Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

She went in search of her husband and his guests.

A silence filled the room after she'd gone. I realized the sun now coming through the window was warm on my feet. I shifted a little in my chair.

Everyone looked at me as if I were about to speak.

Finally Mary said, "I didn't know where to look when she was talking about Marjorie."

Patricia said, her voice irritable, "We'd be liars if we didn't admit that we've been curious about what happened."

"Well, she certainly put paid to any more gossip, didn't she? I think we all must have had in the back of our minds that Marjorie must have done something to lead to her death. Making her as guilty as whoever killed her," Cynthia said. "The police should have made it clear about the missing brooch. It would have quelled a good deal of speculation and talk."

I put my knitting into its bag and said, "I'm cross-eyed from counting stitches. At least the sun has come out. It will be good to walk a little after tea."

The others turned to me as if I'd changed the subject on purpose. Which I had.

Lying awake in my bed that night long after Mary was asleep, I considered Serena's lie about the brooch.

It had been a foolish thing to do. She was bound to be found out when Marjorie's murderer was caught and tried. I couldn't help but wonder what other lies she might have told people who came too close to the mark, as Cynthia had done.

And Cynthia Newley had brought up a very interesting point. That if Marjorie was meeting a man in places where neither of them was known, she was outside that safe circle of acquaintances and familiar surroundings that made it possible for women to move about London on their own. If her murderer had come from those shadows, the chances of finding him would be very slim indeed.

On the other hand, if the killer wasn't a stranger, Serena was running a risk openly digging for information. Just as one of her guests might unwittingly know this person, one of them might just as unwittingly tell him how close Serena was coming to uncovering the truth.

None of her efforts would bring her brother back to her, even if she could personally hand Marjorie's killer over to the police.

I was surprised that Jack Melton hadn't reined in her attempts to question his guests. But perhaps he saw this as a harmless way to deflect her grief and anger. And he could always say, later, "You must remember how recent it was, and how upset she's been, especially since the police have got nowhere."

I drifted into sleep and dreamed not of murderers but of India. It's strange how smells and sounds come back so vividly in a dream. The dust, ancient and full of an exotic mix of scents from dung to rare spices. The muffled sounds of car wheels in the distance, harness bells jingling, and the creak of wood as the oxen put their shoulders into pulling. The feel of the dry wind on one's face, just before the monsoon rains come. Voices in a bazaar, a dozen different dialects, all talking at once. I was back in a familiar and happy past, safe in a world I knew so well, my father walking through the compound gate, Simon Brandon at his heels.

Sunday morning it rained again. Not just the occasional shower, but a hard steady rain that had no intention of going away.

Most of us went with Serena to attend morning services at St. Ambrose Church in Diddlestoke, and listened to a homily on faith in times of trouble. The rector, aptly named Mr. Parsons, was eloquent. Most of the congregation were wearing black, although the Government had tried to persuade people to eschew mourning, to keep up the spirits of those at home as well as the returning wounded. My blue uniform coat stood out among them.

On the walk home, I asked if anyone knew someone in the Wiltshires, adding casually, "I haven't heard from friends in a while. Are they facing serious opposition? Should I be worrying?"

There was a general shaking of heads. Lieutenant Bellis added, "I shouldn't, if I were you. Your letters probably haven't caught up with you yet."

I had to leave it there.

Jack and Serena had gone ahead, to see that breakfast was ready for us, and afterward we played bridge. It was fun at first, but then the friendly bickering grew more strident as the better players argued over each hand. I lost interest and wandered away.

Captain Truscott was a tall, thin man suffering from nerves. His hands shook as he dealt the cards, almost like a palsy. No one had said anything as he twice dropped cards, or his fork fought to find his mouth at meals. But his mind was sharp and his sense of humor intact.

He too was soon banished from the tables, and he came in to join me in the music room. He'd asked me earlier to call him Freddy.

"May I join you?" he asked politely.

"Of course. This is a sanctuary for hopeless bridge players."

He laughed. "Do you play?" He gestured toward the piano.

"Not as well as I should like." Pianos are delicate creatures and dislike being shipped around the world, much less being carted from cantonment to cantonment on the backs of camels or in swaying oxcarts, absorbing dust and monsoons in equal measure. Lessons were possible only when my mother could find an instrument in fair enough tune to make learning the rudiments of playing even possible. She has perfect pitch, and I realized much later what agony of spirit she must have endured, even trying to pass on a little of her skill to her only daughter.

Captain Truscott walked across the room, sat down at the piano, adjusted his chair a little, and began to play.

Freddy, I discovered, was amazingly gifted, his hands steady and sure on the keys. I came to join him, turning pages in the music he'd found. It was a pleasure to listen to him.

He smiled up at me, but I could see his mind was elsewhere, as if the music reached deep inside.

As he moved on to another piece, this one from memory, he said, "Marjorie Evanson liked to listen to my playing. Her husband was Serena's brother. A pilot. They don't have much of a record for longevity. Marjorie formed a sort of club for women who were the wives or widows of fliers. They met once a week in her London house to give each other support and comfort."

Something else I didn't know about this woman.

"Who has taken over the group now?"

He shrugged. "I hope someone has. But she was the driving force. It may have collapsed without her."

Moving effortlessly to another piece, this one an Irish ballad, the keys rippling softly under light fingers, he fell silent.

Then to my astonishment he said, "There was another man. I don't think Serena knows. But I saw them together some months before Marjorie's death. Two? Three? I'm not sure. At any rate, they were in a small restaurant on the outskirts of Rochester. Not a place I'd expect to find her, but I knew her at once. I'd had a flat, you see, and had to wait for it to be repaired. So I'd come to The Black Horse to have something to eat while I waited. There was a girl with me-she was engaged to someone else and worried about gossip. I was taking her back to London for her fiance, it was completely aboveboard, but you know how people talk."

I could easily see how that might happen. With trains so crowded and having to wait for troop-train priority, everyone asked for lifts from someone going their way.

"Did Marjorie see you?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure she did. She was facing the door as I stepped into the room. She looked away at once, and I backed out, telling Nancy I didn't care for the restaurant after all. I couldn't see the man she was with. His back was to me, the lights were dim, and there must have been something wrong with the chimney, because there was a smoke haze hanging about. I knew it wasn't Meriwether, but that's about it. The man was dark, and looked to be about my height. Before Marjorie saw me, they had their heads together in a way that seemed rather-intimate, if you know what I mean."