Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"It can't be. No, I don't think he would dare-Serena's brother's wife?"

"You know nothing about the man. What sort he may be." Simon's voice was harsh. "Go to Scotland Yard, tell Herbert what you've learned, and leave it to him."

"But it doesn't make sense," I said, dabbing at the trifle with my spoon, not wanting to meet Simon's eyes.

"That's because you don't want to believe it."

"It will break Serena Melton's heart. She'll never forgive him. And she will blame Jack as well."

"Why?"

"Because her brother died of grief. She didn't care all that much for Marjorie, even when they married. But she loved her brother with all her heart."

I had wanted to find this man, to keep the inquiry on track. And as is common with most meddling, what I'd learned would have repercussions. Once Raymond Melton was questioned, Serena would give Jack no peace until he told her all he knew.

Still, so much fit together. Marjorie would have met Raymond Melton. And if she had run into him in London one day, she would have had no qualms about dining with him. Even Mrs. Hennessey, a stickler for propriety, wouldn't have batted an eye.

"Why was he in England five or six months ago? It couldn't have been an ordinary leave. He must have been here longer than most."

"He was seconded to General Haig's staff, and he was coordinating supply shipments. They were being held up, finding transport was a problem with the German submarines taking such a toll. London was his base. From there he could visit Manchester or Birmingham or Liverpool with relative ease. He also had a staff motorcar at his disposal."

"I can't imagine what she could possibly have seen in him," I said crossly. "He seemed so-distant. Michael Hart is so much better looking, if it was a fling she was after. And he loved her, he wouldn't have walked away from her and left her there all alone."

"Raymond Melton didn't kill her. He couldn't have. I asked. He caught the train and reached France precisely when he should have."

But trains were slow. He could have borrowed a motorcar, using the excuse that he'd missed his connection.

Simon was saying something that I didn't catch.

"Sorry?"

"He's married, Bess. Raymond Melton is married. They have two children."

I recalled the boy and girl I'd seen at Melton Hall the day Mary and I arrived. Raymond Melton's children? Very likely, though she'd referred to them as cousins.

"Oh, dear God. What am I to do, Simon? It will ruin their lives."

"This is why I didn't want to tell you." He signaled the waiter. "I'll take you back to the flat and then speak to Inspector Herbert myself. He'll know how much will have to come out during the inquiry, and how much he can keep from the newspapers for the time being. Leave it to him. Then I'll drive you back to Somerset."

He didn't say, bless him, that I should have handed Gareth Dalton's photograph to Scotland Yard. Then I'd have been ignorant of the connections. Like the ostrich with her head in the sand.

"I have a dinner engagement with Captain Truscott," I answered distractedly. "It would be unkind to break it. Besides, Inspector Herbert is away."

"Then I'll wait and drive you home tomorrow."

Rousing myself, I said, "No, that's not the right way to handle this, Simon. I made a promise to Inspector Herbert. I told him I'd let him know what I discovered. I'll speak to him myself."

We argued that point for a good five minutes, and then Simon capitulated.

"It may be the best way after all," he said. He settled the bill and then led me out of the restaurant. "What matters is to put this behind you as soon as you can."

We had reached the pavement when I remembered something. Hearing a quick indrawn breath, Simon turned to me. "What is it?"

"I ran into Jack Melton outside the Marlborough Hotel when I was in London with Lieutenant Hart. I felt an obligation, I don't know why, to tell him that on the night she died I'd seen Marjorie with a man I didn't recognize, and I think I said something about the Yard searching for this man, to help them with their inquiries. And he told me that I ought to be looking instead at Michael Hart. Little did he know." I paused. "Or did he? No, somehow I have a feeling that Raymond Melton keeps himself to himself."

Simon swore under his breath in Urdu, thinking I wouldn't recognize the words, but I did. Bazaar life is very colorful. A child's ear soon picks up bits and pieces of Hindi and Urdu. I quickly learned which words I could and could not repeat in front of my elders.

"How close is he to his brother, do you know?"

"I can't answer that," I told him.

"Then the sooner you get to the Yard, the safer you will be." He shook his head. "There's something wrong with this whole affair, Bess. Don't you feel it as well? Something rather-sinister. You've learned too much, for one thing, and for another, the murder of Marjorie Evanson was particularly vicious. Don't tempt her killer, whoever he may be, to try again."

"But Raymond Melton is in France." I wasn't as convinced as Simon was.

"For the moment."

"Do you think he knows where she was going after the train left?"

"Would she tell him? Perhaps she would, to make him jealous."

What had been set in motion that rainy evening in the railway station? Was that only the tip of the problem, the more visible half? What about Michael Hart?

I realized all at once that we were standing in everyone's way as they came and went from the restaurant, forcing them to part like the Red Sea around us.

"We can't discuss it here." Simon took my arm and led me to the motorcar, holding my door for me. He turned the crank with more than his usual vigor, then got behind the wheel. "We can't talk in your flat either. Where would you like to go?" When I didn't answer, he said, "Scotland Yard? Even if Inspector Herbert isn't there, we'll tell someone else what you know. It will be finished, Bess."

"Yes," I said. Reluctantly. But I knew he was right.

As it happened, Inspector Herbert had just returned from Bermondsey, and we had to wait half an hour for him to make his report to his superiors. Finally I heard his footsteps, loud on the bare floorboards, as he came down the passage, and then he opened his office door and was shaking hands. I explained Simon's presence, and after that we all sat down.

I had a distinct impression of cold feet-they wanted to carry me back out of the room again as fast as possible. But it was too late.

"Well," Inspector Herbert was saying. "What brings you here, Miss Crawford?"

Simon opened his mouth but I forestalled him.

Inspector Herbert listened carefully as I told him what I knew about the man at the station. And he asked to see the photograph that I'd given Simon.

"It belongs to someone. I promised to bring it back to her as soon as possible."

He was busy scanning the face of Raymond Melton. After a moment, he reached into his drawer and drew out a looking glass. "You're quite sure this is Captain Melton?" he asked after a moment, still bent over the picture. He reached up to turn on the lamp at his elbow and brought it closer. I thought to myself that by the time he gave that photograph back to me, Inspector Herbert would have memorized Melton's face.

Straightening up, he turned off the lamp, set the glass back inside his drawer, and leaned back into his chair. "What did Marjorie Evanson say to this man, on that rainy evening in London?" he mused. "What did it set in motion, that meeting?"

"She may have kept her own counsel," Simon pointed out. "Given his conduct."

"Yes, that's possible. I expect she was too upset to dine anywhere, and she wouldn't wish to be seen by anyone she knew. We've looked into tea shops between the railway station and the river. Churches are more difficult-they're often empty at that time of day. She could sit quietly in one until she'd recovered, with no one the wiser. It seems unlikely that she'd turn to a friend-no one has come forward, at any rate. I'll try to bring Melton back to England for questioning. Although since he's made no effort to contact me, I don't have much hope in that direction. At least we have a witness who puts him there with Mrs. Evanson. We've tried to find others, but the stationmaster tells us it was very busy, and a weeping woman seeing a soldier off is too common. People try to pass by without looking, give them a modicum of privacy."