by Charles Todd
"No one will think to look for us here." He sank into a leather armchair to one side of the desk, and closed his eyes.
I took the one opposite him. After a moment, he opened his eyes and said, "You're a good sport, Sister Crawford. Thank you."
I smiled. "Not at all. Is there anything I can bring you? Water? A pillow?"
"I'm all right."
Which I translated as, Don't fuss.
After a time, as the pain eased, he said, "I didn't know Victoria would be here today. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I owe you some explanation. Victoria's sister was killed some weeks ago. Victoria appears to think I know something about that. She hounds me every time she sees me. I couldn't deal with it today."
"And do you know something?"
He'd closed his eyes again. "I don't make a habit of killing women."
Which wasn't precisely an answer to my question.
"You'll hear about it soon enough if you stay in Little Sefton for very long," he went on after a moment, as if he'd made up his mind. "Marjorie Evanson was murdered in London. She was a friend of mine. Her sister is not."
"I didn't know Mrs. Evanson, but I was in charge of the wounded when her husband, Lieutenant Evanson, was brought home with burns."
Those marvelous eyes opened and seemed to spear me. "Were you indeed? A small world. I liked Merry, you know. The first time I met him, I knew he'd be right for Marjorie."
"Alicia told me you were a nephew of the Harts."
"I often stayed with my aunt and uncle on school holidays. My father was in the Army and my parents were half a world away most of the time. That's how I came to know Marjorie. She lived close by. A sweet girl. I liked her immensely. I wasn't in love with her," he added hastily, "but I liked her. We played together as children and sometimes she'd confide in me, and I in her. I think our two families are related somehow-a distant this or that. So we called each other cousin, Marjorie and I. She had no brother, and I had no sister. It was a good relationship."
I believed him. There was the ring of truth in his voice now.
"I read something about her death. Did the police ever discover who had killed her?"
"I don't know that they've made any progress at all. Although I'd had my suspicions that something was wrong."
"Had you?"
"About five or six months ago-you won't say anything to Alicia about this, will you?" I promised and he went on. "About five or six months ago, late winter anyway, her letters changed. They were shorter and not as full of news. Distracted. Unlike her. I put it down to worry about Merry-his squadron had been posted to France. And then the letters were fewer, as if she'd written out of duty when she remembered she owed me one."
"Did you see her after that?"
He sat up as a clock somewhere in the house struck the hour. "I must return to the booth. I don't know what possessed me to agree to man it."
I considered him. Friend or not, cousin or not, Michael Hart was very attractive. But he wasn't the man I'd seen with Marjorie Evanson in London.
I was tempted to ask him if he knew Lieutenant Fordham, but they were in the same regiment, and Simon had told me that the lieutenant's death had been kept out of the newspapers. Instead I asked, "There might have been another man. Had you thought of that?"
His eyes sharpened, and an ugly twist reshaped his mouth. "What do you mean? What have you heard?"
I shrugged. "You suggested there was a change in her. There's usually a reason for it. Perhaps there was something she didn't want to tell you or was afraid you'd read between the lines in her letters."
He got up and swung around the room, as if he were trying to find a way out of it, like an animal pacing his cage at a zoo. "That's nonsense. Besides, it doesn't explain her murder, does it?"
When I said nothing, he went on as much to himself as to me. "I can't drive, and I'm forbidden to take the train. I need to go to London. To talk to her friends. There was a women's group she belonged to, they met every week. I asked my uncle to drive me there, but he has his hands full with the farm just now-everyone is shorthanded, I know that's true, but still-" He took a deep breath. "It's been weeks already."
"What does Victoria have to say? Surely Marjorie confided in her."
"She wouldn't tell me even if she knew the name of Marjorie's killer. She was an insufferable little beast, always prying, always tattling. Neither of us could abide her. Marjorie tried to make peace with her, but confide in her? Never." He considered me. "Have a motorcar here, do you?"
"Yes, I-"
"Excellent. You can drive me to London, if you please. I'll start with the servants. They'll talk to me. I helped her choose most of them when she opened the house."
It was tempting. But I said, "My family lives in Somerset. I'll be going back there, not to London."
"How long have you known Alicia?" he asked shrewdly. "You don't strike me as old friends. I've known Alicia for years, and I've never seen you in Little Sefton before. You said you knew Meriwether. Did his sister send you here? I wouldn't put it past her."
"I told you the truth. I brought Lieutenant Evanson back to England, to Laurel House. He had a photograph of his wife, and it was pinned to his tunic where I could see it every day. He wouldn't let it out of his sight. I couldn't help but see it."
I didn't tell him that it was even now in my valise at Alicia's house. But I found myself adding, "I was told by Matron that Lieutenant Evanson's family didn't want it buried with him."
Under his breath he swore with some feeling. "Serena's doing, very likely. I think she felt as elder sister she ought to have a say in the woman Evanson married. She'd introduced him to several friends of hers, but nothing came of that."
I could hear people talking in the passage. "We should go out to the garden. They'll be looking for you."
"I've lost interest in the blasted white elephant booth."
"It is for a good cause," I reminded him.
"I'd rather give them the money and be done with it."
"That's charity."
Suddenly he chuckled, that same deep rumble that began in his chest before erupting into deep laughter.
"You're an extraordinary woman, Sister Crawford. I think Marjorie would have approved of you." Cradling his shoulder, he added with resignation, "Come along then. But think about it, won't you? Driving to London, I mean."
We walked together out of the rector's study, down the passage, and back to the fete.
As we stepped out into the gardens, Alicia raised her eyebrows at the sight of us together, and on the other side of the palm reader's booth, Victoria was staring.
I could almost read their minds as they wondered how I had so successfully cornered the Prince of Wales.
Behind me, Michael Hart said just loud enough for me to hear him, "Is this where you slap my face and walk away?"
Unable to stop myself, I smiled broadly.
But Michael had already slipped away and left me standing there alone.
The rector stepped into the breach and introduced himself, welcoming me to Little Sefton and asking where I was from. "Somerset," I told him, and then we played the social game of do you know…
We did indeed have a connection in common. It seems that the chaplain of my father's old regiment-now long since retired to grow roses and tomatoes in Derbyshire-had been a friend of the rector's father, and with those bona fides, I was accepted into the bosom of Little Sefton.
The afternoon turned out to be lovely in every sense. I found I was enjoying myself as the rector and Alicia between them presented me to everyone. I took my turn in the white elephant booth, and even sold tickets for the little raffle. Michael was least in sight, and I heard someone, a woman, say, "He's probably gone to have a lie down. He told me that Sister Crawford had advised him to rest and take a little something for his pain."
My back was to the speakers, and so I couldn't see who answered that remark.
"I wonder if she knows that he's altogether too fond of that little
something for the pain." Another woman's voice.
Just as I turned to see who it was, I found myself almost face-to-face with Victoria.
I had wondered if-when-she might speak to me. She had no way of knowing who I was, but seeing me with Michael had for some reason ruffled her feathers.
As if to prove it, her first words were, "Have you known Michael very long?"
"Approximately two hours," I answered with a smile, refusing to be drawn.
"Alicia told me she hadn't realized you were acquainted with him, or she wouldn't have invited you to Little Sefton. She doesn't care to be used in this way."
Alicia had said nothing of the sort. She knew why I was here.
"How odd," I replied. "It was she who introduced us. She did mention that he was considered the exclusive property of someone-Victoria, I believe she was?"
Her face went beet red.
"I'm Victoria Garrison. And that man is of no interest to me."
"I'm Elizabeth Crawford," I went on. "Are you by any chance related to Marjorie Evanson?"
"It's clear to me that you've been reading the London papers. Who told you that Garrison was her maiden name? Alicia, of course. Our little scandal attracts all manner of curiosity seekers."
"As a matter of fact," I answered her serenely, "I was Lieutenant Evanson's nurse while he was in hospital in France."
That stopped her cold. But she recovered quickly. "Did Serena Melton send you here to annoy me?"
Intrigued by the fact that both she and Michael Hart had leapt to that conclusion, I hesitated a second too long.
She turned away, then swung around again to face me. "Well, you can tell her for me that while a murder in the family is not something to cry from the rooftops, a suicide is even worse." And she walked off, her shoulders stiff with anger.
I stood there thinking it was sad that two families had been torn apart by one act of violence, rather than being brought together in common grief.
Behind me, Mrs. Hart said quietly, "Poor girl. She's taken her sister's death hard. They were never close. Perhaps she has come to regret that now."
I hadn't heard her come up behind me. I'd have liked to disagree with her, but said, "I'm sorry."
"Victoria takes after her father. He was a hard man to like. Marjorie was more like her mother, which is probably why Mr. Garrison was fonder of Victoria." She shifted the course of the conversation. "Alicia tells me you've come just for the weekend. Have you known each other long?"
"She's the friend of a friend who thought we might enjoy each other's company," I answered. "And we have, I must say."
"She's missed Gareth terribly. Of course there are no children. That's been a sorrow for both of them. One might say early days, but for the war. One can only pray that Gareth returns safely. I fear for Michael. You're a nursing sister. Will that shoulder heal cleanly? I don't know what they've said to Michael. He puts up a good front, and we try not to ask too many questions. I do know he secretly dreads the possibility that he might lose his arm. I've heard him cry out at night, dreaming they're taking it."
"It's too soon to judge these things," I said, the only hope I could offer, not knowing the details of the case. "I'm surprised he's out of hospital. But that's a good sign, you know. When was he wounded?"
"It was no more than a fortnight, if that, after dear Marjorie was killed. When the news came, I said to my husband that I wondered if Michael had got careless, worrying over her death. They kept him in hospital as long as they could, but he's not one to be penned up. He brooded too much. We were happy to have him back and safe."
I remembered him pacing the rector's study.
"He's no trouble at all," she went on. "He can do everything for himself except dress. But he won't take his morphine when he needs it. He says fighting the pain is good for the constitution." She smiled sadly.
She moved on to speak to a friend, and I went to find Alicia. The garden party was coming to a close, and she was helping to pack away the remnants of food from the stalls, preparing to take them around to those who weren't able to attend. I volunteered to help, and she and I crisscrossed Little Sefton, answering questions at each door about who was at the affair and who was not, and of course having to explain who I was and why I was here in Little Sefton.
Along the way, Alicia pointed out the Garrison house. It was stone, and unlike its neighbors, was set well back from the road, with lovely roses climbing almost to the windows of the first storey, and a low wall around the front garden, which was ablaze with blooms of every kind, the hollyhocks just coming into their own.
Tired and ready to put our feet up-"with a little sherry," Alicia suggested-we returned to her house. But when we got there, she discovered a letter from Gareth had arrived in the post, and she quickly excused herself to run up the stairs and read it in private.
There was a knock at the door before she'd come down again, and I went to answer it.
Michael Hart stood on the doorstep.
"I've just been to see Dr. Higgins," he informed me lightly. "He says I'm fit enough for London if I don't drive, carouse, or chase unsuitable women."
"How dull for you," I responded. "But I'm not going directly to London. I'm returning to my parents' home in Somerset."
He could see that I was on the point of refusing him, and he said in quite another voice, "Don't let me down, Bess Crawford. This is important to me, and there's no one else."
"Surely there's someone in Little Sefton who would agree to drive you."
"Undoubtedly. But the reasons why I'm so set on going would be common knowledge in the village, even before we'd cranked the motorcar. Let them believe I've taken a fancy to you-that my broken heart has finally begun to mend."
"Do you have a broken heart?" I asked, curious.
"There was a girl before the war. One I liked very much. She preferred someone else. It was generally assumed I was devastated. But the truth was, I liked her. I wasn't passionately in love with her."
Was he talking about Marjorie? Michael was glib, in my opinion. It could be the truth or it could be what he thought I wanted to hear.
But then it dawned on me that if he were not so handsome, people might well see him differently and accept everything he said at face value.
"If you go with me to Somerset, you'll have to put up with the scrutiny of my family. I don't as a rule bring young men home with me."
In fact, I never had. He sensed this, and said, "You knew Meriwether. Surely you must be curious about what happened to Marjorie. I don't mind if you are there when I talk to the staff or her friends."
"Lieutenant Hart-"
"Michael."
"Michael. I have only so much leave."
"One day. That's all I ask."
"Let me think about it," I said, to be rid of him. I could hear Alicia coming down the stairs.
He must have heard her too. He smiled at me, and was gone.
The next day I went to the early service with Alicia. It was a gray morning and the small church was only half full. As we took our places, Alicia said, "Not many people here today, I'm afraid. But then most of them met you yesterday. Their curiosity is satisfied."
I smiled and said softly, "Never mind. I've enjoyed my visit."
Alicia nodded. "Yes. So have I."
The organ wheezed into life in the dampness, and I noted that neither Michael nor Victoria was present.
As we walked home, I waited until we were out of earshot of everyone else, and said to Alicia, "I've been meaning to ask you. Did you know a Lieutenant Fordham? Did he come to Little Sefton, do you know?"
"Lieutenant Fordham? I don't believe I've ever met him. And if he came to Little Sefton, I was never aware of it."
"I wondered if perhaps he was a friend of Marjorie's?"
"I have no idea," she answered, but it was clear I'd inadvertently sparked her interest. "Is there any reason I should have heard of him?"
I was prepared for that question and smiled. "He died not long after M
arjorie. And the same inspector was looking into his death as well as hers. Coincidence? Or connection? Did someone from Scotland Yard come to Little Sefton?"
"I never saw him, but there was someone who came down. He broke the news to Victoria, and asked about Marjorie's solicitor, and the like. He spoke to Constable Tilmer and the rector as well, then left. But Marjorie hadn't lived here for years, so I expect he spent most of his time in London."
"Did he question Michael Hart?"
"He was in France at the time."
"Michael told me Victoria believes there's something he knows about the murder-she keeps demanding that he tell her."
"I've seen her corner him in the street and even in the churchyard. That explains why he's taken to avoiding her. What does she think? That perhaps Marjorie wrote something to Michael? She didn't know what was about to happen to her. That doesn't make sense."
I hadn't considered letters. When I didn't answer straightaway, she turned to look at me.
"It was robbery, wasn't it? Marjorie's murder."
"I don't think her purse has ever been found."
We had reached Alicia's house, and as she lifted the latch, she said, "Michael has asked me at least twice to drive him to London. He feels that he could learn something that the police missed or overlooked. It seems so unlikely, and I'm not comfortable driving Gareth's motorcar. I told him so. He's bound to ask you. I think he feels helpless, and needs to be doing something. Even if it's a wild goose chase."
I didn't tell her he already had asked me. Twice. "I'm not going to London," I said. "I'm returning to Somerset." But I was still thinking about letters.
"He can be very persuasive," she said doubtfully. "You don't know how close I came to giving in, even against my better judgment."
"And I'm used to the blandishments of wounded men," I answered. "He won't sway me."
When I walked through the door in Somerset with Michael Hart in tow, it was worth any price to see my mother's eyes widen as I introduced him. She was in the sitting room writing letters to her circle of correspondents, and rose to meet us as I said, "Mother, may I present Lieutenant Michael Hart. He's on his way to London tomorrow, and I offered to give him a lift since he can't drive himself."