An Impartial Witness (26 page)

“A very neat reconstruction, Miss Crawford. I doubt that it’s more than that.”

“Yes, well, Jack Melton had a better reason for murdering Marjorie than Michael Hart had. What’s more, he gave himself away when I spoke to him outside the Marlborough Hotel weeks ago. I told you about that encounter, because I’d lost my temper and confessed to him I’d seen the man with Marjorie at the railway station. He lost his temper as well, accused me of blackmail and then told me that Michael Hart had been in London the night she
was killed. If Jack Melton was spending a quiet evening at home, how would he know that? No one did. Except for the physician who treated Michael, and possibly Marjorie Evanson, if she knew about his eye. She might well have told Jack Melton what she was planning to do, a threat to hold over him, to make him keep his promise. She’d had time to think about it. Four hours at the very least.”

I’d finished. Before he could reply, I stood up and added, “My reconstruction is as valid as yours, I think. Who knows which is actually right? Probably only Jack Melton and Michael Hart. Although I think Jack’s wife is beginning to wonder. What will happen to her if she works it out as well? Thank you for your time, Inspector. I am sorry that I ever led you to Michael Hart, but that’s water over the dam, I’m afraid.”

As I reached the door, he said to me, “We would have found him in time.”

“Or would you have interviewed Raymond Melton, as I did, and seen that brief flicker of satisfaction when he told me he never left the train before Portsmouth? Of course he never left it. He needn’t have. Good-bye.”

And I closed the door before he could say anything else.

A constable was waiting to escort me to the street, and I stepped out into the night air, feeling it cool and fresh on my face, and found myself thinking that Michael would see the light of day for the last time when he went to the gallows.

One more day gone.

But not quite.

I went to see Helen Calder. To my surprise, she was at home. But I was informed that she wasn’t receiving visitors.

“Tell her that it’s Bess Crawford. Ask her if she’ll see me for just a few minutes.”

And she did.

I was taken back to the sitting room, which had been transformed with a bed and chair and the other accoutrements of a sickroom.

Mrs. Calder was already in bed, her hair brushed and hanging to her shoulders, wearing a very becoming nightgown in a pale lavender covered by a darker lavender shawl.

“Miss Crawford,” she said, and I could hear the wariness in her voice.

“I haven’t come to worry you,” I told her straightaway. “I’m here to ask how you are. I haven’t been back in England for very long or I’d have come sooner. Are you recovering on schedule?” For she seemed pale, her hands restless on the coverlet.

“The doctor says I’m quite recovered, but I don’t feel that I am. I seem so tired, and I don’t have the energy to go anywhere or do anything. This bed should have been taken down days ago, but I still find it difficult to climb the stairs.” There was the underlying complaining note of the invalid beneath the words.

“You look so well,” I said, asking silent forgiveness for the lie. “I was hoping for good news.”

“I haven’t slept well in some time. Not since—not for some time.”

I understood. Not since her words had sent Michael Hart to trial. I said, “Never mind, that will come in time. You’ve been very ill, you know. It isn’t surprising that you still feel a little uncomfortable.”

“It isn’t pain. I mean to say, I don’t hurt. I’m just dreadfully tired.”

And that was depression. Her feeling of guilt a burden she didn’t recognize.

“Do you want to talk about Michael?” I asked gently. “Perhaps you’ll feel better afterward.”

She began to cry. “I can’t help it. He was coming to see me—I expected him—and his was the name I spoke when that policeman found me in the garden.”

“You told the truth, you know. As far as you remembered it. There’s no guilt in that.”

“But he’s to hang, and how am I ever to forget that it was my words that sealed his fate? What if I haven’t remembered it properly, what if it’s confused because of my injuries, and I only remember next month or next year? When it’s too late?”

“He condemned himself.”

“He did it for Marjorie’s sake, I’ve no doubt of that. He would do. When things appeared to be so hopeless anyway, he could at least spare her.” She found a fresh handkerchief, but the tears hadn’t stopped. “I find it so hard to believe that he could have killed her. Not when he loved her so. If he were that sort of person, he’d have killed her before she could marry Meriwether. I lay awake trying to see the face of the person who attacked me. I try and try, and nothing comes. What am I to do when—after—Michael is dead, and I see that face clearly? And know beyond a shadow of any doubt that it wasn’t him?”

I felt pity for her. Her life would never be the same, through no fault of her own. And she was right, she would be forever haunted, whether the face came clearly to her or not. There would always be that uncertainty, and that burden of guilt.

I said, to change the subject, “Were they able to bring your husband home from France?”

“Oh, yes, he came. I was so grateful, I felt so safe when he was with me. But he had to go back, once I was out of danger. Compassionate leave, they called it. He was so angry, you know. He said if he could find the person who did this, he’d kill the man with his bare hands. And I think he would have done. I never told him about saying Michael’s name over and over again. Then he was gone and it was too late.”

“It was the only thing you could do.” I hesitated. “Tell me, did you ever see Marjorie with someone named Jack Melton? Or hear her mention him?”

“I know him, of course I do. He’s Serena’s husband. He was at the wedding.”

“But afterward. More recently, perhaps. Did Marjorie tell you that she’d run into him by chance?”

“I don’t think so.” She frowned, trying to remember. “But she probably wouldn’t have. He’s in London from time to time. He’s taken me to lunch once or twice, and I’m sure he’s taken Marjorie as well. You know how it is, London is so full of strangers these days. One walks down the street and feels as if one is in a foreign city. When one encounters a familiar face, it’s almost a relief.”

I tried to think of another way to bring up Jack Melton, without giving her more reasons for feeling terrible about Michael’s fate. But then I remembered Victoria, and switched the subject again. “Did Victoria come often to London to see Marjorie?”

“Oh, never. She was at the engagement party of course, and the wedding. That’s about the only time I remember seeing her at Marjorie’s house. And she never came here. She knew how I felt about her, the way she’d treated her mother.”

“I’m told she did come to London often, for several months in a row. And then she stopped coming. The Harts wondered if she was spying on Marjorie.”

“Spying on her? I can’t imagine why. Well, Marjorie did say that she had run into her while looking for a wedding present for a friend. That was in May, I think. But that was it, Marjorie was in a hurry and got out of the encounter as quickly as possible. She said Victoria wanted to know how Meriwether was, and seemed inclined to talk. But Marjorie wasn’t in the mood.”

And had Victoria’s curiosity been tweaked, and had she followed her sister to see where she was in such a hurry to go?

I wouldn’t put it past her.

“What is it that makes Victoria carry such a grudge? Was it just Michael? She seemed to have everything else she wanted—the house, Marjorie settled, out of sight and mind in London. What else was there to take away?”

“It’s the will. Not many people know. The Garrison house was
left to Victoria, of course, but the estate was divided fairly evenly. Much to Victoria’s chagrin, let me tell you! There was a scene in the solicitor’s office. I’d gone with Marjorie as moral support, and I was very glad I had, although it was a dreadful time, I must say! And on top of that was the way the trust was constructed. I don’t understand all of it, but from what I gathered—what Marjorie gathered from the actual reading and told me—was distinctly odd. Neither daughter inherits anything outright.”

“He forgave Marjorie—or at the end, felt some doubt about what he’d been told by Victoria?”

“I’m not so sure. You see, while both girls could draw on the income from their share of the trust, the capital wouldn’t be distributed until both of them reached fifty. Past child-bearing age. At that time, the trust would be dissolved. However, if either daughter bore a child before that, and it was given its grandfather’s name, the house and the entire trust would go to it at age twenty-one. There would be nothing left for Marjorie and Victoria.”

I caught my breath. It was a cruel provision—it pitted sister against sister. And I had the fleeting thought that perhaps Victoria had inherited her father’s mean spirit. After all, he’d turned against his wife and his daughter, and in the end, he’d punished both daughters for that. As Victoria had tried to punish Marjorie.

But Marjorie was expecting a child. Unless Meriwether was willing to acknowledge it and give it his name, the child would be a Garrison—Marjorie’s maiden name.

What a revenge against her sister for all the grief that Marjorie had suffered!

It was almost shocking to contemplate what Victoria might do, given that knowledge. After all her scheming, she would have lost everything.

“Did anyone else know the contents of the will?” I asked.

“The servants were there for the reading; of course there was a
small bequest to each of them. Then we were asked to leave. The final provision was read only to Victoria and Marjorie. As I mentioned, there was a terrific row, and none of us knew where to look. You could hear it, but not the words of course. Victoria screaming, and once, Marjorie laughing. If Mr. Blake hadn’t been there, they’d have been at each other’s throats. I expect Marjorie told her sister that as a married woman—the wedding was to be that October, you see—she might soon see Victoria evicted.”

“How long ago was this? When did Mr. Garrison die?”

“In the winter of 1914. Six months before the war began. Meriwether had already told Marjorie that he wanted to fly, that he wanted above all things to be a pilot. Marjorie told me later that Victoria had said, ‘If there’s a war, I hope he’s shot down and killed. It will serve you right.’”

Three years ago. The wounds would still be raw. And when Victoria had asked after Meriwether when the sisters met in May, it had not been a friendly overture—it had been a reminder that Marjorie hadn’t had her child, and that Meriwether was still at risk.

“But if that’s how the trust stood, why didn’t Victoria marry as soon as possible, and have a child of her own?”

“And lose her house and her substantial income to it? Besides, I think she wanted to marry Michael and throw that in Marjorie’s face. She might have taken the risk for him.”

“I could almost believe that it was Victoria who killed Marjorie. That perhaps Marjorie had gloated about the child she was carrying. It would make sense.”

“Oh, I’m sure Victoria isn’t a murderer.”

But it might explain as well why Helen Calder herself had been stabbed. If Marjorie had told her about the peculiar provision, and now she was about to tell Michael. Was that the question he was burning to ask Helen? It gave Victoria the perfect motive for murder.

Had I been wrong about Jack Melton? I hadn’t known about the
will when I spoke to Inspector Herbert. And I couldn’t go back to Scotland Yard.

Helen Calder must have read the uncertainty in my face.

“You surely don’t believe that Victoria attacked Marjorie? Or me? No, she may be vicious and uncaring, but she’s no murderer. She’s my
cousin
.”

As if that prevented murder from happening in a family.

Helen Calder leaned back against her pillow. “You have successfully diverted me from thinking about Michael. That was very kind of you, Bess.”

I said, “Did you know that Victoria tried to persuade Meriwether not to marry Marjorie? He was furious with her. I thought she was just being a spoiler. But perhaps she had the will in mind.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. It was just the sort of thing she might do.”

The Harts had called Victoria evil, but I wondered if seeing all her schemes come to nothing, she must have been beside herself with fury. And perhaps helping to destroy Michael had been the last act of vengeance open to her, in addition to seeing her sister’s name dragged through the scandal sheets.

“I’m tired now. But I’m so glad you came to see me, Bess.”

“I’m glad too,” I told her, meaning it. “But remember, I’m a nurse, I know wounds. If you languish here, you’ll never recover. Get up and dress and go out for lunch somewhere. It will do you the greatest good. You’ll see.”

But she shook her head. “I couldn’t enjoy myself, knowing that Michael is counting the days down to his last. Perhaps—perhaps when it’s over, I’ll feel more like going out.”

There was nothing I could say that would change her mind. I held her hand for a moment, and then left.

My own mind was in turmoil. None of the questions I’d left for Simon had anything to do with Victoria, only with Jack Melton.

If Helen Calder believed she carried a burden of guilt, she had no idea of the depth and breadth of mine at this moment.

I found a cab and gave him the direction of Mrs. Hennessey’s house, then sat back in the anonymous darkness and told myself over and over again that I wouldn’t fail, that I wouldn’t be too late.

T
O MY SURPRISE,
when I reached Mrs. Hennessey’s house and the cabbie had been paid, it was Simon Brandon who held the door for me to step out.

“Have you been to see Michael?” Those were the first words out of my mouth.

“I’m doing my best to arrange it. Have you had any dinner? You look distressed.”

Standing there on the street looking up at him, I burst into tears.

He held me for a while, letting me cry into his lapels. Then he said briskly, “If you aren’t starving, I am.” He led me to his motorcar and put me inside. Coming around to the driver’s door, he went on, “Where would you like to go?”

“Nowhere. I’ve been crying.”

“So you have.”

He drove through London, through the City, and came out on the far side of the Tower, down toward the river.

It was hardly what anyone would call a restaurant, just a few tables and a counter where during the day workingmen might sit and eat their lunch. Except for one man who looked half asleep at a table by the window, the place was empty. We walked in and Simon nodded to the aproned man who stuck his head out of what must have been the kitchen. Seeing who had come in, he nodded, then disappeared.

We took the table in the far back corner, and I expected to find it dotted with crumbs and spots of grease from the diners before us. But it was spotlessly clean, though worn, and the man reappeared from the kitchen with a cloth for it and our silverware. He brought Simon an ale, and asked what I’d have.

Simon answered for me. “Tea,” he said.

The man disappeared again.

Intrigued, I said, “He knows you?”

“I’ve come here from time to time. He was a cook in the regiment. This was what he dreamed about, a small place of his own where there were never more than twenty people to serve at any one time.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “I can appreciate that.”

“He won’t remember you. We’ll leave it that way, shall we?”

Nodding, I said, “What do they serve?”

“Fish. It comes in fresh. He never says from where, but I would guess Essex. There are enough tiny coves and waterways there for a fleet of fishing vessels to hide if they even smell a German ship or U-boat. People have to eat. There’s precious little food as it is.”

“I thought all the channels were mined.”

“Those who saw to it were absentminded.”

We waited in silence until our plates were brought steaming on chargers and smelling heavenly of well-cooked fish, today’s bread, and a surprising array of vegetables.

We began to eat, and I realized just how hungry I was.

Halfway through the meal, I said, “Do you want to know—”

“Not here. Just eat your dinner and put it all out of your mind.”

I did as I was told, grateful actually for the respite.

When we’d finished and I’d drunk my tea, Simon got up to settle his account with the owner, and then we went out to the motorcar, driving back the way we’d come.

He found a place in a street above Trafalgar Square, and we left the motorcar there, walking down to the square and settling
ourselves near the ugly lions. There was no one about, and even the traffic heading down The Mall was light.

“All right. I’m listening,” he said.

I began to talk, slowly at first, then with gathering assurance as he listened without interrupting. When I’d finished, he leaned back against the wall behind him, and considered me.

“You’ve hardly been in England three days, and already you’ve managed to confuse yourself and me.”

I laughed, as he’d intended. Then I said, “What am I to do, Simon? Will any of this help Michael?”

“We need to take what we know to his barrister. Name of Forbes. Find out if the man will listen to us at all. He was in an almighty fury when Hart did what he did.”

“I should think he might have been. He must have felt betrayed. And people like that don’t care to be ignored. It’s losing face in a sense.”

“I’ll try to get in to see Michael. If he’ll see me. But I think he might. You should keep your fingers crossed.”

“Shall I try to see Mr. Forbes?”

He considered me. “A pretty face might have better luck. But I think the evidence in both Victoria Garrison’s case and in Jack Melton’s as well has merit. On the surface they cast doubts, because they are as good as the evidence Herbert gave the Crown. Whether they would hold up if investigated is another matter.”

“Simon, there isn’t time for a lengthy and thorough investigation!” My voice had risen, and a passing constable turned, then walked our way.

“Everything all right, then, Miss?” he asked.

I smiled as best I could. “Sad news, that’s all. Thank you, Constable.”

He nodded and walked off. Simon watched him go then turned back to me.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bess. You’ve done wonders, no
one could have done more. If only we’d known before the trial—but there was no way to know.”

“What you’re saying,” I retorted, “is that the chances are slim to none. And Michael will hang. Well, I won’t be satisfied with exonerating him after his death.”

“You have to face it. Your mother is worried about that. She wonders if you are—too fond of him.”

“I won’t die of a broken heart,” I told him. “But I will have a hard time forgetting.”

“You still must remember one thing, Bess. He may be guilty. There’s always that chance.”

“No,” I said resolutely. “He wouldn’t have killed Marjorie for the reason given. He loved her enough to let her live her life as she chose, even if it included marrying Meriwether Evanson and having an affair with a married man.”

He was silent for a time, his mind a long way away from me. And then he came back and said, “Well. It’s late. I’ve bespoken a bed at my club. Time to return you to the dragon.”

“Mrs. Hennessey isn’t a dragon, and you know it.”

He laughed and gave me a hand to rise. It was warm and comforting. Then we walked in companionable silence to where we’d left the motorcar.

I slept that night, mainly because I was very tired, emotionally drained, and had taught myself to snatch sleep where I could and when I could. That training stood me in good stead once more.

Mary was up making tea before I dragged myself out of bed and walked into the kitchen, drawing the sash of my robe around me.

“Anything new?” she asked casually. And when I didn’t say anything right away, she added, “I did glimpse Simon waiting for you last night.”

Nodding, I told her about seeing Inspector Herbert and then speaking to Helen Calder.

“It’s such a pity that she can’t remember anything really useful about her attack. It would make a difference.”

“We can’t count on it.”

“No. On the other hand, if you want my vote, I’ll plump for Victoria. She’s a nasty piece of work, anyway you look at her.”

“If Jack was Marjorie’s lover, he’s no better. He knew she was married, he knew whom she’d married. It was a malicious thing to do to his wife, never mind Marjorie.”

“I know Jack Melton,” Mary said. “I don’t know Victoria.”

“Be glad. I must go and speak to a Mr. Forbes today. He was Michael’s counsel.”

“Forbes?” She frowned. “I think I went out with his son a time or two. I don’t envy you. He has a reputation for eating prosecution witnesses alive.”

I laughed. “Know where I can find him?”

“Not a clue. I never met him.”

“I’ll try the Inns first.”

“Wear your uniform. It might get you in to see him.”

“Clever thinking.”

I went off to dress, wondering if Mr. Forbes might be in court today. I prayed he wasn’t.

As it happened, when I reached his chambers, not far from the Inns of Court, he was preparing to leave to interview a witness. I was taken down a narrow passage to a room nearly overflowing with briefs and law books, a ladder leaning against the tall shelves, an empty hearth surrounded by a Victorian mantelpiece that would have done justice to a French château, it was so massive, and a desk with nothing more on it than an inkwell, a tray of pens, a blotter, and a small statue of blind justice sitting on a Purbeck marble base.

Mr. Forbes regarded me with impatience, which was rather more
daunting than lack of interest. He was a spare man with graying hair that would have suited an Oxford don, overly long and quite thick. The spectacles he wore hid sharp blue eyes that were unpleasantly piercing.

A feeling of unspecified guilt materialized from out of nowhere and swept over me.

When I told him my reason for coming, he said shortly, “Lieutenant Hart made his decision. He took the case in the direction he chose, not the one I was prepared to follow. He refused any appeal. Young Mr. Hart is a fool. I washed my hands of him.”

“Give me five minutes of your time, Mr. Forbes, and then tell me what advice you would give him now.”

“Young woman, I don’t know what reason you have to involve yourself in the affairs of a man condemned by his own words and sentenced to hang, but I suspect that if your parents knew you were here today, they would be appalled.”

“Colonel Crawford is well aware of what I am doing.” Well, not completely, but he knew how I felt about getting to the bottom of things. And I knew he’d back me up, then lecture me privately. “The question is a very simple one, Mr. Forbes. Do you believe that Lieutenant Hart is guilty, despite his chances of acquittal on all charges?” When he didn’t answer, I added, “Do you believe that Michael Hart deliberately set out to damage your reputation by changing his plea at the last minute? Or did he act out of despair and a misguided attempt to protect Marjorie Evanson’s good name?”

He stood up, looming over me, his mouth a long, thin line. And then he said, “I suggest you leave while I remember that you are young and in love.”

“I am not in love,” I told him, taking my courage in both hands and remembering that an attack is often the best line of defense. “I have certain facts to present to you. And you may well discover that they have some merit to them. But you won’t know if you don’t
listen to them. It could be that Michael Hart hangs on the day allotted. I’ll be back in France by that time. But I should like to see his name cleared in the end. That’s probably all I can do for him. I believe he deserves that final redemption.”

I wasn’t sure where the words had come from. They were suddenly there on the tip of my tongue, and my emotions were already running high.

Mr. Forbes sat down again. “Very well.” He took out his pocket watch and set it on the table before him. “You have your five minutes, Miss Crawford. Proceed.”

I was certain he’d agreed because he thought that I would make a fool of myself, stumbling over emotional attempts to be clever. Then he could put me in my place and show me the door.

He had overlooked the fact that I was a nurse and accustomed to thinking clearly in a crisis.

I collected myself, as I had done in Inspector Herbert’s small office, and outlined, as I had done there, the case against Jack Melton. And then with equal brevity, I outlined the case against Victoria Garrison.

Mr. Forbes sat there listening with his eyes on the watch before him, nothing in his face indicating whether he was actually heeding me or simply marking time.

I finished and rose to go. I could see his watch—I still had thirty seconds of my five minutes.

“You would do better,” he said before I was out of my chair, “to have taken your facts to Scotland Yard.”

“I did present my arguments regarding Commander Melton to Inspector Herbert. Sadly, I didn’t know about Mr. Garrison’s will, or I would have told him about Victoria Garrison as well. Did you know that Mrs. Evanson’s solicitor couldn’t find her will? The staff told us that she was considering changing it. She had a child to protect, and she must not have been certain her husband would accept it. Perhaps
she wanted something from its father too—a promise to recognize it, as the price of his own sins. After all, the Meltons have no children.”

Mr. Forbes said, “Miss Crawford. Casting doubt on the facts of the case will not help Lieutenant Hart. I remind you. He confessed. Of his own free will, in open court.”

“Then what would stop this execution?”

“If Mrs. Calder remembers the night she was stabbed and can tell the police who attacked her. Assuming, naturally, that it wasn’t Hart.”

It was so unfair.

“I’ve spoken to her. She’s been made ill by trying to remember. It’s a medical problem, not a parlor game. Is there no other recourse?”

“Of course. Give the police the murderer himself. Or herself.”

I thought he was playing with me now. That made me angry.

After a moment, he added, “I know Mr. Melton. I refuse to believe he’d kill someone, even in anger.”

“Then you should never have taken Michael Hart’s brief,” I retorted.

I’d failed. But Mr. Forbes’s remark most certainly reinforced the fact that Jack Melton, fearing damage to his own reputation, had sent his brother to meet Marjorie Evanson.

Mr. Forbes picked up his watch, restored it to his pocket, and made a fuss of settling the chain across his vest. I thought my words had stung, a little.

I rose and walked to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Forbes.”

My hand was on the knob when Mr. Forbes said, “You must also surmount the obstacle of Lieutenant Hart’s refusal to be helped.”

I turned to stare at him, accepting for the first time the fact that Michael would hang.

“Someone should have reminded him that while he’s being gallant and selfish, Marjorie Evanson’s murderer will live a long and happy life,” he added.

I quietly closed the door behind me. As I walked down the passage past the clerks’ rooms, I told myself that I’d done everything that was humanly possible. I could do no more.

Nevertheless, I refused to be reconciled to Michael’s fate.

As I stepped out into blindingly bright sunlight after the dim, paneled walls I’d just left, Mr. Forbes’s words echoed in my head.

Give the police the murderer himself. Or herself.

And that was going to be a challenge.

For a fleeting moment I wondered if Mr. Forbes had meant it to be.