An Impartial Witness (7 page)

S
IMON GREETED ME,
took my satchel away from me, and walked with me to the motorcar that was waiting outside the station.

My father’s motorcar, in fact.

Simon smiled. “It’s home for you, Miss Crawford. Orders from the Colonel-in-Chief.”

That was my mother. None of us disobeyed her when she issued a command.

I had delivered Dr. Buckley to a doctor waiting for him in the hospital in Portsmouth. Once he’d been settled and the papers I’d been carrying about his condition were handed over to Matron, who took charge of them and Dr. Buckley with quiet efficiency, I had been free to leave.

I was just as glad to be going home again. Standing at the rail of the ship bringing us into Portsmouth, I’d watched the smooth waters of The Solent and the irregular shape of the Isle of Wight rise out of the darkness like some fantastical place in dreams—quiet and peaceful. At the back of my mind, unbidden, were the sounds of that Spandau machine gun firing round after round. And then an officer of the Wiltshire Fusiliers came to stand beside me, looking out toward the busy harbor.

“I miss the lights,” he said without turning. “I could pick out the villages by their lights as we came into port.”

They had been turned off to make the enemy blind. Portsmouth, across The Solent, was a major port and a tempting target for submarines.

I looked up at him, but it wasn’t the face I’d hoped to see.

And that encounter had brought Marjorie Evanson back to mind. I still had her photograph.

Turning to Simon as we drove toward Somerset, I said, “What did you learn about Lieutenant Fordham’s death?”

“It’s still under wraps. A police matter. How did you come to hear about his death? Your letter was brief.”

“I was worried about the censors. Scotland Yard wanted to know if he was the man I’d seen with Marjorie Evanson at the railway station, the day she died.”

“And was he?”

“No. I can’t even be sure he knew Mrs. Evanson. He was just in the same regiment as the officer the Yard is looking for. To help with their inquiries, as they say. Scotland Yard might even have asked me just on the off chance it would connect the two cases. Apparently they haven’t made much progress in finding her murderer.”

“That explains the fact that so little has come to light about Fordham’s death. The Yard kept it out of the newspapers. Did you know that? But then Fordham was from a prominent family. I suspect they’d rather believe he was murdered than that he killed himself. He was a serving officer, recovering from wounds. Suicide smacks of not being able to face going back into the line.”

“Was there an inquest?”

“It was adjourned at the request of the police.”

“I did ask Inspector Herbert for the particulars, when I answered his letter. But he never replied. Where does the Fordham family live, do you know?”

“In Wiltshire. Leave it to the police, Bess.”

“I know. They have more resources, and all that.” I gave the matter some thought, then asked, “Was Lieutenant Fordham married?”

“I don’t know. Bess—”

He turned to look at me, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. And that was when I realized that he was not telling me everything. I know Simon Brandon as well as he knows me.

“There’s something else. What is it, Simon?” He was concentrating on passing a small dogcart driven by a heavyset man asleep on the seat, the pony trotting purposefully toward its destination as if it had done this a thousand times before. I waited until we were safely past pony and cart. “You might as well tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

I smiled. “Must I spend my entire leave making your life miserable, wheedling and pleading and issuing ultimatums?” His profile was like stone. “I’ll even cry.”

He laughed then. “I haven’t seen you cry in years.”

I let it go. We drove in silence for some time.

Finally, Simon said, “All right. A fortnight before he died, Lieutenant Fordham was invited to a weekend party at Melton Hall.”

I stared at him. “Melton Hall? But—” I stopped, then asked, “And did he accept?”

“He refused the invitation.”

There could have been any number of reasons for refusing. But what had Serena Melton made of that?

“How on earth did you discover that?”

“Quite by chance. I was asking someone about Fordham, but she hadn’t seen him for weeks. And then she added that, in fact, she’d just missed him. Apparently she’d attended a party where she’d been looking forward to seeing him—she had heard he was to be a fellow guest. But he never came. When she asked her hostess if he was all right, she was told that Fordham had pleaded another engagement. When she learned afterward that he’d died, she had wondered if his wounds were worse than she knew.”

“I was a guest there one weekend. Simon, he must have known Marjorie—that’s the only reason he’d have been asked to the party.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d jump to conclusions.”

I let it drop. But the rest of the way home to Somerset my mind was busy.

Inspector Herbert had asked me if the face in the photograph was the man I’d seen in the railway station with Marjorie Evanson. And I’d replied that he wasn’t.

Granted, a good deal ot time had passed since that night. But Inspector Herbert must have believed that I could still recognize him. Otherwise, why send the photograph?

If there was some evidence I didn’t know about, why hadn’t he said so? Something that pointed to Lieutenant Fordham, something to show that the man at the station had had nothing to do with Marjorie’s death later that night. Yet he’d asked if they were one and the same.

Surely he wouldn’t simply close the case now, whatever evidence he had uncovered, and never identify Marjorie Evanson’s lover? Yes, Lieutenant Fordham had taken his own life, there could be no trial, the matter could be hushed up and the family’s good name protected. But what about justice for Marjorie and her good name?

The silence, keeping the facts of the lieutenant’s death out of the press, adjourning the inquest—it all made a certain sense whether I was comfortable with it or not.

After all, it was her murderer Scotland Yard wanted. It didn’t matter about her private life if that private life had nothing to do with her death. Even if it had been responsible for her husband’s suicide, the police could wash their hands of the case.

That seemed so unfair to Marjorie, so unfair to her husband, and to the families that grieved for them.

“You’ve been quiet. Are you all right?” Simon was asking as we came down the street and could see the house gates just ahead.

“A little tired, that’s all.”

Thinking that I must be remembering what I’d left behind in
France, he said, “If you need to talk to someone…” He left the rest unfinished.

I thanked him, and then I was being welcomed with open arms. There was no fatted calf, there not being one handy for this occasion or any other, but I was safe and at home.

It wasn’t until after dinner that I found a moment to put through a call to Scotland Yard. I only wanted to be reassured, told that I was wrong about Lieutenant Fordham.

A constable at the other end identified himself and asked how he could help me. I asked for Inspector Herbert.

“Your name, please?”

I gave it.

“I’m sorry, Miss Crawford. Inspector Herbert isn’t in at present.”

“When do you expect him to return?” I asked.

“I can’t say, Miss.”

“Tonight? Tomorrow?”

“I can’t say, Miss.”

I waited for him to ask if there was a message. But there was only silence.

I thanked him and put up the receiver.

Then I went to find my mother.

For someone who had spent most of her married life following my father around the world, she seemed to know half of England.

My father always explained that without any difficulty. “In the first place,” he’d told me soon after we’d returned to Britain, “she needs to know anyone of importance, with an eye to providing you with a suitable husband.”

Shocked, I’d blurted, “I’ll find my own husband, thank you!”

“I’m sure you’ll try,” he’d replied doubtfully. “In the second place, if you’ve never noticed it for yourself, your mother has a winning way. People flock to her, wanting to be her friend. I’ve never understood it, to tell you the truth. But I’ve found that fact helpful more times than I’ve chosen to tell her.”

Laughing, I’d answered, “Come to think of it, you’re right.”

“And lastly, who will people think of the instant they suspect trouble is stalking them? Complete strangers, mind you, but they’ll turn up on our doorstep seeking an audience with your mother for her advice.”

I could clearly remember asking my mother when I was a child in India why there were always people at our door, natives and Europeans alike. She’d answered, “I never know, my dear. I think the wind blows my name to them.”

And for days, I’d watched and listened, hoping to hear her name in the wind for myself.

At the moment, knowing half of England was going to come in handy.

My father had gone out to walk—a habit left over from his days in the Army—and my mother was reading in the small sitting room she used most often.

She looked up. “There you are. I thought there was something on your mind. I sensed it at dinner.” Drawing up another chair, she said, “Is it France?”

“Not France. Do you think, Mother, you could arrange an introduction to someone who lives in or near Little Sefton, in Hampshire?”

“And what, pray, is in Little Sefton that takes you away just as you’ve walked in the door?” my suspicious mother wanted to know.

“It’s where Marjorie Evanson grew up.”

She repeated the name, then said, “Isn’t she the woman who was found murdered in London not so very long ago?” She picked up her knitting.

“In fact, yes. I knew her husband. He died of a broken heart after she was found dead. He had a long recovery ahead of him. Severe burns. I expect he had nothing to live for after that. He was devoted to her.”

“One of your wounded? I see. Meddling again, are you?”

I tried a smile, to see if it would help. “Not so much meddling as trying to understand why the police haven’t made more progress. Or if they have, why they’ve kept it quiet. Most of us live in London peacefully. We aren’t murdered in our beds or on the streets, and tossed into the river.”

“I should hope not,” my mother said, not losing a stitch. “Your father has gone to great lengths to enlist Mrs. Hennessey in his campaign to see you safe.”

I had to laugh. Still, I answered her, “I can take care of myself.”

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I had a flash of memory, of the German pilot firing his machine gun and the bullets tearing up the earth toward me.

“I’m quite sure Marjorie Evanson felt exactly the same,” she reminded me.

“Yes,” I began, ready to argue the point, then thought better of it. “The truth is, I have a photograph of her.” I went on to explain how I had come into possession of it. “I’m not sure—given the circumstances—that Marjorie Evanson’s family will want it any more than Serena Melton did. I thought perhaps I should find out before I sent it.”

“And quite right,” my mother nodded. “Tell me more about this man you saw at the station. Why do you think he’s never come forward?”

“I have no way of knowing whether he has or not. I rather think not. But something happened recently that made me believe the police are looking in the wrong direction.”

“Perhaps he has a good reason for not contacting the police. That’s to say, if he knows they’re looking for him. Either he’s married, or he’s in a position that would make an affair with a married woman bad for his reputation.”

Depend on my mother to reach the heart of the matter.

“It doesn’t speak well for him, I agree.”

“Are the police quite sure he had nothing to do with Mrs.
Evanson’s death?” She turned the heel of the stocking she was knitting. Then she looked up at me.

“They felt it was possible, but not likely. I don’t see how he could have managed it. Once they find him, they’ll know whether he met his ship on time or not.”

“Has it occurred to you, my dear, that if you’re the only person who can identify this man, it might put you in some danger? Especially if he killed Mrs. Evanson. And even if he didn’t.”

“I don’t think it’s very likely that he even knows I exist.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. If you saw
him,
how can you be so certain he didn’t see you standing there staring at the two of them?”

“He didn’t look my way. He was staring straight ahead.”

“But you were looking at Mrs. Evanson.”

A point well taken.

I said, “All the more reason to rid myself of this photograph as soon as may be. And put the Evansons out of my mind.”

But I wasn’t sure I could do that. And so I added, to ease some of the worry I could read in my mother’s eyes, “He could be dead, of course. For all we know.”

“Don’t make excuses for him. And Scotland Yard can find him without your help.”

“The thing is, they have no name, no photograph, only my description.” I sighed. “It’s been long enough now. I have a feeling Mrs. Evanson’s murder will never be solved. And I find that abominable. He was my patient—her husband—and that makes it personal.”

“Yes, you always did have an extraordinary sense of fair play. For better or for worse. Well, perhaps it would be wisest if I helped you, and made certain you don’t come to grief.”

She sat there, staring into space, thinking. I said nothing, almost afraid that if I spoke, she might change her mind.

Finally she said, “Do you remember Dorothea Mitchell?”

“She was a school chum of yours.”

“We’ve kept in touch all these years, and I’ve met her in London a time or two for lunch. I’ll have a word with her.”

I was reminded of what my father had said in his second point about my mother, that she won and kept friends easily.

And so it was that Dorothea Mitchell—now Dorothea Worth—was engaged to find someone in her own vast acquaintance who could provide an introduction into Little Sefton for me. It didn’t take her very long.