An Impartial Witness (31 page)

After the briefest hesitation, Simon sat down again. But I could tell he didn’t like it.

I followed Inspector Herbert to the door of the office, and he held it for me, then shut it behind me.

“You’ve been busy,” he said. “And stubborn.”

“I had to be sure you were hanging the right man.”

His smile was a grimace. “Why are you here with Jack Melton? It appears that he and Sergeant-Major Brandon have bruises on their faces and hands. Tell me why.”

I explained what had happened. “I sent for you,” I ended, “because you knew what it was I feared, and why. Otherwise what happened tonight seems inexplicable. But Jack Melton
was
in my flat, and he was armed, and I was there alone. I could have been badly hurt, like Helen Calder, or killed, like Marjorie Evanson. Tell me why this man was in my flat? I can’t think of any reason except the fact that I knew too much about what he’d done. I didn’t invite him there—Mrs. Hennessey can tell you I was in my nightgown when she came out of her flat to find Simon Brandon trying to stop Jack Melton from escaping.”

He had listened patiently, his eyes on my face.

“I was out concluding a case when you came to Scotland Yard tonight. I returned to find your message. I went to Little Sefton, to have a look at that revolver while I could. When did you see Miss Garrison?”

I explained about my visit yesterday—was it yesterday?—and speaking to the Harts before going to see Victoria. I touched on her threat.

“And you tell me she was alive and well when you left her?”

“Yes, of course. Sergeant-Major Brandon can confirm that. And the Harts, indirectly.” I felt the first surge of unease. “Why?”

“When I arrived in Little Sefton, I found the local constable, a man named Tilmer, in Miss Garrison’s house. The sound of a shot had been reported to him, and he was investigating it when he discovered her lying on the floor of her sitting room. There was a revolver by her hand, and on the desk, a sheet of paper and an uncapped pen. It appeared she was preparing to write a note, then stopped.”

“Victoria—Miss Garrison—is dead?” I hadn’t liked her. She’d been destructive and cold and willing to inflict hurt. But her death shocked me. “But I don’t understand—” I couldn’t imagine her taking her own life. There was too much hate in her. People killed themselves for all sorts of reasons, but not for hate.

“A Mrs. Whiting reported that a motorcar stopped in front of her house. Her dog barked, and she looked out. The car stayed there for half an hour, then left. She didn’t know the motorcar, she didn’t know where the driver went. But the shot was heard before the motorcar drove away. Any thoughts on that?”

“I don’t believe I’ve met Mrs. Whiting, but I must have heard her dog bark when I was walking by in the mist. There aren’t that many motorcars in Little Sefton. She’d know most of them.”

“Do you think that Miss Garrison was killed by Melton?”

“It’s possible. I think he was afraid her anger would lead her to say things she shouldn’t. He wants Michael to hang, you see. And the case closed.”

“But there’s nothing to indicate it wasn’t suicide.”

I shook my head. “She wouldn’t. I just know—”

“Hardly evidence to present in a courtroom.”

“I don’t know how Jack Melton got to my flat. There must be a motorcar somewhere.”

He looked at me and then excused himself, leaving me there in the cluttered little office. And then he was back, asking me again to go over what had happened in the flat. I told my story a second time.

Inspector Herbert thanked me, accompanied me to the reception area, and then asked for Mrs. Hennessey. For a moment she looked a little confused and frightened, then her back straightened and she marched ahead of him like a Christian on her way to meet the lions.

I didn’t look at or speak to Simon. After ten minutes, Mrs. Hennessey came back, chatting comfortably with Inspector Herbert about “her girls,” and he thanked her for her assistance.

Simon was the last to be taken away, and he was gone for a very long time. Jack Melton, restless and impatient, his hands no longer tied, took out his watch three times. And then Simon was back, his face inscrutable.

Finally it was Jack Melton’s turn.

I watched dawn creeping in the station windows, the lamps paling before the sun’s growing brightness. The dingy paint and the wooden benches seemed shabbier than before, the floorboards scuffed and worn. There was no money, no paint, no men to wield brushes, and all of us had realized slowly but surely that the cost of war was reflected in many small ways no one had ever imagined in the autumn of 1914 when it had all begun.

Inspector Herbert returned, nodded to Simon and Mrs. Hennessey, and then said to me, “Mr. Melton is for the moment helping us with our inquiries. I see no reason for you to stay any longer. You must be very tired.”

“I’d like to know,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “what’s to come of this matter. Whether Mr. Melton will be released—whether I will be in danger again.”

He said wearily, “It’s been a long night, Miss Crawford. But I think it is safe to say that you have little to fear from Mr. Melton in the future.”

“You’ll compare that knife with the wounds Mrs. Evanson and Mrs. Calder suffered?”

“I think I know how to handle this inquiry.”

“Do you—did he kill Victoria? I’m leaving for France—please, won’t you tell me?”

“I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” he said. “My advice to you is to go home and go to bed, and leave this matter in our hands.”

I stood there, trying to find the words to ask him if this would have any bearing on Michael Hart’s case.

But he turned away, shook hands with Simon, thanked Mrs.
Hennessey again, and walked back to the door of the small room where he’d interviewed us, shutting it firmly behind him. Was Jack still there, waiting? Or had they taken him away, out another door, where we couldn’t see?

I looked at Simon, but he shook his head, and I followed Mrs. Hennessey out the door toward Simon’s motorcar.

We drove in silence back to the house, and then Mrs. Hennessey said, “I don’t know when I’ve been so tired. Bess, dear, do you think you could make a cup of tea for all of us? It would help me rest.”

I wanted nothing more than my own bed, but we went into her small flat and I made tea while Simon found bread, sliced and buttered it, and added a small bottle of preserves to the tray. Mrs. Hennessey, her face lined with weariness, sat and watched us. I wondered if she was afraid, just now, to be alone, in spite of the daylight sifting through her lace curtains.

Pretending to eat, I managed to swallow a little of the bread with a bit of marmalade preserve perched on one corner, and I drank my tea. Surprisingly, it did make me feel much better.

Mrs. Hennessey wanted to know why that man, as she called Jack Melton, should wish to break into her house and attempt to murder one of her nursing sisters.

Simon said circumspectly, “It has to do with one of Bess’s patients. I shouldn’t worry about it. Melton is likely to find himself in far more trouble than he expected.”

“But you were here, I didn’t understand how you could have been here. I have quite strict rules, you see.”

Simon’s glance met mine. “I followed him into the house.”

That made perfect sense to her. She nodded, and addressed her food with an appetite, finishing her tea, then turning to Simon once more, asking him if he should care to rest on her settee before going back to Somerset.

He promised her again that all would be well, and I washed up,
tucked Mrs. Hennessey into her bed, and shut the door behind me when I had finished.

Simon was waiting on the stairs, sitting there as I’d seen him sit so many times in India, able to sleep without lying down or losing touch with his surroundings. I myself had learned to do much the same in the field, catching what little rest I could when I could.

He looked up as I shut the door of Mrs. Hennessey’s flat.

“I asked him what this would mean for Michael Hart’s situation. He said that at the moment he could see no connection.”

I didn’t need to ask who Simon meant. Inspector Herbert. “Did he tell you that Victoria had shot herself? I don’t believe it for an instant! Oddly enough, I’d warned her about Jack. And surely there is some way to see if this was the same knife that killed Marjorie. It’s out of the ordinary, he had a collection of American weapons. The postmortem—”

“Perhaps it would be wise to see that Mr. Forbes is told that Melton is in custody and why.”

“He wasn’t interested before,” I said.

“Because it was only your word, without proof or the sanction of an arrest. Try again.”

That made sense even to my tired mind.

“I’ll write it now,” I said, pushing away any thought of my pillow. “And I’ll deliver it personally.”

“No. Let me deliver it. His clerk won’t turn me away.”

“And then, Simon, I want to go home.”

I heard the plaintive note in my voice, in spite of every effort to suppress it.

“Give me four hours. Then we’ll see to the letter before leaving London,” he promised.

I looked over my shoulder. “If he’s released—if he can talk his way out of this night’s work—will Mrs. Hennessey be safe? I have a feeling he’s cleaning house.”

“She’s not important to him. You are. That’s why it’s best for you to leave London and let Inspector Herbert sort this out.”

I went up the stairs, righted the chair that I’d left overturned, braced my door, and sat down at the table that served as a writing desk.

Two tries and a lot of thought later, I’d finished what I felt was a fair representation of the night’s events.

By that time it was half past nine. I got myself together, went lightly down the stairs so as not to rouse Mrs. Hennessey, and went to find a cab. I was lucky on the third try, and I gave the driver Helen Calder’s address.

The maid answered, and I apologized for calling so early but begged to see Mrs. Calder on urgent business.

After a wait of some minutes, I was taken to Helen Calder’s bedroom. She was awake and lying on a chaise longue with a coverlet over her knees. She was dressed, this time, and not in her bed, but her face was still wan, without spirit.

She greeted me warmly, looked again at my face, and said with concern, “Bess, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so weary.”

“It’s been a long night, Helen. Is there any way you can be sure who was waiting for you when you were stabbed?”

“I’ve tried, my dear. Heaven knows I’ve spent hours trying to remember.”

Which was sometimes the wrong way to go about it, but that was neither here nor there.

“Jack Melton tried to kill me last night. And it’s possible he murdered Victoria, though the police at the moment aren’t certain whether it was suicide or murder.”

Her eyes were wide with alarm. “Are you all right?” She looked me over, as if expecting to find bandages bulging beneath my coat or my skirt.

“I was lucky. I got away. But it could have ended very differently. The police have Jack Melton in custody, and are talking to him.” I
hoped I was right, and he was still there at the police station. “I don’t think you have anything to fear from him, but a word of warning. If he’s given bail, turn Jack Melton and his wife from your door, if they come here. Just to be safe.”

She said, “Are you suggesting that it was Mr.
Melton
who attacked me? Not Michael Hart?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. Yes, I believe it’s possible. Whether it’s right or not, I don’t know. I hope the police are looking at the possibility that the knife he had with him when he attacked me could have been used to kill Marjorie and wound you. But that may not match after all. I’m just suggesting prudence.”

Frowning, she said, “Yes, prudence by all means. I’m so confused.”

“You mustn’t be.” I rose to leave. It wouldn’t do for Simon to find I was not there at the flat. “It’s for the police to look into these things. And to make interpretations. We can only trust to them to find the truth.”

Helen Calder said earnestly, “I have given so much thought to what happened to me—because I don’t want to believe it was Michael. I don’t wish the Meltons any harm. I have no reason to want them to go through what I’ve gone through over Marjorie’s death. But the truth will be a blessing, Bess. Poor Victoria, I’m sad for her, and I wish her life could have turned out differently. I think in the end her father punished both his daughters for what they had done between them to ruin his marriage. I think as he aged, he drew into himself and wanted to believe he hadn’t been wronged by his wife.”

I said good-bye, and she replied, “Will Michael die?”

“God knows. And the Crown.”

She nodded, and I saw that her eyes were heavy with tears as I shut the door.

I was back at the flat a mere fifteen minutes before Simon came to fetch me. I looked in on Mrs. Hennessey, made her a fresh pot of tea, and set the tray across her knees before saying good-bye.

“You’re going back to France again. Do be safe, my dear child. I will pray for you.”

“Mary will be here tomorrow or the next day. Tell her good-bye for me as well.”

And then I was gone, out the door, into Simon’s motorcar, and we were on our way to Mr. Forbes’s chambers. Simon said nothing, and when we had found a place to leave the motorcar, he went in with the letter in his hand.

I had wanted to do it myself, I had wanted to see this finished. But he was right. He would hand the sealed envelope marked
Private and Confidential
to Mr. Forbes’s clerk, and the clerk would hand it to Mr. Forbes. And it would be read.

We drove on to Somerset, and were silent for most of the journey. I slept a part of the way, finally giving in to the need for a little respite.

It wasn’t until we were pulling into the drive that Simon said again, “You have done all you can. And Inspector Herbert will not wish to have an innocent man’s death on his hands. We must leave this to Scotland Yard and Mr. Forbes. If, in spite of everything, Michael Hart goes to the gallows as scheduled, it is his choice, Bess. You must see that and respect it.”

I touched my face with my hands, as if to relieve the pressure I felt behind my eyes.