Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

My father gave me a straight look but said no more. He held the sitting room door open for me. Simon had gone, and my mother was waiting to speak to my father after I went up the stairs. I knew very well she'd have the story of Constable Boynton's intrusion before they followed me up to bed.

I couldn't sleep. I dressed, then went quietly down the stairs and out the door, looking up at the wet night, the trees softly dripping rain, the sounds of night creatures loud in the stillness.

Simon, wearing rain gear, came up behind me as I started to walk along the stepping-stones that led around the house. I wasn't going farther than the little gazebo my father had put up in the garden there for my mother, but of course he had no way of guessing that.

He said, "If you're thinking of going to Little Sefton tonight, I'll drive you."

I shook my head. "There's no point in it. I'd come no closer to the truth than the police have done. Did my father tell you what Constable Boynton wanted to speak to me about?"

"Of course," he said, grinning. "Your mother had it out of him as soon as you were out of the room. He walked down to see me afterward."

"What did she have to say about the shooting?"

"As I recall, her exact words were, 'I wouldn't worry, if I were you, Richard. I think young Mr. Hart is looking for sympathy.'"

Trust my mother to see into the heart of the matter.

I said, "If he came to speak to you, what are you doing here? It's late."

"I had a feeling you might decide to go to Hampshire."

"This time you were wrong."

I could see a flash of something in his eyes before he turned away. "It occurred to me that Lieutenant Hart's death-if he'd been killed tonight-would bear a striking resemblance to Lieutenant Fordham's."

I hadn't linked the two. Yet. But Simon was right, in time I would have.

I woke up the next morning with a headache. Rare for me, because I seldom had them. But I hadn't been able to sleep until close on four o'clock because my mind was trying to sort out the tangle of events.

A nurse is trained to observe. It's her duty to see what is happening to the patient in her charge-she's the eyes of the doctor on the case. Any changes must be noted, and she's expected to know what they represent: a sign of healing, of a worsening of the patient's condition, the onset of new symptoms, or a simple matter of indigestion. We're expected to know when to summon Matron or the doctor, and when to cope on our own.

Use that training, I told myself. Don't jump to conclusions.

There had to be some evidence somewhere.

Marjorie had spent five hours that were unaccounted for. She could very well have walked to the nearest hotel and used a telephone to reach someone. But that person hadn't come forward. She could have taken a cab to the house of a friend. But according to Helen Calder, she had been cut off from her friends-she had told Helen herself very little, for that matter, and then only in the early stages of the affair. She could have confided in a complete stranger in a tea shop, someone who would listen but not judge. That person hadn't come forward either. She couldn't have traveled very far between the time I saw her and when she was killed. Perhaps an hour in any direction, if she were meeting the person she'd telephoned. But no restaurant or other public place had contacted the police to say she had been seen.

Very likely she never left London.

And Michael was in Dr. McKinley's surgery. Marjorie knew that.

Had she walked the streets for a time, working up her courage to talk to an old friend? And then made her way to the surgery after hours, when the doctor was least likely to look in on his patient? She wouldn't have wished to arrive with her face blotched by tears.

I could see the police point of view there.

I wondered who had told them that Michael was in love with Marjorie? Otherwise, they would have interviewed him and moved on, since he had no apparent motive. Was it Victoria?

Of course police suspicions would have been aroused by the fact that he had said nothing about seeing her that night. Unless he swore she had never come there. Michael could hardly have stabbed her in the surgery. And if he disobeyed orders and left, he risked the doctor finding him gone.

Where could one go to commit a quiet little murder?

If someone had intended to throw Marjorie's body in the river, surely it was easier to do the deed nearby, rather than having to transport a body any distance. It was dark there, with London wary of Zeppelin raids. A well-lit river was a navigator's delight. That might explain why Marjorie was still alive when she was put into the water-it would be impossible to make sure she was dead.

Michael had said that he was haunted by the possibility that Marjorie had been killed on her way to meet him.

If that were true, had Marjorie told someone where she intended to go, and that person had prevented her from reaching the surgery?

Walk with me for a little while. We can talk by the water, it's quiet there. Then you can go on to the doctor's surgery…

That was a far more realistic possibility than encountering a stranger.

Back, then, to someone she knew.

Had she told the man at the railway station where she was going? I hadn't seen him descend from the moving train, although Inspector Herbert had asked me specifically about that point. But there was the next station.

First Lieutenant Fordham. Then Michael Hart. The only person I could think of who would have a reason to shoot both men was Serena Melton. She was obsessed, searching for the baby's father. And I wondered if Jack suspected that, if it had been the reason he'd been afraid of blackmail.

I'd fallen asleep on that thought.

Ignoring the headache as best I could, I dressed and went down to breakfast. My parents had already eaten theirs and gone. The sun was out again, the rain only a memory.

I could imagine my father driving to London to have a word with Inspector Herbert. But he had a good head start, I'd never be able to catch him up.

I drank a cup of tea, ate some dry toast, and went out to the shed where I'd left my motorcar. It was low on petrol, and I was about to take it to the smithy-cum-garage to see to that.

Simon was coming around the corner of the house. He had a tennis racket in his hand, and I realized that he and my mother must have been playing. "Who won?" I asked.

"I did. By the skin of my teeth. Where are you going?"

I told him.

"I'll see to the petrol. Then I'm off to Sandhurst."

"Business or pleasure?" I hoped it was my photograph that was taking him there.

"I've to see someone there on War Office business," he said. "After that I intend to bring up the photograph."

I thanked him, and then asked if he knew where my father had gone.

"Something came up. He's on his way to Portsmouth to meet someone. That's how I was dragooned into a game of tennis, in his place."

I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. Portsmouth-and London afterward?

And then I did, when Simon said, "You'll stay close to home while we're away? I don't like the idea of shots flying about in gardens. Besides, your mother wouldn't mention it, but I think she'd like a little time with you."

I'd have liked to go to Little Sefton and ask Michael Hart about the shots fired at him. But I could hardly knock at the Harts' door and boldly ask about an event that had occurred hours after I left. I persuaded myself that if Simon was successful in identifying the man, I could return the photograph to Alicia as promised. And she was sure to tell me what had happened, and it would seem very natural to speak to Michael then.

Besides, Simon was right about my mother.

"I promise," I told him, and with a nod he was gone.