Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

He bowed over my hand and welcomed me to the fete.

Close to, I could see the lines of strain around his mouth and the shadows in those wonderfully blue eyes.

"How is your shoulder?" I asked.

"Never better." But it was a lie. "I'll be returning to the Front by September, they tell me."

"How many surgeries have you had?"

"Enough for a lifetime," he replied tersely, and then laughed to cover his lapse.

Alicia left me there while she spoke to an elderly woman leaning heavily on a cane.

Michael Hart said, "Do you need a white elephant?" He was pointing to one-literally-made of porcelain. It was quite charming, and so I bought it, and he wrapped it carefully before handing it to me. I paid him and was about to turn away when he caught my hand in his good one, and said in a low voice, "No, don't go."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Victoria bearing down on us, and I stayed for the opportunity to meet her. But when she realized that I had no intention of leaving, even after my purchase was completed, she veered away.

"Do you know her?" I asked, interested to hear what he had to say.

"I knew her sister," he said in that same terse manner.

Marjorie.

He was beckoning to a woman just coming up the grassy avenue. "Mrs. Hampton, would you mind the booth for a bit?"

She came over to him and said at once, "Do go and sit down, Michael. You must be in terrible pain. I thought someone was to assist you?"

"No one came," he told her. "I'll be back in half an hour."

"Take as long as you like." She noticed the little box stuffed with coins and said, "I see you've done quite well. I told the rector's wife you were the perfect one to sell our little treasures."

Once more I began to turn away, but Michael took my arm and said, "Stay with me."

I did as he asked. The debonair officer had vanished, and there was perspiration on Lieutenant Hart's face, a tightness to his mouth. I'd seen this happen with wounded men. Off parade, so to speak, they let down their guard and admitted that they were in pain.

We walked together along a short path that led to the side door of the rectory. He reached for it out of habit, but I was there first and held it for him. Inside it was cool and dim, and I realized we were in a small plant room, where secateurs and trowels, baskets and pots lined the shelves on either side. Below were vases of all kinds. A dry sink where plants could be repotted or divided held a vase of wilting blossoms. Here flower arrangements were made up or cuttings were prepared for setting out.

My escort led the way through the second door and into a wider passage, then up a short flight of steps to a book-lined room that was clearly the rector's study.

"No one will think to look for us here." He sank into a leather armchair to one side of the desk, and closed his eyes.

I took the one opposite him. After a moment, he opened his eyes and said, "You're a good sport, Sister Crawford. Thank you."

I smiled. "Not at all. Is there anything I can bring you? Water? A pillow?"

"I'm all right."

Which I translated as, Don't fuss.

After a time, as the pain eased, he said, "I didn't know Victoria would be here today. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I owe you some explanation. Victoria's sister was killed some weeks ago. Victoria appears to think I know something about that. She hounds me every time she sees me. I couldn't deal with it today."

"And do you know something?"

He'd closed his eyes again. "I don't make a habit of killing women."

Which wasn't precisely an answer to my question.

"You'll hear about it soon enough if you stay in Little Sefton for very long," he went on after a moment, as if he'd made up his mind. "Marjorie Evanson was murdered in London. She was a friend of mine. Her sister is not."

"I didn't know Mrs. Evanson, but I was in charge of the wounded when her husband, Lieutenant Evanson, was brought home with burns."

Those marvelous eyes opened and seemed to spear me. "Were you indeed? A small world. I liked Merry, you know. The first time I met him, I knew he'd be right for Marjorie."

"Alicia told me you were a nephew of the Harts."

"I often stayed with my aunt and uncle on school holidays. My father was in the Army and my parents were half a world away most of the time. That's how I came to know Marjorie. She lived close by. A sweet girl. I liked her immensely. I wasn't in love with her," he added hastily, "but I liked her. We played together as children and sometimes she'd confide in me, and I in her. I think our two families are related somehow-a distant this or that. So we called each other cousin, Marjorie and I. She had no brother, and I had no sister. It was a good relationship."

I believed him. There was the ring of truth in his voice now.

"I read something about her death. Did the police ever discover who had killed her?"

"I don't know that they've made any progress at all. Although I'd had my suspicions that something was wrong."

"Had you?"

"About five or six months ago-you won't say anything to Alicia about this, will you?" I promised and he went on. "About five or six months ago, late winter anyway, her letters changed. They were shorter and not as full of news. Distracted. Unlike her. I put it down to worry about Merry-his squadron had been posted to France. And then the letters were fewer, as if she'd written out of duty when she remembered she owed me one."

"Did you see her after that?"

He sat up as a clock somewhere in the house struck the hour. "I must return to the booth. I don't know what possessed me to agree to man it."

I considered him. Friend or not, cousin or not, Michael Hart was very attractive. But he wasn't the man I'd seen with Marjorie Evanson in London.

I was tempted to ask him if he knew Lieutenant Fordham, but they were in the same regiment, and Simon had told me that the lieutenant's death had been kept out of the newspapers. Instead I asked, "There might have been another man. Had you thought of that?"

His eyes sharpened, and an ugly twist reshaped his mouth. "What do you mean? What have you heard?"

I shrugged. "You suggested there was a change in her. There's usually a reason for it. Perhaps there was something she didn't want to tell you or was afraid you'd read between the lines in her letters."

He got up and swung around the room, as if he were trying to find a way out of it, like an animal pacing his cage at a zoo. "That's nonsense. Besides, it doesn't explain her murder, does it?"

When I said nothing, he went on as much to himself as to me. "I can't drive, and I'm forbidden to take the train. I need to go to London. To talk to her friends. There was a women's group she belonged to, they met every week. I asked my uncle to drive me there, but he has his hands full with the farm just now-everyone is shorthanded, I know that's true, but still-" He took a deep breath. "It's been weeks already."

"What does Victoria have to say? Surely Marjorie confided in her."

"She wouldn't tell me even if she knew the name of Marjorie's killer. She was an insufferable little beast, always prying, always tattling. Neither of us could abide her. Marjorie tried to make peace with her, but confide in her? Never." He considered me. "Have a motorcar here, do you?"

"Yes, I-"

"Excellent. You can drive me to London, if you please. I'll start with the servants. They'll talk to me. I helped her choose most of them when she opened the house."

It was tempting. But I said, "My family lives in Somerset. I'll be going back there, not to London."

"How long have you known Alicia?" he asked shrewdly. "You don't strike me as old friends. I've known Alicia for years, and I've never seen you in Little Sefton before. You said you knew Meriwether. Did his sister send you here? I wouldn't put it past her."