Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

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.

Mrs. Worth knew someone in Gloucester who had a friend in St. Albans whose younger sister happened to live in Little Sefton, Hampshire.

It was that simple.

Armed with a letter from my mother, I drove myself to Little Sefton-a good four-hour journey-and presented myself at the door of one Alicia Dalton.

I'd expected someone of my mother's age, but the woman who answered my knock was only about ten years older than I was. She was fair, with blue eyes, and her smile was warm.

"Miss Crawford? How nice to meet you. Do come in."

The house was stone, with lovely windows and colorful flower beds that ran down the short drive to the gates. Inside it was cool, with high ceilings and paneling in the hall, stairs running up to one side and a passage to other rooms on the left.

"I've been looking forward to your visit ever since my sister wrote to me. She didn't tell me why you were so interested in Little Sefton, but I was delighted to have your company even if only for a short while. My husband just went back to France, and I've been fighting tears and melancholy for two days."

"I'm interested in Marjorie Evanson," I told her truthfully. "I knew her husband-he was one of my patients after his last crash-and her death has been on my mind as well as his. I thought perhaps it would help if I came here and tried to put the past to rest."

That wasn't the whole truth. But it would do as a start.

"I knew Marjorie, of course. Not well-she was a rather private person, even as a child. But do come in, you'll want to settle yourself in your room, and then we can sit in the garden and talk." As she led the way upstairs, she said over her shoulder, "You're in luck, actually. We're having a garden party to raise money for children whose fathers have been killed. I'll take you around and introduce you to people."

She chattered all the way to my room, which was down the passage to the left, and when she opened the door, I smiled.

The room was large and airy, with windows looking out across the gardens toward the church that stood on a slight rise to the north, the rooftops of cottages clustered around it. The coverlet on the bed was a soft yellow, with flowers embroidered in a circle in the center, and the window curtains were cream with pale green ties.

"How lovely!" I said.

"I'm glad you like it. It's Gareth's sister's room. She's in London awaiting the birth of her first child. It's a nervous time, and she wanted to be near her doctors. I'll leave you to freshen up. Come down the stairs, go to the second door on your left, and I'll have tea waiting."

I thanked her, changed out of my traveling clothes and into a dress that was more comfortable in the afternoon heat, then went down to find Alicia.

She was in a small room with delicate French furnishings, a very feminine room with walls painted a soft rose and trimmed in cream.

We were soon on first-name terms, and I discovered that she was a fund of information about Marjorie.

"She has a sister, you know. Victoria. Marjorie was always in her shadow, a quiet girl who never fussed about anything, tried hard to please, and was never in trouble of any kind."

"Marjorie is younger than Victoria?"

"Oh, no, Victoria was several years younger, but you'd never guess it, really. She was domineering from childhood, always wanting her own way, always making certain that no one forgot her. I thought her quite bossy, and said as much to Marjorie one day when we were twelve. She gave me her quiet little smile, and said, 'Yes, it's simpler to give in than to fight. There's peace at home when Victoria is happy.' I told her that was arrant foolishness, that Victoria needed to learn her manners and her place. But her father doted on her, you see-Victoria, I mean-and he thought her behavior was a mark of strong character. In truth, she was quite spoiled."