Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

I stared at the photograph for a moment, searching my memory. And then I went to the telephone and put in a call to London and Scotland Yard.

Inspector Herbert was not available, but I left a message for him, telling him that I hadn't seen the man in the photograph.

But as I went in to dinner, I thought how easily he could come up behind someone on a rainy street, and not even turn a head.

Everyone was waiting for me in the dining room, and I apologized for the delay without explaining why it was necessary.

As Michael and my parents carried the burden of conversation, I was silent, thinking about the dead shopgirls and whether Marjorie Evanson, blindly walking out of the station into the rain, might have attracted the notice of someone like the man in the photograph. It could have happened that way. He could have followed her.

But there were a good four or five hours between the time Marjorie Evanson was at the railway station and the time she'd died. Inspector Herbert had said as much himself. Was he clutching at straws?

I'd have liked to ask Michael what he thought, but it would be difficult to explain a communication from Scotland Yard without confessing how I'd been drawn into the case.

I happened to look up as the chutney was passed to me, and I met Simon Brandon's dark eyes, watching me speculatively.

And it was Simon who volunteered to drive Michael back to The Four Doves.

When they had gone, my mother said to me, "My dear, do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm only taking Michael to London to speak to the staff at Marjorie Evanson's house. He wants to hear about that morning before she left the house. Or if something was worrying her."

"But surely the police-?"

I shook my head. "Of course they must have done. But consider. If the police came here, would Lois or Timmy or anyone else who worked for us tell them things they believed we might not want the police to know? For whatever reason?"

"I'd expect them to tell the truth."

"And they probably would, if you were innocent and the truth would help. But if you were guilty of some indiscretion, and they knew that if they told the police it would ruin your reputation, what then?"

She was fair. She was always fair. "And so Michael Hart hopes they will confide in him. Charming he may be, but their first loyalty will still be to their mistress, don't you think?"

"He's healing. He needs to focus all his energy on that. And instead I think Marjorie Evanson's death is weighing heavily on his mind. If he learns nothing of importance, he'll still be satisfied that he did all he could for her. And if he does discover something, then he can take it to the police."

"That would be the wisest move. Was he in love with her, do you think? That would explain his resolve."

"He was in France when she was killed and wasn't eligible for compassionate leave-she wasn't his wife or mother."

"Yes, I see what you mean. This is the least he can do for her."

My mother usually did see. I kissed her good night then and went into the passage toward the stairs.

Simon Brandon was waiting for me in the shadows by the door. He took my arm, opened the door, and led me out into the warm summer night. The sun had not yet set, and the distant horizon was a lovely illusive opal that turned the tops of the trees to a soft gold. A jackdaw, sitting in the top of the nearest tree, was singing to it, his breast a shimmering black like wet paint.

I walked a little way down the drive, knowing what was coming, listening to the crunch of stones under my shoes.

Finally he said, "How well do you know this man?"

"I don't. But he's trying to find out what happened to his childhood friend. And to do that, he wants to go to London. You can see for yourself he can't drive. I promised-since I was going to London anyway-that I'd take him." When he said nothing, I added, "I didn't suggest that he stay here. Nor did he."

"Were you going to London anyway?"

"I-in the long run. Simon, I saw the man with Marjorie Evanson the night she was killed. He got on the train and left her there. Now the Yard thinks she might have been the victim of a man who fled Oxford after three women were killed there. They were interested in Lieutenant Fordham before him. The Yard doesn't seem to be making any progress at all, and the only person who might answer their questions about where she intended to go after leaving the station is either dead or refusing to come forward. If Michael Hart can learn anything useful, it's all to the good. If he doesn't, he's done no harm."

"I understand why you feel you have a responsibility to this woman-" he began.

"I saw how desperate she was that night. Where did she turn? Perhaps she trusted the wrong person." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the message from Scotland Yard. "You see, Inspector Herbert has been using what I know to help him sort through suspects. I'm not involved, not officially. But he can send me a photograph and ask me a question."

He was staring up at the jackdaw. "This isn't the first time the Yard has asked you for information. How many photographs have you looked at for them?"

"Only these two."

"Stay out of it, Bess. You know what nearly happened the last time you got yourself involved in the troubles of another family. Leave this one alone."

"It's Michael Hart who is involved at the moment."

He turned to look at me. "There's something you ought to know. The Colonel has already spoken to me. And I have my own suspicions. Michael Hart may not be what he seems."

"What do you mean? Did you know him before this?"

"I've never seen him before. But I wouldn't be surprised if he's become addicted to the medicines his doctors have been giving him to control his pain. When I took him back to the inn just now, his hands were shaking and his mouth was dry. You're a nurse. Be more observant. And think what it is you may be getting yourself into."

"I'm not getting myself into anything," I told him, furious at the lecture. "I don't intend to marry Michael Hart. I'm only driving him to London. Besides, fatigue and pain could cause the same symptoms."

Simon grinned. "Indeed. Good night, Bess."

And he walked away down the drive, leaving me there to look after him, torn between calling him back to tell him what I thought of his interference in my life and letting him go.

As I turned toward the house, I remembered what Mrs. Hart had said about Michael Hart, that he had refused sedation and was fighting his own way through the pain.

But had my father been suspicious, or had Simon simply brought him into the conversation to back up his own views?

I walked in the door, shut it, and continued down the passage to the study, where my father was sitting with a book open in his lap.

"Good night," I said. "I hope to get an early start tomorrow."

"Be safe, Bess," he said, but he didn't smile as he usually did when wishing me a safe journey.

I said, "Thank you for being kind to Michael Hart. I remember when I broke my arm last year, how frustrating it was for me, being dependent and helpless."

"He's strikingly handsome," my father said, finally smiling. "But I wouldn't introduce him to any of your flatmates. He's being ridden by his own devils."

"Drugs?" I asked baldly.

"I don't know what his devils are. He's very amusing, he answers questions openly and apparently truthfully, and he doesn't trade on his charm. But there's something behind the bonhomie that gives him no peace. It isn't your place to put that right."

"As I told Simon," I said, "I'm just driving him to London, not marrying him."

"See that you remember that," he said, and turned his attention to his book. "Good night, Bess."

I took my dismissal with the best grace I could muster, and went up to pack.