Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"Is he in terrible pain?" she asked sympathetically. "There were new lines in his face. I don't remember them being there before. He was never one to take life seriously, always a smile." She stood aside and I stepped into the entrance.

"He tries not to be dependent on drugs." It was what his aunt had told me.

"That's good to hear. There was a footman once when I was a girl. He was addicted to opium. Mr. Benson-he was the owner of the house where I was maid-locked the poor man in his room for a week, to cure him. I never heard such screams and cries, begging to die one minute and cursing us all in the next breath. We thought surely he'd die."

"It must have been terrifying."

She took a deep breath, as if shoving the footman back into the past where he belonged. I wondered if she'd had a fondness for him once.

"Names, you said. At a guess, her two closest friends were Mrs. Calder and Mrs. Brighton. Mrs. Brighton lives one street over, at Number 7. I've returned a book Mrs. Evanson borrowed, that's how I know. Perhaps she can tell you how to find Mrs. Calder."

Calder. I knew that name. A distant cousin. Was this the same woman?

"And the ladies who attended the group meetings for wives and widows? Were they close to Mrs. Evanson?"

"They came and went, you see, there was no time to make real friendships."

I could understand that. "Thank you," I told her. "This is a beginning."

I left my motorcar where it was and walked the distance.

But there was black crepe on the door of Number 7, encircling the knocker. The folds were still crisp and new.

I hesitated and then lifted the knocker anyway, and a red-eyed maid came to the door. She said immediately, "Mrs. Brighton isn't receiving. If you care to leave your card?"

"I'm so very sorry to intrude," I said, and prepared to turn away. Then I asked, "I've just come to London from Somerset. I was to meet Mrs. Calder here-I didn't know-" I gestured to the black crepe. "She must have tried to reach me and I missed her message. Do you know how I could find her? I'm afraid I left my diary in the hotel."

A shot in the dark. But it found its mark.

"She called only this morning," the maid said, and gave me what I wanted before she quietly shut the door again.

I drove to Hamilton Place, and found the house I was looking for at the corner of its tiny square.

As I got out, I stood to one side as a nurse wheeled a wounded man along the pavement. He was in a chair, his eyes bandaged, one arm in a sling, a leg missing. I smiled at the sister, and then went up to knock at the door.

Mrs. Calder was in. I was shown into a small sitting room, and she rose to meet me, a query in her glance.

She was a tall woman, rail thin, with fair hair and blue eyes. I introduced myself as a friend of the Evanson family, and she frowned.

"Indeed? I don't recall meeting you at Marjorie's," she said, suspicion in her tone.

"I'm not surprised," I said easily. "I've been out of the country." Her eyes dropped to my uniform. "I was one of Lieutenant Evanson's nurses."

"You know he's dead."

"Sadly, yes. Matron told me on my last visit to Laurel House."

"What brings you to see me?"

"I was in Little Sefton only a few days ago. I understood from Alicia Dalton that you're related to Marjorie Evanson."

She was still wary. I searched for a way to convince her I meant no harm.

"It seems to me that very little progress has been made in finding out who killed Mrs. Evanson. And it matters to me, because her husband died when he shouldn't have. Not medically. He'd passed the crisis. He was counting on seeing his wife as soon as possible. Someone took that away from him. I don't want her murderer to escape justice."

"But why come to me? You should be speaking to Victoria Garrison, Marjorie's sister."

If it was a test, I was ready for it.

"With respect, I don't believe I should. We had words in Little Sefton. She thought Serena Melton had sent me there to spy."

"And were you?"

"No."

Helen Calder sighed. "There's no love lost between them. A pity, but there you are. Even tragedy failed to bring them together."

"There's more. I have reason to believe that Marjorie had met someone, perhaps six months ago. It's possible I've seen this man. I don't know his name, but she met him at Waterloo Station the night she died. I happened to be coming up from Laurel House, and it was sheer coincidence that our paths crossed."

"Marjorie had a good many friends. It could have been any one of them."

"She was so distressed. Crying, in fact. I don't think that was like her. Do you?"

After a moment she said, "No, she wouldn't have made a scene. Not Marjorie. But I'm afraid I can't help you. It would be-prying. And she's dead."

"This polite conspiracy of silence is all very well and good," I pointed out, a little angry with her. "But I think Marjorie would approve of a little 'prying' if it meant her killer was found out."

Helen Calder studied my face for a moment, and then nodded. "You're absolutely right, you know. We've all taken such pride in closing ranks to protect her memory. I never considered the fact that we were protecting her murderer as well. But you see, people do ask about her death, and I've gotten quite good at fending off gossipmongers. Heaven knows there have been enough of them. But even if I answer your questions, what possible good will it do?"

"I myself stepped forward when there was a notice in the newspapers asking for any information about Mrs. Evanson on that last day of her life. I met with an Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard. It was not as difficult as I'd expected." I smiled. "Sadly, I don't think what I told him about seeing her at the railway station was very useful. But it did fill in a part of their picture about her movements after leaving her home earlier in the day."

She said, "Yes, all right. There was a man. I don't how she came to meet him. She told me he was in London just for the day, and they talked for a bit. And then he asked her to join him for dinner. I know this because Marjorie mentioned it casually in another context, that it brought home to her just how much she missed Meriwether and the things they often did together. It pointed up her loneliness, she said, and she was left to face that. 'I shan't do that again,' she told me. 'It's too painful.'"

"Did she tell you the man's name?"

"No, and I really didn't care to ask. I didn't want to make more of the event than she already had done. I was hoping it would come to nothing."

"But she saw him again?"

"She must have done. I met her coming out of a milliner's shop with a hatbox in her hand. She greeted me sheepishly, as if she hadn't wanted to run into anyone she knew. I was about to tease her when it occurred to me that perhaps she was dining with that man again. There was almost a schoolgirl's furtiveness about her."

"Can you be sure it was the same man?"

"I must believe it was. Marjorie wasn't the sort to take up with strangers, and it was no more than a month after the first dinner."

"What happened next?"

"It was almost a month later-two months after that first dinner-and she was standing waiting for a cab, and I saw she'd been crying. My first thought was that she'd had bad news about Meriwether, and she answered that she'd had a letter from him only the day before and he was all right." She shook her head. "Looking back, I wonder if she'd broken off with this man. It was the last time I saw her-she began to refuse invitations, keeping to herself after that. There was this group of women she worked with. I told myself at the time that listening to their experiences was doing her more harm than good. I should have made an effort to see her, but I had my own worries, and I kept putting it off. To tell you the truth, I thought she might feel compelled to confess, and I didn't want to know."