An Impartial Witness (16 page)

“It was worth a try,” he said. “I’ll take you home and we’ll come again in a few hours.”

I was agreeable to that, but we met Inspector Herbert as we walked down the passage. He’d been in the small staff canteen helping himself to a cup of tea. He looked tired.

Surprised to see us there, he said to me, “You’re in uniform.”

“Indeed.”

“I hope you weren’t thinking of interviewing Mrs. Calder before the police spoke to her.” He smiled, but it was also a warning.

“I was worried. I met her for the first time only a few days ago.”

“Did you indeed?” He gave me his undivided attention. “And what did she have to say to you?”

“She couldn’t give me the name of the man Mrs. Evanson had been seeing, but she’d been concerned for some time about what she believed to be a developing affair. And she was under the impression that Mrs. Evanson had broken it off several months before her death. Well before she could have known she was pregnant. But I didn’t say that to Mrs. Calder.”

I went on to tell him what little I knew.

Inspector Herbert nodded. “This time her purse wasn’t taken, and so we had her identity at once. Then when the police went to inform her family, her mother said, ‘Dear God, first Marjorie and now Helen.’ That was when we made a connection between the two women, and I put in a call to Somerset.” He looked down at the hat he was turning in his hands. “I must say, I never expected a second murder.” He looked up again, and after a brief hesitation, he added, “The constable who found her said that she was barely conscious when he bent over her, but she spoke someone’s name. Her voice lifted at the end, as if she were posing a question. ‘Michael?’ she said.”

“Michael—” I repeated before I could stop myself. “Er—what is her husband’s name?”

“Alan.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

I said, “If you’re thinking that Michael Hart did this, you’re mistaken. He couldn’t, given his injuries. Ask his doctor.” I tried to remember. “A Dr. Higgins.” He’d given Michael permission to accompany me to London; he must know the case well enough to make such a judgment.

“I’ll be speaking to his physician,” he assured me. “But for all we know, he could be malingering.”

I thought about the pain I’d read in Michael’s eyes, the struggle with the sedatives. The whispers that he was addicted to them. But I didn’t bring these matters up. My testimony would be considered biased.

“It will be hours before Mrs. Calder is awake,” I told him. “If she’s still in surgery now. We might as well all go back to bed.”

But he shook his head. “That isn’t what the Yard pays me to do. I’ll be there the instant she opens her eyes.”

Just then Matron came down the passage, calling to Inspector Herbert. “Mrs. Calder is being taken to a private room. She isn’t awake and won’t be for some time,” she said, echoing what I’d just been telling him myself. “But you may go in and see her, if you wish.”

He turned to accompany her. I gave Simon a swift glance and followed in Inspector Herbert’s wake.

Matron was saying, “The damage is considerable, but we’ll know more tomorrow. Whoever her attacker was, he stabbed her twice. She was wearing a corset, and luckily the staves deflected his knife. There is a laceration along her ribs, the bone scraped, cartilage torn, but the blade didn’t reach her lung. Then he stabbed her in the stomach, and nearly succeeded in killing her.”

We went into the small private ward, and looked down at the patient’s wan face. I didn’t think she’d be speaking to anybody for some time. She had lost quite a bit of blood, and the surgery had been stressful as well.

I studied her face. She was no longer the vigorous woman I’d seen only a day or so ago. Even with the bandages, she seemed to have shrunk into herself, thinner and somehow vulnerable. I felt a surge of pity. If she had been thrown into the river, as Marjorie Evanson had been, she wouldn’t have survived at all.

Matron was saying, “You’ll observe that she was also struck on the head from behind. We saw that injury as we were pulling her hair back.” She gently turned Mrs. Calder’s head and parted her heavy hair to show us the wound. “I would say that she was knocked unconscious and then cold-bloodedly stabbed while she was unable to defend herself.”

“Then there’s a chance she didn’t see her attacker.” Inspector Herbert bent down for a closer look.

“True.” Matron eased the patient’s head back onto the pillow and arranged her hair.

Inspector Herbert then turned to me. “Any thoughts?”

“You were at her house? The servants’ entrance is just below her door—down the stairs behind the railing and into a kitchen passage, I should think.” It was a common enough arrangement. “If someone waited there, the cabbie wouldn’t have seen him. But he’d have had to be quiet.”

“As the cabbie left, it might have covered the sound of his footsteps coming up,” Inspector Herbert agreed. “I’ll speak to one of my men; we’ll see if another cab dropped off a passenger earlier. The question is, how did he know she was out? Or when she would return?”

“He may have been there earlier, and seen her leaving. And waited.”

He nodded. “Whoever it was took a great risk. One cry and someone might have come to a window. Unless he persuaded her to walk into the square, then struck her from behind. That may be why she said the name Michael the way she did. As he came up the tradesmen’s stairs, she must have been surprised and called out to him.”

Matron gestured to us, and we walked out of the ward together, closing the door behind us. Inspector Herbert asked that an extra chair be brought to him, and he sat down before the closed door. He pointedly bade me good night.

I left, having pushed my luck as far as I thought it ought to go.

I accompanied Matron back to the hall where Simon was waiting, my mind busy with the problem of why a dying woman had spoken Michael’s name. I went over what she’d said to me when I called on her. I hadn’t brought up Michael’s name—and neither had she.

Simon took me to the Marlborough Hotel and commandeered a breakfast for the two of us. I sat there toying with my food, thinking about Mrs. Calder.

“It makes no sense,” I finally said aloud.

“It isn’t supposed to. You aren’t Inspector Herbert.”

I smiled. “I don’t think he’s exactly happy with this turn of events either.”

“Eat your breakfast.”

I did as I was told. I wanted something from Simon and the easiest way to persuade him was to cooperate. At least the breakfast was better than the dinner the night before and I was hungry.

“How was your evening?” Simon asked, echoing my own thought.

“Captain Truscott is a very nice man. You needn’t use that tone of voice.”

“What tone of voice?”

“The one that sounds disapproving and nosy.”

Simon laughed. “Actually, I think you’re probably right about Truscott.”

“He told me something about Captain Fordham that made a lot of sense.”

He groaned. “I thought you’d been warned off that topic.”

“I was. I can’t help it if Freddy knew the man.”

“I see. You’d better tell me.”

I did. Simon nodded as I was finishing the account.

“He’s right,” Simon told me. “There’s delayed shock, you know. As long as Captain Fordham was recovering from his wounds, he could put France out of his mind. But as soon as he knew he was nearly ready to return to the Front, the truth had to be faced.”

“Then why didn’t he use his service revolver?”

“I expect he didn’t wish to. I expect he didn’t feel he had a right to use it.”

That was a very interesting observation.

I sighed. “Poor man.”

“He wouldn’t be the first. And he won’t be the last. Don’t you remember Color Sergeant Blaine? It was much the same story.”

I did remember. It was in Lahore, and Color Sergeant Blaine was in hospital recovering from wounds. He slashed his wrists one night, without a word to anyone. And my father said Sergeant Blaine blamed himself for losing his men in an ambush on the Frontier. He felt, experienced man that he was, that he should have foreseen it. No one could have, my father told my mother. But Sergeant Blaine had never lost a troop before.

“You’re very wise, Simon. But what became of the handgun that Captain Fordham used? Solve that mystery too.”

“It’s buried deep in the mud under the bridge where he was standing. It fell from his height and through the height of the bridge. Enough force to bury it in the soft soil at the bottom of the lake.”

But the police had searched, and still hadn’t found it.

I finished my tea, and sat back in my chair. “Will you drive me to Little Sefton? I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Hart before Inspector Herbert sees him.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Simon asked.

“I don’t know what’s wise anymore. But Inspector Herbert has a second victim now. He’s probably already under a good deal of
pressure to take someone into custody. Michael Hart would solve all his problems. As soon as the inspector speaks to Helen Calder, he’ll order Michael’s arrest. See if he doesn’t!”

“That could be later this afternoon or evening. Are you convinced that Michael’s shoulder wound is as serious as he claimed?”

“You know as well as I do that severely wounded men can go on to do heroic things before they collapse. He’s a soldier, he could stab her if he had to—wanted to. What would be impossible for him to do is carry or drag her into the square afterward.” I bit my lip, then added, because I knew Inspector Herbert was already considering it, “It could explain why she was found in the square and not taken to the river, as Marjorie was.”

“Yes, I’d considered that myself.” He signaled to the waiter. “I’ll take you to Little Sefton, only because I feel safer with you under my eye. And then you’ll go back to Somerset and stay there.”

“I promise.”

But I crossed my fingers behind my back, just in case.

Simon took me to Little Sefton, then did as I asked, driving away after leaving me on Alicia’s doorstep. He was to return in precisely two hours. He wasn’t happy with that arrangement, but I promised to stay with Alicia.

I had the excuse of returning the borrowed photograph, but I needn’t have worried about my welcome.

She was delighted to see me. From the twinkle in her eye, I knew what she was thinking, that I couldn’t stay away long because my heart was given to Michael Hart.

She said nothing about that as she led me into her sitting room, and asked if the photograph had helped.

“Indeed it has,” I told her. “The only problem is, that officer is in France just now.”

Looking at the photograph I’d given her, she said, “He looks like
a nice sort. And if he’s someone Gareth photographed, he must be all right.”

I changed the subject, asking if the village had been reasonably quiet since my last visit.

“That’s right, you haven’t heard, have you?”

I knew what must be coming. “What’s happened?”

“Michael Hart was walking in his aunt’s garden. Pacing it, more likely. Mrs. King was passing by, and she said he had the face of a bear, so she didn’t stop to speak. And not a quarter of an hour later, he went raging in to see Constable Tilmer, claiming someone shot at him. But Constable Tilmer couldn’t find anyone who’d heard one shot, much less two. And with all the windows open because of the warm evening, you’d have thought someone must have heard it.”

“What happened then?”

“Constable Tilmer searched the gardens and the back lanes, and told the Harts that all was well, the excitement was over. But Michael wouldn’t hear of it. He demanded that the constable ring up Scotland Yard and report the incident directly. And then we all went home to bed and that was the end of it.”

“Who could possibly want to shoot Lieutenant Hart?”

“That’s what everyone is asking. Jason Markham claims it was a jealous husband.” She laughed at that. “If so, he had very poor aim.”

The village was taking the incident very lightly, finding amusement in it.

“But why should Michael make up such a story?”

“Too many drugs, everyone says. Hearing things.” She shrugged.

“Is that true?”

“I don’t know how the rumors got started. But they did. I imagine it was when Michael first came here to rest after they had worked on his shoulder. He wasn’t himself at all—barely able to speak, and even when he did he didn’t always make sense. Slept much of the day and paced his room at night—I could see for myself once or twice that his lights were on until the small hours. And
his shadow passing between the lamp and the window, back and forth, back and forth. Even when he finally came outside where people could see him, he was pale and often sweating and his eyes looked right through you.”

“Such wounds can be terribly painful. And the shoulder is awkward—difficult to sit down, difficult to lie down, difficult to stand. So you don’t rest. Even when you’re so sleepy you can hardly stay awake.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Alicia admitted. “It sounds pretty grim, doesn’t it?”

“It is grim,” I said. “And something to help with the pain is necessary.”

“He told the rector when he first came here that the next surgery would be drastic. And he didn’t want to survive it.”

I could understand. Michael was used to being noticed. He was handsome and charming and amusing. People enjoyed his company. But a man with only one arm was usually pitied, not admired. And amputation at the shoulder would be ugly.

Alicia suggested a walk, and I agreed, thinking that if Michael saw me with her, he might come out and speak to us, saving me from having to find a proper excuse for calling on him.

“It helps the day go by faster,” she admitted as we leisurely strolled by the Hart house. “Walking, knitting, taking care of the gardens—anything is better than worrying about Gareth.”

And I was right, not five minutes later, as Alicia and I were retracing our steps, Michael Hart came out his door and moved purposefully in our direction. We were just by the churchyard when he caught us up.

Alicia hastily recalled that she must have a word with the rector about flowers for the coming Sunday services, and left me alone.