by Charles Todd
I glanced at the watch pinned to my apron. A cook would be starting preparations for dinner very shortly, but it wouldn't take long to ask my questions. "I'm so glad you remembered. And there's just time." I started for the rectory.
"I'll go with you!" Alicia said eagerly.
"No, that's probably not a good idea. If she's kept any secrets all these years, she might well not wish to make them public now. And you live in the village."
"But that's not fair-it was I who told you about her-"
"Alicia, think about it for a moment-"
She was angry. "I've helped you thus far. It's really unkind of you to shut me out now. And I was the one who introduced you to Michael."
"Alicia-"
"No. You've just used me, that's all. I should have guessed. Victoria said you would, you know. The day of the fair. I told her she was trying to make trouble, but I see now she was right." She turned and walked away, hurt and disappointed.
I felt my own anger rising. I liked Alicia, I wouldn't have upset her for the world. But thanks to Victoria's meddling, she had taken what I'd said in the worst possible light.
I called to her, told her I was sorry, but the damage had been done. She kept walking, and disappeared through her door without looking back. I started after her, and after a few steps, stopped. It was useless. Even if I could persuade her that I'd been wrong about Mrs. Eubanks, Alicia would think I was apologizing because I still needed her help, not because I meant it. Otherwise she would have come back when I called to her. I couldn't help but wonder what else Victoria could have said, then recalled Alicia's parting words about Michael Hart. She had enjoyed matchmaking, but Victoria had poisoned that as well.
With a heavy heart I crossed the churchyard to the rectory gardens, and made my way to the kitchen yard and up the path to the outer door. It led into a passage littered with boots and coats and umbrellas that had seen better days, and thence into the kitchen.
I opened the door, and the woman up to her elbows in flour and dough looked up, ready to say something, then stopped short.
"Oh-you aren't Rector. If you're looking for him, he should be in the vestry just now. At the church."
"Are you Mrs. Eubanks?" I asked. But of course she must be. Short and compact, she was graying, although her face was unlined. I put her age at perhaps fifty-five.
"I am. And who might you be, Miss?"
"My name is Elizabeth Crawford. I'm a nursing sister, and one of my patients was Lieutenant Meriwether Evanson," I began. "I was with the convoy that brought him to England for treatment of his burns."
I explained that I was visiting with Mrs. Dalton, and she nodded. "I think I saw you with her at the garden fete."
"Yes, I was here then as well."
"The poor man. We heard that he barely survived a fortnight after his wife's death. I met him a time or two, you know. He came here to speak to Rector in regard to marrying Miss Marjorie."
"I've been learning a little about her as well. Alicia Dalton said that you could tell me more about her than anyone else in Little Sefton. Would you mind?"
We talked for a while about the Evansons, and it was clear that Mrs. Eubanks would have been glad to go to London with them as their cook, but she had already, as she said, "gotten used to Rector's little ways, and he to mine."
"I understand there was no love lost between Marjorie and her sister."
Mrs. Eubanks's lips thinned into a hard line. After a moment she said, "I know Rector preaches that it's wrong to hate anyone, but I come as close to that as never mind when it comes to Miss Victoria. She's a piece of work." She had been making dough as I came in, and now she turned it out onto a floured board, and began to knead it vigorously. I hoped it wouldn't be tough as nails as a result.
"Was she always so rude?"
Mrs. Eubanks turned her head to listen, decided that no one could overhear us, and said, "Rudeness isn't the half of it. My sister Nancy, God rest her soul, worked with Dr. Hale, and when Miss Marjorie's dear mother went into labor prematurely, he took Nancy with him to help. She was very good with women in labor and newborns. She had that way about her."
"Did she? That's a gift."
"To be sure it is. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Garrison had only been married the seven months when Miss Marjorie was born, and she had that breathing trouble that so often carries off those little ones born before their time. But my sister and Dr. Hale kept her alive, and though she was sickly for months, she survived and began to thrive. It was a miracle, and Mr. Garrison paid my sister handsomely for her services, so grateful he sang her praises to everyone who would listen."
I couldn't quite see where this was going, but I looked encouraging and hoped she would continue. But she set aside the dough and put the kettle on, as if the subject were finished.
"I could do with some tea," she said, getting out cups and the milk pitcher, and a bowl of precious honey to sweeten it. Then she went to a cupboard and brought out a plate of biscuits.
That done, she and I sat down at the table, and she picked up the thread of her story. "All was well, then. The next child, a little boy, was born in winter with a weak chest as well, and he didn't live very long. After that came Victoria, and she was a lusty, healthy little one, kicking and crying with such strength, you wouldn't believe it possible. There was only four years difference in their ages, and Miss Marjorie adored her sister. But when Victoria was about twelve, their mother died."
The kettle was on the boil, and Mrs. Eubanks stopped to make the tea. When she had poured our cups, she sat down again.
"Miss Marjorie and her mother were always close, I expect because she nearly died. And Miss Victoria was closer to her father, they were always out and about together. She followed him everywhere, as soon as she could walk. Slowly, with malice, that girl set out to turn her father against her sister. Little things at first, the spilled milk, the broken vase, any small mishap, and it was blamed on Miss Marjorie. Even when the old dog died. Victoria swore Miss Marjorie had poisoned it. When she was old enough to understand such things, she told her father she didn't believe that Miss Marjorie was his true daughter, that her mother must have been pregnant when she married. And she would point out little things-the fact that Miss Marjorie looked more like her mother, and not at all like her father-I don't know what all. The housekeeper was a friend of mine, and she'd tell me tales that made me want to cry. But in the end, Victoria Garrison got her way, and Mr. Garrison came to hate his own daughter, hated the sight of her, and nothing her mother could say changed his mind. Miss Victoria had her father's love, but now she wanted all of her mother's, and when she saw she wasn't going to get it, she made the poor woman's life a misery. And her father stood by, letting her do it. It was as if he didn't have the courage to come right out and attack his wife himself. But he enjoyed seeing her unhappy."
In spite of the tea, I felt cold. "How vicious!" I said. "Are you sure-"
"Oh, I'm sure. Once I found Miss Marjorie sitting in a corner of the rectory porch, crying her eyes out and wet to the skin. Her sister had flung a pan of hot water at Miss Marjorie, then told her father that Miss Marjorie had spilled it on purpose to get Miss Victoria into trouble. I took her home and dried her off in my kitchen and fed her her dinner there too, before sending her up the back stairs of her own house to her bed. The next morning her father wouldn't let her eat her breakfast until she'd apologized for lying."
"But did you tell the rector-anyone-what was going on?"
"I thought about it, but I could do more for the child than Rector could, because I was there. And if I'd told, I'd have been sacked. Mr. Garrison had been a wonderful man, stern but fair, but he'd changed, he was cruel and cold. Then after his wife died, he turned bitter. You might say a child couldn't do such things, but she did."
"Then what happened?"
"When the will was read, Mrs. Garrison's, I mean, she'd left money to Miss Marjorie, and as soon as she was of age she walked out the door of that house, went to London, and neve
r set foot in it again. Even when her father died and she came for his service, she stayed here in the rectory."
"You've given me food for thought," I told Mrs. Eubanks. "And I'll keep what you've told me in strictest confidence."
"Oh, you can tell whoever you like. I don't mind. Mr. Garrison is dead himself now. And there's nothing Miss Victoria can do to me. Rector wouldn't let me go for a dozen Miss Victorias. He'd not know where to find anything and would starve to death if he had to cook for himself or do the wash." She was secure in her own worth. But I wondered if she'd have spoken quite so freely in Alicia Dalton's presence. It was one thing to assert that the rector would keep her on, but the parish priest served at the discretion of his vestry.
"Tell me about your sister."
"Nancy died young. Her and Dr. Hale were killed one icy morning coming back from a difficult lying in. Mare slipped first, then overturned the carriage, and horse, carriage, and my sister went into the river. Dr. Hale was thrown out and his back was broken. He lived a few hours, long enough to tell everyone what had happened. Otherwise I'd not have been surprised to find Miss Victoria had had something to do with the accident-young as she was."
The venom in her voice was palpable. I think she had talked to me not because I'd known Marjorie's husband but because this had been bottled up inside for so long it was like a boil in need of lancing, the pressure was so great and so painful.
"How old was she at that time?" I couldn't help it, I had to know. The story had left me shocked as it was.
"Fourteen."
We finished our tea. I saw Mrs. Eubanks eyeing the chicken, ready to garnish and put into the oven, and I knew that now she'd told her story, she was ready to get back to work on the rector's dinner.
I thanked her and rose to leave. She said, "I don't lie, Miss Crawford. I never did. What I told you is the truth. Not that it matters now with Miss Marjorie gone, and all. But it's been on my mind of late, hearing of how she died."
I left her to her cooking and walked around the rectory toward the road. I had hardly got to the end of the rectory's drive when I saw policemen just coming out of the Harts' house, and between two constables walked Michael Hart, his face black as a thunder-cloud. In front of them strode Inspector Herbert, mouth grim, eyes looking neither right nor left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I stood there rooted to the spot, not sure what to say or do for all of several seconds.
And then I was striding across the street and brushing past Victoria Garrison, who was standing in the middle of it, a gloating expression on her face.
She said, as I passed her, in a voice pitched for my ears only, "He's going to the hangman, and there's nothing you can do to prevent it."
I ignored her. She wasn't the only person watching as Lieutenant Hart was being taken into custody. Alicia was there, looking stricken, and others I recognized from the church fete.
I caught up with Inspector Herbert as he came through the Harts' gate. He started with surprise when he saw me, then glowered.
"What are you doing in Little Sefton, Miss Crawford?"
"Visiting friends," I snapped, "and it's just as well I'm here to tell you you're making a mistake."
"Mrs. Calder isn't completely out of danger and they are keeping her sedated. But the doctors and the nursing sisters have told me that as she rouses a little, she repeats the name Michael over and over again. When she does, she's restless, and they believe she's afraid in whatever limbo she's in. A deeply rooted residual fear from her attack that she can't face."
It made sense, of course, but I wasn't ready to give up so easily.
"Nonsense," I said briskly. "That's merely one interpretation. I've sat beside men who were hardly more than boys, as they recover from surgery. They call for their mothers-or if they're married, sometimes for their wives. Am I to believe that these soldiers feel their mothers are responsible for their wounds?"
"It's not the same," he began.
"How can you be so certain? I've never once heard them cry out the name of a German soldier or the Kaiser."
"You're being ridiculous." But I could see he was weakening.
By this time Michael and his escort had caught up with us. He said sharply, "Elizabeth. Stay out of this."
"Oh, do hush," I retorted, barely glancing at him. Turning again to Inspector Herbert, I asked, "What other evidence do you have that Lieutenant Hart is guilty of murder?"
"He was in London the night that Marjorie Evanson died. And again last night."
I turned to Michael, surprise in my face. "But that's impossible!"
He had the grace to look ashamed. "I'm sorry-"
"We found the marks. He dragged her. He's strong enough to do that one-handed. He gripped the collars of her clothing and dragged her into those shrubs. We found the bits of grass and earth on the heels of her shoes."
I swallowed hard. "And no one saw him? It was a summer's evening, and no one was looking out a window on Hamilton Place, to see a man loitering or to see him with Mrs. Calder, or in the square?"
"No one. I had men canvassing the street at eight o'clock this morning."
"How did he get to London? He required permission from his doctors before I could take him there."
"If you'll step out of the way, Miss Crawford, we'll finish our business here and take Lieutenant Hart to London."
Behind them I could see Michael's aunt in the door, her face white, her hand to her mouth. Next to her stood her husband, his face pale with shock.
I turned to Michael. "Who took you to London? Whose motorcar did you use?"
"My own," he said harshly. "Victoria agreed to drive me."
I stepped back, then. "Where was she when you were supposed to be killing Mrs. Calder?"
"Ask her. I left her at the theater. She wanted to see The Man Who Vanished."
I whirled on Inspector Herbert. "Have you verified that?"
"I spoke to Miss Garrison earlier. She paid for her ticket, handed it in, and took her seat. That much is certain. She was waiting outside the theater when Lieutenant Hart was to return for her. I have three witnesses to that."
A voice behind me said, "Let it go, Bess."
It was Simon. I didn't know he had already come back for me. I said, "But-"
And he repeated, "Let it go."
I took a deep breath and moved out of Inspector Herbert's path. He went directly to the motorcar he had waiting, and Michael passed me without a glance, taking his place in the vehicle as ordered. One of the constables was driving, and he slowly moved through the spectators cluttering the street; I felt like bursting into tears.
Not from frustration but from anger. Helpless, furious anger. At Inspector Herbert, at Victoria Garrison, and at Michael Hart as well.
I let Simon guide me to where he'd left his motorcar and got in without a word.
"I'm sorry, Bess," he said as he stepped in beside me. "Truly."
"He's not guilty. Inspector Herbert will come to his senses and realize that for himself."
"Very likely." Looking over my shoulder, I could see Alicia. Her expression was pity vying with doubt.
"You don't mean that. You're just trying to make me feel better," I added, as the village disappeared behind us.
"I'm not, my dear girl. I'm agreeing with you."
I glanced at him, and saw that he was telling me the truth.
"I thought you didn't care for the handsome lieutenant," he said after a time. "You certainly put up a brave defense on his behalf."
"I respect the fact that a Scotland Yard inspector has a great deal more experience in these matters than I have, but he's been floundering from the start, Simon. There could be any number of reasons why Mrs. Calder is saying Michael's name over and over again. Inspector Herbert should have waited until she could speak before taking any action. What's more, it could be that Victoria is lying."
But I knew she wasn't. The police had already looked into that too.
Then where had Michael gone, when h
e left her at the theater?
Simon glanced at me. "If he's innocent, Bess, Inspector Herbert will have to let him go. You needn't worry."
I closed my eyes, trying to read Michael's face as the policemen had brought him out. I could see it still, and what I read there was anger, not innocence. He hadn't protested, I had. And I could feel my cheeks burn with the memory.
Not because I was ashamed of my defense of him. But because I knew that Inspector Herbert would see it very differently. Like everyone else who had been a witness to that scene, to him it would point to my feelings for Michael, rather than any objectivity on my part.
And then I knew what I had to do. There might not be another chance. "Please-Simon-I must go back. It's important," I told him urgently.
He slowed, but said, "It's not wise, Bess."
It took several minutes to convince him, but in the end he reluctantly turned back toward Little Sefton. I touched his arm in silent gratitude.
The crowd had dispersed, although a few people stood about in knots, whispering. I ignored their stares as we passed.
I left Simon in the motorcar and went up the walk to the Harts' door. Someone had already begun to draw the drapes, as if trying to shut out the stares of neighbors.
Feeling every eye in Little Sefton pinned to my back, I knocked at the door, and after a time, an elderly maid opened it and told me that the family was not receiving today.
"I understand," I began.
And then Mr. Hart was in the passage behind her, saying, "It's all right, Sarah. Let her come in."
He led me into the drawing room, the walls painted a pleasing yellow with white trim and a soft green in the drapes. They had been pulled, making the room seem dark and rather claustrophobic. As if he sensed my reaction, Mr. Hart went to a table and lit the lamp sitting there.
He appeared to have aged, his face still pale, lines etched more deeply than I remembered.
I said, "Forgive me. I'm so sorry to intrude."
"You defended him out there."