Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

I wondered how he managed it. But I had no intention of asking.

Hesitating, unsure how to put my question, I said, "Can you cope with one arm strapped to your body?"

"Well enough. It's awkward as hell, but I can do up buttons on my own, comb my hair, shave, and even brush my teeth. What I can't do are laces. But they'll send someone up. I'm not the worst case they've come across."

I nodded, told him to be ready the next morning at nine, and left him and his suitcase to the tender mercies of the ancient doorman.

When I reached the flat, Diana and Mary were there, eager for news. Then Diana was off to make her train in time, and Mary said, "You're braver than I am, Bess, to do what you're doing for a woman you don't know. It will be ages before you have another leave like this. Don't waste it chasing shadows."

But I did know Marjorie, in a sense. That was the problem. I'd watched her photograph give her husband hope. And then I'd seen her in person, unaware of why she was crying or who the man was, but a witness to such wretchedness that she couldn't hold back her tears even in this very public place. And whatever she had done, she hadn't deserved to be stabbed and thrown into the river to drown, unconscious and unable to help herself. I could still see her rush away into that sea of umbrellas, and if I'd had any idea what lay ahead, I'd have found her somehow and brought her back to the flat with me. I don't know how I could have solved the problems she was facing, but I'd have tried.

That was hindsight. And I couldn't dwell on it. Yet in a way I was.

I met Michael Hart at nine o'clock the next morning, as promised. He was waiting for me on the steps of the hotel when I drove up, and he directed me to the Evanson house in Madison Street.

It was tall, three stories with two steps up to a pair of Ionic columns supporting the portico roof. Curved railings to either side graced the steps, and above the porch was a balcony with a white balustrade.

I lifted the knocker, wrapped with black crepe, and let it fall, smiling at Michael Hart to cover the trepidation we both suddenly felt.

No one answered the summons. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flick of a drapery as someone peeked out. It was quickly pulled to again. After a moment a middle-aged woman in the black dress of a housekeeper opened the door, apologizing profusely to Michael.

"Mr. Michael. I'm so sorry, sir! Truly I am. But we've been besieged by newspaper people and curiosity seekers. There was a woman here a fortnight past swearing she could find the murderer for us if she could come into the house and touch something belonging to the dead. That was the last straw. I shut the door in her face, and we decided that we wouldn't open it again to anyone."

She was ushering us into the small square hall, and then into a drawing room decorated in pale green and cream, urging us to be seated.

"How are you, sir? We heard about that shoulder. You must have been in great pain. I don't see how you can bear it, even now."

I saw Michael's mouth twist in the beginning of a grimace, and then he smiled and said, "I try not to think about it, Mrs. White. This is Sister Crawford, my nurse. She agreed to accompany me to London. I'm not yet well enough to travel on my own."

Mrs. White made polite noises in my direction, clearly relieved that I represented nothing more than Michael's nurse.

"I understand, Mr. Michael, truly I do. My grandson just came home with half his foot shot off. He can't bear to put it to the floor yet."

Changing the subject he said, "I don't know what's happening, Mrs. White. I know Marjorie is dead, that she was murdered. Victoria hardly speaks to me, and she won't tell me what progress the police are making. This is the first time I've been able to come up to London. I want to find out anything I can that will help."

"There was an inquest, sir. I was there, and horrible hearing it was. Mrs. Evanson's death was put down to person or persons unknown and left open for the police to pursue their inquiries. But I don't think they have any. They came here after her poor body was found and searched the house for evidence, but I don't know what they was hoping to find. And then the solicitor, Mr. Blake, came to look for her will, and he left empty-handed as well. I told him she'd been speaking of changing it, but I doubted anything had come of it. He knew nothing about that. The police came again, asking us more questions about her state of mind, who might have called at the house, who she might have gone out to meet. I gave him the best answers I could, but I really didn't know much. She wasn't herself these past months."

"How so?"

"She had one of her meetings here. Of the ladies with husbands who fly those aircraft-February, I believe it was. And it upset her. They talked about such terrible things, Mr. Michael. I heard them discussing how burned flesh feels when you touch it, and what it's like to lose fingers or toes to fire, and the like. One of the women arrived in tears, and I think her husband had just been reported dead. Burned alive in his Sopwith."

I felt a shudder, remembering the pilot of the Albatross going down in flames. As angry and frightened as I'd been at the time, he too had a family somewhere grieving for him.

Before Michael could ask another question, Mrs. White was saying earnestly, "Mrs. Evanson cried herself to sleep that night. I could see how red her eyes were the next morning. She went out in late afternoon, and although she'd told me she'd be at home for dinner and there would be no guests, she didn't come in until close on to ten o'clock and that wasn't like her to stay out with no word. But I smelled cigarette smoke on her coat as I put it away and helped her get herself into bed. And she didn't tell me anything. Usually it was, 'Oh, I ran into such and such a one, and we decided to have dinner together.' And tell me what she'd had to eat, and how dreary the menu was or how bad the service, or how kind the waiter had been when she couldn't even cut her meat with a knife, it was so tough-she was lonely, she missed the lieutenant something fierce, and I was there to listen if I could. But it all stopped that night. I thought she must have been angry with me."

A woman beginning an affair? Or one caught up in an emotional tangle, and turning to the first sympathetic ear. And then having to be secretive, unable to speak freely, and so falling back on silence.

That gave me an interesting time frame. February. Her husband was in France, just joining a new squadron, his first and last crashes in the future. I'd been told that Lieutenant Evanson was a very good pilot, with quick reflexes, an understanding of the machines he flew, and the good sense to know when to fight and when to run. Most of the young, green pilots joining a squadron had to be restrained from trying to be heroes before they had even learned the rules of engagement with the very well-trained German fliers. And often they died in their first encounters with the enemy, too easily tricked into doing something rash that exposed them to a sure shot. The Germans liked to hunt in packs, lurking where they couldn't be seen, but ready to come in for the kill when the opportunity arose.

Michael was asking if any of the other staff had found Mrs. Evanson more willing to talk about her days and evenings.

"Nan-you remember her, sir, she's from Little Sefton, Mrs. Evanson brought her to London with her-she remarked to me that Mrs. Evanson was quieter, and later she told me she thought she was worried. That she cried in the night. We put that down to the lieutenant's first crash. But he walked away from that one. Still, it must have frightened her to know how close he came to dying then."

"Did she bring any strangers to the house? That's to say, women or men you didn't recognize? Someone she hadn't known before Merry went to France?"