Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

Snapping my valise closed, I found myself wondering if I had completely trusted Michael Hart. Even before Simon had made his remarks.

On the whole, I thought I did. I couldn't have said why. Except that he hadn't turned the full force of his charm on my mother.

The next morning I retrieved Michael Hart from The Four Doves and drove both of us to London.

He asked me where The Four Doves Hotel had got its name. For the sign showed only four gray doves.

"The house that once stood there was the pilgrimage guesthouse of a convent that had already fallen into ruin by the time of Henry VIII. The last of the nuns-four of them-were very old and had come to live in the guesthouse because there was nowhere else for them to go. But they still kept it open for travelers, in the care of a man they trusted. When Henry's men stopped there on their way to burn out the abbot of Glastonbury, they remembered that the house had once belonged to a convent, and they asked the manservant if there were any nuns still there. He told the soldiers that the only females he knew of were four doves in the ancient dovecote in the garden. Henry's men decided they would have the doves for their dinner. The servant was in great distress, because the dovecote had been empty for years, and that was where he'd hidden the nuns. He went out there, sick with fright, and told the nuns what he'd done. They said, "But didn't you know? There are four doves here, roosting for the night." And when the manservant lifted his lantern, he saw that they were right. He served Henry's men their dinner, and sent them on their way. And ever after, there were always four doves in the cote and the elderly nuns lived out their lives in peace."

Michael was silent for a moment. Then he said, "It's too bad life doesn't have such happy endings."

I replied, "Here is what I know about Marjorie Evanson. She had a sister, but often there was no love lost between the two of them. Her parents are dead, but Victoria was her father's favorite, and he appeared to spoil her. Marjorie went away to school and never really came back to Little Sefton. She married Meriwether Evanson, and her father seemed to make no objection to the match. While Lieutenant Evanson was in France, Marjorie must have taken a lover, because she was pregnant when she died-" I could have bitten my tongue.

"I didn't know that," he said, his voice strained. "Is it true?"

"Yes. It was discovered in the postmortem. It wasn't made public."

"That would explain why Meriwether killed himself, wouldn't it? He'd known he wasn't the father." He thought about that for a moment. "And does anyone know who this man might be?" He still hadn't got full control of his voice.

"He's a mystery. The police asked anyone who had seen Marjorie the day of her death to come forward. And he never has."

"Now I understand why Serena Melton asked that the funeral for her brother be private. And why he and Marjorie weren't buried together. Neither Victoria nor I were invited to the service, but she went anyway. And the Meltons didn't attend the service for Marjorie. That caused talk, I can tell you. But most people accepted the fact that they were still in mourning." He cleared his throat, angry with himself.

"I didn't know." It seemed vengeful to me.

"You couldn't have known. I'd thought it was because Marjorie was murdered. As if that had been her fault."

"Murder doesn't happen in nice families," I quoted.

He said something under his breath, the words whipped away by the wind as we drove east toward London. I had a suspicion he was swearing.

"Serena Melton. Do you know her very well?"

"Not well at all. We met at the wedding, and at a party or two in London after that. I didn't like her very much. Mainly because she didn't seem to care for Marjorie. Merry was all right. And Jack, Serena's husband."

"Who could have been Marjorie's lover? Someone she knew? A stranger she happened to meet on a train or in a restaurant or at a party?"

"I don't know. I told you, she changed. Her letters changed. Yes, all right, I was in France, and it's difficult writing very personal things that the censors will read before the person at the other end does. But I hadn't thought-I don't know what I thought," he ended. "It's hard knowing your husband could be shot down any day he flies. I thought that might have put strains on Marjorie's marriage. That she was afraid to love him too much."

We drove in silence for a time.

Then Michael said, easing his injured shoulder, "She was in love with Meriwether. A blind man could have seen that. I don't know what could have gone wrong."

"He crashed twice. He was badly burned the second time. It must have been frightful to realize that the man you knew and married was so disfigured that you might not even recognize him. She could have turned to someone for sympathy and his kindness made her vulnerable. She had only to sleep with him once. She needn't have loved him. Or he her."

"In some way that's worse." Michael Hart turned to look at me. "You seem to know what she was feeling. How such things happen."

"It's not surprising," I told him. "I've dealt with soldiers of every rank. I've written their letters home, and I've read them their letters from home. Marjorie wasn't alone in her fall from grace." Three years of war had had other costs besides the long lists of dead and wounded. "I think it's time you told me the truth. Were you in love with Marjorie Garrison?"

He wiped his good hand over his face, as if to conceal the agony there. "God help me. I was."

We said nothing more for the rest of the journey.

We were coming into London when Michael roused himself and said, "I haven't been very good company, have I?"

"I was thinking. Marjorie's house was also her husband's home. You've been assuming that the staff would speak freely to you. But what if they won't? Out of loyalty to him as well as to her?"

"I've considered that too. But it was Marjorie in trouble-Marjorie who was murdered. I don't think Victoria came here to question the staff. I don't know that she cared enough; she would have left that to the police. As for Serena, she sent her husband to box up Meriwether's belongings. She never even told them Merry died. She left that to the family solicitor."

"How did you know this?"

"I telephoned the house as soon as I came to stay with my aunt and uncle. I wanted to know about Marjorie's things. What was to happen to them."

I suddenly remembered Alicia's remark about letters.

"Why is the house still open, if both Marjorie and her husband are dead?"

"I can't answer that. But I rather think Victoria and Serena are squabbling over it. And until that is settled, it's being run as if Evanson and his wife are expected to return."

"Fully staffed?" I was surprised.

"As fully as any house can be staffed today. They're paid to the end of the quarter, anyway."

"But if Marjorie died first, and then Lieutenant Evanson died, I don't understand the problem. If she willed everything to him, then all their property was his to dispose of, and so Serena must now be the owner of the house."

"It's not that simple. Marjorie inherited the house, you see. It was in her mother's family, and her mother's sister-her aunt-lived there until her death. Marjorie could have wished it to stay in the family."

Weaving through traffic, I said, "It takes time to settle affairs. But I understand now why you were so intent on coming here."

London was crowded, men in uniform looking for places to stay, families coming to see loved ones off to France or hoping to meet them on leave, everyone demanding a room and no rooms to be had. But Michael found one. He walked into the Marlborough, not far from Claridge's, and came out again in a quarter of an hour, saying, "A room for four nights. I doubt I'll be here that long, but a bird in hand is wisest."