An Impartial Witness (27 page)

I
WALKED NEARLY
a mile before I looked for a cab to take me back to the flat.

I needed the exercise to counteract the depression settling over me. But it did little to help. I reminded myself that men could be incredibly stubborn and unconscionably blind at times, and that also failed to bring me any consolation.

Would Simon Brandon have any better luck talking to Michael in his prison cell?

Simon could be very persuasive when he wished to be.

But chances were, Michael had already reconciled himself to dying. I’d seen soldiers do that—make peace with the knowledge that they would very likely not survive, so that survival didn’t enter into any decisions that they would have to make on the battlefield.

As the cab made its way around Buckingham Palace and the Royal Mews, turning toward Mrs. Hennessey’s house and the flat, I looked out at the afternoon sunlight slanting across London’s landmarks, and wondered what to do next. I felt at a loss, with no purpose.

How does one find a murderer in a matter of a few days?

In my careful reconstruction of the evidence against Jack Melton and Victoria Garrison, there had to be a flaw. But where?

I closed my eyes, reviewing everything I’d said.

And then I sat back in the cab, breathless for a moment.

Everything had fit to perfection. Except for one thing. How had Jack Melton known that Michael was intent on speaking to Mrs. Calder? Coincidence? Accident? If I knew the answer to that, I could eliminate him from my quest.

What had driven Jack Melton to murder a second time?

It wouldn’t do to appear at Melton Hall and ask questions. Serena would show me the door, if her husband didn’t.

I bit my lip, thinking. But my mind was a blank.

All right, then, save time and eliminate Victoria Garrison from the role as murderess.

We were just pulling up in front of Mrs. Hennessey’s door. I hastily returned to the present and got out, paying the driver as I did. Above my head, the late-afternoon sun was turning the windows of our flat to gold.

It was the only time beauty entered the sensible little flat designed to be a home for a few of the hundreds of people who had descended on London at the start of the war to work in one capacity or another.

I went inside and climbed the stairs. If only Michael would listen to Simon and decide to help at last in his own defense. Wishful thinking indeed. How many people facing the gallows suddenly proclaimed their innocence? No one would even listen. But at least I could find out what he knew.

I had begun to make myself a cup of tea. Now I set the tin back in the cupboard, put the cup and saucer on the shelf, caught up my coat, and went flying down the stairs.

It made no sense to sit here in London. I needed to talk to Victoria.

I stopped at Mrs. Hennessey’s door and knocked.

She didn’t answer, but as I was about to turn away, the door finally opened. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, she said, “Oh, Bess, dear. I was just doing a little ironing—”

I smiled. She never liked to be caught napping in the afternoon.

“I have to travel to Little Sefton, Mrs. Hennessey. That’s in Hampshire. The train leaves in half an hour. Sergeant-Major Brandon will be coming here looking for me. Will you tell him where I’ve gone? Tell him it’s important or I would have waited.”

“Of course, dear, I’ll listen for his knock. Should you be going on your own like this? You’d make so much better time driving with him, given the way the trains are these days.”

But I had no idea when I could expect him.

“I must hurry if I’m to find a cab. Please don’t forget, Mrs. Hennessey.”

“No, dear.”

And I was out the door, hurrying down the street to the corner by the bakery where I hoped to find a cab. Nothing. I all but ran to the next block, heads turning as I passed more sedate pedestrians.

Finally a cab saw my wave and slowed down just in front of me. “Waterloo Station, if you please,” I said, slamming the door even as I spoke.

It was the same train that Captain Melton had taken, and I nearly missed it. Crowded with soldiers, the corridor filled to capacity, and no seat to be had, I resigned myself to an uncomfortable journey. And then a young private noticed me. “Sister—” He shyly offered me his place in the first compartment.

Thanking him, I sat down, struggling to catch my breath. Scraps of conversation floated around me and over my head, but I paid no attention. I was hoping that Mrs. Hennessey wouldn’t fall asleep again and miss Simon’s knock at her door.

Settling myself at last, I watched the outer villages of London slip past and the sun begin to sink in the west, a great red ball of flame that cast long shadows over already misty landscapes. Lights were coming on in village houses facing east, and in the increasingly frequent farms. The weathervane on a church spire reflected the sun long after the churchyard below it lay in purple shadow.

Too beautiful an evening to be hunting a murderer.

The soldier on my left asked where I was going, and I smiled to myself. He was very young. I must have been two years his senior at the very least, but he was tall, broad shouldered, and about to do a man’s job. So I listened to his stories about growing up in the Fen country and how different it was from the scenery turning dark before our eyes.

And then Great Sefton was the next stop, and I turned to wish him well, wondering if one day I’d see him in a surgical theater, or if he would even survive his first weeks in the trenches.

The lamps were lit in the station as I stepped down from the train, and I went inside to ask the stationmaster if he could find someone to take me to Little Sefton.

“I’ll be glad to, Miss.” He finished the list he had been making, looked at his pocket watch and then the waiting-room clock. “If you’ll have a seat on that bench, I’ll find Sam.”

He came back a few minutes later with a girl of perhaps seventeen driving a dogcart. She smiled at me as I stepped out of the station.

“Here you are, Miss,” he said. “Sam will see you safe to Little Sefton.”

I thanked him and opened the gate of the cart, stepping in and taking my seat.

“Do you drive people to Little Sefton often?” I asked.

“Fairly often. My father kept a carriage for station use, but the horses were taken away. I’ve got only the pony left.”

We trotted out of Great Sefton, leaving behind a comfortable little town that had a pretty High Street and a handsome church set on a green up the hill from it. As the air cooled with sunset, a mist rose, turning the dark countryside a ghostly gray. The lanterns on either side of the cart seemed to encircle us in a soft, dancing light as the flames flickered. But if the mist worried Sam or her pony, neither showed any sign of it.

“Do you know Victoria Garrison?” I asked, to pass the time.

“Miss Garrison? Yes, she used to travel to London frequently, but
that stopped after several months. She said she was bored with the company.”

“In London?”

“Oh, yes indeed. I couldn’t imagine being bored with London. I’d give much to go there myself. But my mum says she can’t do without me, and besides, London is a pitfall for the unwary.” She laughed as she said it. “I’m the youngest, and she holds on tight.”

“Yet she allows you to drive strangers in the dark.”

“It’s safe enough. Mr. Hale, the stationmaster, wouldn’t call me out if he didn’t think it was all right.”

Which sounded like a good enough plan. I could see she managed the pony with ease on the dark road, and knew the way so well she could see it in her head, every dip and twist, every turn, and how long the straight sections were. The pony too was at home out here in the dark. I wasn’t sure I would like driving back to Great Sefton alone—even though it couldn’t be more than three miles. But Sam seemed to like the night and the silence.

We came into Little Sefton on the far side of the village from the part of it I knew best, passing closed shops and even a small pub, light from its windows spilling out into the dark street, turning the mist to a murky orange. The shops thinned and houses took their place, and I caught a glimpse of the church through a tear in the mist.

“Where were you thinking of being put down?” Sam asked, slowing the pony from a trot to a walk.

Suddenly I didn’t feel comfortable walking up to Victoria Garrison’s door. I realized I should have waited for Simon. But it was already late, and by the time he reached Little Sefton, everyone could be in bed.

“Um. Do you know the Hart house?”

“Yes, indeed. I see him doing his banking in Great Sefton. He always has a kind word. I heard his nephew is to be hanged next week. Sad, that. I don’t ever remember having a murderer in this part of the county.”

“Sad, indeed,” I said.

She drew up in front of the house, but it appeared to be dark to me, as if the Harts were away or had retired early. “Wait here, will you, for a moment? I’m not sure anyone is at home.”

“Dark as the grave,” she agreed, and I stepped down.

I walked out of the cart’s comforting pool of misty lantern light and up to the door. I could feel the clinging mist, and shivered, glad of my coat. I found the knocker, lifted it, and let it fall. It sounded overloud in the night, but that was mostly my imagination. I could feel my nerves taut with what lay ahead.

When no one answered my summons, I tried again. Would anyone answer my knock at this hour? The Harts had grown reclusive—they wouldn’t care to be disturbed—and after all, they had no way of knowing who was at their door.

What to do now?

I lifted the knocker again and gave it a substantial blow against the brass footplate.

I was on the point of turning around and walking back to the cart when I saw a light quivering in the window on the other side of the door. Then the door was opened, the light from a lamp almost blinding me.

“Mr. Hart?” I asked, unable to see who was behind the light.

“Miss Crawford!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “What are you doing here at this hour? Is everything all right? Have you had news of Michael?”

“Could I come in and sit for a while? I want to go to Victoria Garrison’s house, but not just yet. Would you mind?”

“No, certainly not. I forget my manners. Do come in.” As I did, he saw Sam waiting in her cart. “Did you come by train?” he asked me, and when I nodded, he called out, “Thank you, Sam. I’ll drive Miss Crawford back to Great Sefton. Good night.”

She called a good night to him, and then lifted her reins. I heard her soft “Walk on” to the pony, and then I turned back to Mr. Hart.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you. Had you retired for the night?” I asked as he shut the door behind me.

“We’ve taken to sitting in the room at the back of the house.

People see no light and don’t come to call.”

It was a pity that their lives were so changed by what had happened. I thought to myself that if Michael could see and understand this tragedy, he might take a different view of his own actions. But he couldn’t think of anyone but Marjorie.

Mr. Hart led me back to the room where his wife was sitting. As the light preceded us down the passage, she called, “Who was it, dear?”

“Miss Crawford. She’s come to sit with us awhile.”

We had arrived at a sitting room where two other lamps were burning, and I saw Mrs. Hart get to her feet and stand there trembling. “It’s not tonight, is it?” she asked me, as if I had come to share their watch when Michael died.

“I’ve been in London today, Mrs. Hart. I spoke to several people there. I wanted to come and talk to you.”

She sank back into her chair, relief leaving her face pale, her eyes still haunted. “That’s so kind of you, my dear. We were just having tea. Would you like a cup?”

“Oh, yes, please, I would.”

Her husband disappeared and came back shortly with another cup and saucer. She poured a cup for me, and passed the dish of honey and the jug of milk.

The cup warmed my hands. I didn’t know whether it was the night chill or my own anxiety that made them feel cold. I said, “I wonder if you knew the provisions of Mr. Garrison’s will?”

“His will?” Mrs. Hart nodded. “I heard that the bulk of it was divided evenly between Marjorie and Victoria, although the house went to Victoria. Well, not too surprising, as Marjorie had a home of her own in London.”

“Nothing else?” I asked.

“The usual bequests to the servants, and to the church,” Mr. Hart answered this time.

“There was another provision.” And I told them about it.

“I can’t believe—” Mrs. Hart began, as shocked as I had been. “But then in the last year or so of his life, Mr. Garrison didn’t seem to be himself. I put that down to his illness, but perhaps it wasn’t. Spiteful, I call it. Small wonder Victoria never married, although I often wondered if she would have changed her mind if Michael had paid her the least attention.”

Mr. Hart said, “Michael told us you’d said that Marjorie was expecting a child.”

“It would have inherited—the will as I was told about it didn’t specify a child in or out of wedlock, only that it bear Mr. Garrison’s name. Which of course it would do, if Meriwether Evanson refused to acknowledge it.”

“Serves her right,” Mrs. Hart said shortly. “Victoria, I mean.”

Mr. Hart said, “Are you suggesting that Victoria killed Marjorie?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s possible. If she had any reason to believe Marjorie was pregnant, she would have reacted strongly. She stood to lose everything—her house, her income. She would have viewed it not as an unintended pregnancy but as Marjorie’s means of cheating her out of what she believed was rightfully hers. Just how far Victoria would have taken her fury is anyone’s guess.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her to have a spy in Marjorie’s house,” Mrs. Hart said. “It was the sort of thing she would do, since she wasn’t invited there unless there was no way to avoid it.”

Michael had told me he’d helped choose Marjorie’s servants, but that didn’t mean that one of them hadn’t been amenable to bribery for telling tales. I thought about that missing will Marjorie was on the point of changing. A spy would have been richly rewarded for passing on news that Marjorie was suffering from what appeared to be morning sickness and had begun to reconsider her own will.