Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"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?"