.