Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

I did. And his description matched that of the man I'd seen. "Could you tell if he was in uniform? Anything to indicate rank or regiment?"

He shook his head. "I was too busy beating a hasty retreat. He could have been-"

And at that critical moment, the door opened and Cynthia came in with Lieutenant Gilbert.

"We heard the music," she said. "It's war in there-" She gestured over her shoulder. I could just hear Patricia arguing with Jack Melton about a hand. "We've escaped."

That was the end of a private conversation, but just before lunch, when we had no more than a minute alone, Freddy said, "I can trust you to keep that confidence? I wouldn't want to hurt Serena."

"Of course."

And that was that. I walked over to where Jack was showing off his gun collection. The cabinet was mahogany and lined with a pale velvet. Two prizes were there on display. I'd noticed them before. Jack was just pointing to the early American Colt revolver.

"My uncle went out to the American West to raise cattle. He had a weak chest and he hoped either for a cure or to die of it more quickly out there. To everyone's amazement, he survived, made a fortune, came back to England, and lived to be seventy-seven."

Everyone laughed, as they were meant to, and Jack's hand moved onto a pair of dueling pistols. Halfway there I saw his fingers pause for an instant where the lining was indented but nothing lay in that spot. It was an infinitesimal pause, but I saw the flicker of expression on his face and then he went on smoothly, "These belonged to my great-grandfather. Handsome, aren't they? He bought them not to kill anyone but because he believed a gentleman ought to own a pair. They were never fired in anger, but I have it on good authority that when he tried them here at the Hall, they pulled slightly to the right, and he missed his target, hit his coachman's pet goat instead, and there was a terrible uproar. The goat survived, but the tip of one horn was shorter than the other for the rest of its life, and my great-grandfather was required by the magistrate to pay compensation. Only no one could decide on the value of a goat. In the end my great-grandfather paid the coachman five pounds, a princely sum in that day, and was ordered to swear he would never dismiss the coachman or eat the goat."

I moved past them as his audience laughed again, and went to find Mary. Our train left for London an hour after lunch, and we were nearly ready.

She was rather quiet on the first leg of our journey. Busy with my own thoughts, I was content to let the silence between us lengthen.

After a time she said, "You know, it just goes to show that to eat well, one should live on a farm."

That was not as far-fetched a conversational gambit as it might sound. She was seeing a naval officer whose father was a gentleman farmer, like Jack, and she had been dithering over whether to marry him should he propose or find someone more likely to enjoy the social whirl in London.

I murmured something noncommittal, and she went back to her own reverie.

I myself had been thinking about Serena Melton.

I'd had no brothers-or sisters for that matter-to help me judge how one might feel in Serena's shoes, having lost Meriwether. Would I have been forgiving or vindictive? The closest I could come to imagining her emotional state was to consider something happening to Simon Brandon. He wasn't related, but I'd known him all my life and loved him dearly. If someone caused his death, I'd be furiously angry and determined to see that person punished.

Soldiers are mortal, we had all been touched by that loss. But Serena's brother hadn't given his life for King and Country. He'd died under tragic circumstances, just after the doctors had felt it safe enough to send him home. He'd had a good chance of surviving his wounds. First hope, then despair.

I myself had grieved in my own way for Meriwether Evanson. And so had Matron, for that matter.

I took a deep breath, more like a sigh, and Mary said, "Was it a boring weekend? I'm sorry for dragging you there."

"I was very glad I went," I told her truthfully. But I was looking forward to spending the rest of my leave with my family. I'd had my fill of spying.

I had been back in France nearly ten days when the letter came from Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard.

It was brief, and it contained a photograph. I turned it over, to find myself staring into a dead man's face. I could see clearly the bullet wound in his temple.

I turned to the letter. This is Lieutenant Fordham. He died of a single gunshot wound to the head. Forgive me for sending this to you without some warning, but I'm told you're in France and there's no other way. Fordham's death appears to be a suicide. I use that word, appears, because there is a modicum of doubt. He was an officer in the Wiltshire Fusiliers. Are you still certain that the man with Marjorie Evanson the evening of her death was in this regiment? Could this be the man?

I looked again at the photograph. But I already knew the answer. This was not the man at the railway station.

I felt a chill. Suicide among soldiers was more prevalent than the Army admitted. It wasn't good for morale to give exact numbers, they said. Why had Lieutenant Fordham chosen to kill himself? What demons drove him? And why-other than his regiment-had Inspector Herbert thought this might be the man I'd seen with Marjorie Evanson?

Was there something in his suicide note that pointed in that direction?

And what did Inspector Herbert mean by "appears to be a suicide"?

His brief message told me so little that my curiosity was aroused. I found myself thinking that he'd have done better to satisfy it.

I reached for pen and paper to answer him before the next post bag left. Poor man. To answer your questions: I am not mistaken in the matter of the Wiltshires. And this is not the person I saw at the railway station.

But even as I finished putting those words down on paper in black ink, stark on the page, I glanced again at the photograph. Lieutenant Fordham was a handsome man even in death, and if he were charming into the bargain, he might easily turn a lonely woman's head. He was the sort Serena Melton should have invited to a weekend party, not a Lieutenant Bellis, who considered himself a friend of Meriwether Evanson's, or Captain Truscott with his shaking hands. They were loyal to the dead, and not likely to confide anything they might know to a grieving sister.

I added another line to my message. What weapon did Lieutenant Fordham use to kill himself? Service revolver? Other?

It was the price Inspector Herbert must pay for not being more straightforward. For something had just struck a chord of memory.

Thinking about Serena and her house party had brought to mind a vivid image of Jack Melton's hand pausing over an empty depression in the lining of his gun cabinet.

To suspect Serena Melton of killing a man she thought was her sister-in-law's lover was ridiculous. And yet-and yet I had seen for myself how deep her grief and anger ran. If she'd found someone she believed was the guilty man, and there was no way of proving it, what would she do?

For one thing, she wouldn't have a weapon handy, in the event she needed to use it. That was a very different thing from being so angry one could lash out with the first thing that came to hand. Besides, Lieutenant Fordham was a soldier, with a soldier's reflexes. He wasn't likely to let someone walk up to him, revolver in hand, and fire at him.

I was letting my imagination run away with me. But as much as I didn't want to believe it, there was most certainly the possibility that Marjorie had had more than one lover. And Lieutenant Fordham could have had his own guilty conscience.

And so I didn't tear up the reply to Inspector Herbert and start again. I left the query in my letter.