An Impartial Witness (30 page)

I
DON’T REMEMBER
turning out the light, but I must have done, for I woke up some hours later to find my room dark, with only the star glow from the windows telling me it was still hours until dawn.

I drifted off again, dreaming that I was a witness to Michael’s execution, standing there like stone as he climbed the steps to the gallows and his sentence was read to him by the warden. Then the executioner slipped a black bag over his head. I was thinking that the last thing he’d seen was a bare prison yard and my face. Overhead the sky was cloudy, not even the sun shining for him one last time, and I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. There was a priest just behind Michael’s shoulder, and as he turned to say something to the warden, I recognized Jack Melton’s face. It was he who stepped forward to throw the lever, not the executioner, and I made myself wake up before the trap fell and Michael died.

I lay there breathing hard from the effort, trying to shake the last remnants of the dream.

And then I heard something that brought me wide awake in seconds.

Someone was trying to open the flat door.

Everyone here had a key, unless we were to be away for some time, in which case we often left it with Mrs. Hennessey. Elayne
and Diana weren’t due for leave for a while, and Mary was staying with friends. Pat had been in Egypt these past six months or more. The flat below us was empty as well, its occupants in Poona, India, just now.

I got up very quietly, and stood at the bedroom door, listening. It hadn’t been my imagination. There it was a second time, the scratch of something hard against the plate. It was very dark at the top of the stairs, and finding the keyhole wasn’t always easy.

My flatmates and I could locate it blindfolded, from long experience.

Someone was trying to get into the flat.

My throat was dry now. I ran through a swift inventory of possible weapons.

There was the knife we used to cut bread and make sandwiches, but I didn’t think the blade was stout enough to drive into someone, and I had no intention of getting that close. Diana had a golf club in her room. She was trying to learn to play, and sometimes amused herself by putting into a glass wedged between the door and her trunk. I wasn’t sure I could reach it before whoever it was got the door open. I didn’t want to be caught empty-handed.

My tennis racket wouldn’t do much damage.

Think!

For a fleeting moment I hoped it was Simon, come back to look in on me to be sure I was all right. But he wouldn’t have come upstairs. Not without Mrs. Hennessey in tow. And he would have knocked.

The lock was old, and it didn’t take long to force it open.

Whoever it was stood there on the threshold for a moment, letting his or her eyes adjust to the small amount of light there was in the flat. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

I stood still, not breathing, and heard the rustle of clothes and a first tentative step inside. There were five tiny bedrooms. Which way would he turn?

He made a move toward Diana’s room—nearest the door—and I
caught the flash of light from the window on something in his hand. A knife?

I was barefoot, and it occurred to me that I could reach the flat door quietly and lock the intruder inside, if I was fast enough, before he realized what was about to happen. My fingers searched for my key, which was lying on the bedside table—and they knocked it to the floor.

The clank was so loud it could have awakened the entire street. But I knew it had shocked him, as well. Taking advantage of that, I caught up my hairbrush and ran on silent feet, reaching with the other hand for one of the chairs in the sitting room, sending it spinning across the floor toward Diana’s bedroom as I went. It too seemed to make a tremendous racket, and I heard someone swear as he tripped over it.

I had reached the open door. I was out of it in a flash, slamming it shut behind me and flinging the hairbrush over the banister to skitter its way down the stairs for all the world like flying feet. But before I could turn the key and then conceal myself in the shadowy alcove on the opposite side of our door, it was flung open. In the same instant, a hand came over my mouth and an arm encircled my waist, lifting me off my feet, shoving me into the alcove. Frantic, I began to kick. But just as suddenly I was released, and as I regained my balance, whirling to defend myself, I realized with astonishment that I was alone and someone was clattering down the stairs. No,
two
people—

My intruder was trying to escape. But who was at his heels? I rushed to the top of the stairs and leaned over the banister to peer into the dark well below.

And then in the faint light from the windows by the street door, I saw the second figure make a flying leap to close the distance between them and take the other figure in a headlong fall down to the entrance hall.

There were flailing fists and feet, grunts and a curse broken off in midsentence. I went down the stairs after them, and reached the
bottom just as the two men crashed into Mrs. Hennessey’s door, then rebounded into the far wall.

“He’s got a knife—” I exclaimed, and then saw that it was in the hand pinned high against the wall, a long, wicked blade that wavered, then flew from open fingers as the intruder cried out. He was spun around as the knife slid across the floor, and the two struggling men went thudding into the outer door. I could just see the knife, and I dashed forward to pick it up, then moved out of the way. Just as I did, the sound of a fist hitting hard and landing squarely sent one of the combatants staggering back to collapse at the foot of the stairs, almost colliding with my bare feet.

The fight had been all the more deadly for being so silent, and not knowing who had won, I slid along the wall, groping for the entry light switch.

Simon Brandon turned swiftly toward me, blinking in the brightness of the light. I reached out to touch him, needing to be sure he was all right—there was blood on his cheekbone, just under his right eye. He said, “You should have stayed in your room. I wouldn’t have let him reach you.”

He put a hand on my shoulder—a comradely gesture I’d seen many times among soldiers—and then his fingers gripped hard before releasing me.

He gave his attention to the man who had fallen on his face by the stairs. After a moment, he turned him over with one foot, wary of a trick, and I knew as I saw his profile that it was Jack Melton. I looked at the vicious knife in my hand and shivered.

“He came to kill me.”

Simon, his voice brusque, said, “He had to. You asked too many questions. You might have overturned—”

Mrs. Hennessey was opening her door, her hair in a long gray plait down her back and a cast-iron frying pan in one hand, shouting, “I’ll have the police on the lot of you for breaking into my house—” And then her voice quavered to a stop.

She saw me standing there barefoot and in my nightgown, that wicked knife still gripped tightly in my hand, and then her gaze moved on to Simon, breathing hard by the door and examining bruised knuckles. I couldn’t think when I’d seen him so angry. She stopped at the sight of Jack Melton, still slumped where he’d fallen, showing no signs of regaining his senses.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hennessey,” I said quickly, trying to reassure her. “That man by the stairs broke into my flat. Simon stopped him before he could do any harm.”

“Men aren’t allowed upstairs,” she said primly, and I felt a rising bubble of nervous laughter—the reaction to what had just happened—and I quickly suppressed it.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hennessey,” I began. “I didn’t want him there, I assure you. He’s killed at least one person, and injured another rather badly. If you’ll hand me a coat or something, I’ll see if I can find a constable.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she told me. “Go upstairs at once and dress, you can’t be seen down here like that. I’ll find the constable.”

At a look from Simon, I did as I was told. It didn’t bother me going up those dark stairs to dress, knowing that Simon was there by the outer door and Jack Melton was beyond harming anyone for the moment. But I wondered how I was going to feel later, when the dark at the top of the stairs, once friendly and safe, loomed ahead of me and I couldn’t see what was in the shadows.

I dressed in record time, still buttoning my sleeves as I hurried down the steps again.

Simon had found some rope somewhere, probably from Mrs. Hennessey’s flat, and had tied Jack Melton’s wrists. He was busy now with the man’s ankles, and none too gently.

I said to Simon after a glance at Jack Melton, “What were you doing upstairs? You know it’s not permitted.”

“I told you, I didn’t like the idea of your staying in London. I
left the motorcar round the corner and came back. Mrs. Hennessey was nowhere to be seen. So I waited in that dark corner you yourself were going to use. But we won’t tell her that, if you please. I was down here in the entry.”

Jack Melton was just beginning to stir, shaking his head to clear it, then coming to the conclusion that his hands were bound. He tried to stand up, saw his ankles were tied as well, and slumped back against the stairs. Raising his head, he glared at me. I was reminded then of his brother, any charm erased by cold anger.

“You were in my way at every turn,” he said through clenched teeth. I thought his jaw must ache—I hoped it did. Simon had hit him very hard.

The outer door opened, and Mrs. Hennessey was back with Constable Vernon, a burly man with a square face and large hands. I’d seen him often on the street, and he’d nodded in passing. He came into the hall now and looked to Simon for an explanation.

Simon introduced himself, pointed to me, and said, “This man tried to kill the young woman you see there. The knife he was carrying is there on the table. Mrs. Hennessey can swear that Sister Crawford is one of her lodgers. And I’m here in place of her father, Colonel Crawford, who is presently in Somerset.”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Hennessey said, nodding. “I know her family.”

“If you’ll go upstairs to my flat, you’ll see how he broke in. I was lucky to escape.” I shivered in spite of myself. “Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard knows this man,” I ended, pointing to Jack Melton. “He’ll confirm everything we’ve said.”

The constable nodded. “You can be sure we’ll notify him.”

No one had said anything about Michael Hart. But I was beginning to think we could at least hope. I felt almost giddy with relief.

After inspecting both locks, the constable took Jack Melton into custody, and the rest of us accompanied him to the nearest station where I told a sergeant my story, supported by Mrs. Hennessey and
Simon. I realized that Mrs. Hennessey was the one they listened to most intently, their impartial witness. Little did they know.

Jack Melton said nothing, his head down, his shoulders stiff with suppressed anger, refusing to give his name.

Simon quietly supplied it, trying to keep me in the background. Then he added, “I suggest you send for Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard. He may have an interest in this man.”

“That will take some time,” the sergeant on night duty said, looking from Jack Melton back to Simon. He was a middle-aged man, face lined and hair graying.

“It doesn’t matter,” Simon answered him. “Just see to Mr. Melton, and we’ll be happy to wait.”

The sergeant turned to me. “Were you harmed, Miss? You say he came into your flat. Did he hurt you?”

“The flat was dark. I didn’t even know who was there—a man, a woman—but I saw the flash of what I thought was a knife. And so I ran, slamming the door while he was in one of the other bedrooms looking for me. He followed me but I was hidden, and I threw my hairbrush down the stairs so he’d think I’d gone that way.”

“Why did you believe you’d seen a knife?’

“I was afraid, I was alone in the flat, Mrs. Hennessey was on the ground floor, asleep. And I happened to know Helen Calder, who had nearly died from stab wounds after she was attacked. I didn’t want to be a victim too.”

He considered me for a moment. Then he summoned a constable and gave him quiet instructions. The man left, and we sat there on the hard wooden benches, waiting. There was a large-faced clock high on the wall. I watched the hands creep through the minutes, and then an hour. Simon got up and paced, Mrs. Hennessey nodded where she was, her head sinking to her chest, her breathing heavy. I tried to keep myself from yawning, partly from reaction, and partly from sheer fatigue. Another hour passed, and I realized as I gazed across the room to where Jack Melton sat on one of the benches
along the far wall that his anger had faded, and he was busy thinking, a harshness in his face that made me look away.

He must have followed Michael Hart’s case. He must have known who Inspector Herbert was. He must have realized that he was in an almost untenable position. But he was a very intelligent man, and he was slowly coming to the conclusion that he would be able to talk his way out of this.

The question was, what would he say? And I thought I knew. He would claim that I had invited him to the flat—lured him there—in some foolish, desperate attempt to clear Michael’s name. Everyone knew how hard I’d fought for Michael. And he could swear Simon was a part of the plot.

His head came up and his eyes met mine. I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. I saw the slight smile, as if he’d already won.

We were into the third hour now, and suddenly the outer doors opened and Inspector Herbert walked in, followed by two other men. He nodded to the desk sergeant, glanced at Jack Melton, then turned to me.

“Miss Crawford,” he said.

I realized that he looked very tired. There were circles under his eyes, and lines about his mouth that hadn’t been there before.

I got to my feet. “Inspector.”

Turning to the sergeant, he said, “Is there a room where I could speak to Miss Crawford in private?”

“Just there, sir, second door. Inspector Knoles’s office.”

Inspector Herbert nodded, then waited for me to join him. Simon, who had been sitting next to Mrs. Hennessey, moved to follow us, but Inspector Herbert shook his head.