Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"If he's Jack Melton's brother," Simon commented, "he can't claim he didn't know she'd been killed."

I confessed, "I've told his brother about seeing a man with Marjorie the night she died. But I didn't know then who he was. I was trying to help Jack Melton get to the truth before his wife did. She's frantically searching for someone to blame. Serena Melton is likely to do something rash. And it won't bring her brother back."

Inspector Herbert was staring at me, weighing up what I was saying.

"Yes. Well. I don't think any harm has been done." He leaned forward, his elbows on his cluttered desk. "Since you didn't know his brother, and you aren't likely to meet him, Commander Melton won't be unduly worried. The likelihood is that his brother hasn't confessed his adultery, anyway. Especially if he learned Mrs. Evanson was murdered that evening. Is Captain Melton married, do you know?"

"Yes." It was Simon who answered. "So I've been informed. There are two children."

"All the more reason to keep his-relationship-from everyone. Doesn't speak well of his character, does it?" Inspector Herbert turned to me. "It's amazing that you found this photograph. Well done."

I said, giving credit where it was due, "It was Sergeant-Major Brandon who put a name to the face."

Inspector Herbert smiled. "You can safely leave this matter to us now. Which reminds me, about Michael Hart-"

I had done enough damage, talking out of turn. "I see no reason for him to lie. If he says he was shot at, then he was. The local people will probably discover it was boys who came across their father's service revolver and were tempted to try it." I cast about quickly for a way to change the course of the conversation. "You haven't told me-has that man from Oxford been found?"

"He was apprehended in Derby. I don't think we need to concern ourselves with him any longer."

"And Lieutenant Fordham?"

"Ah. That's another matter."

I waited, and after a moment he said finally, "Lieutenant Fordham knew Marjorie Evanson in London, before she was married. His mother was a friend of her late aunt's. As he had never married, we wondered if the friendship had been renewed while he was convalescing. Mrs. Evanson escorted him to medical appointments on a number of occasions. He was one of several wounded she volunteered to work with. She would meet a train, see that the patient got to his destination and then back to the train."

That explained why no one in Little Sefton knew of him, and why Marjorie's staff didn't know the name. They had been hired after her marriage to Meriwether Evanson. Michael had helped select them.

But why had she let her aunt's staff go?

It seemed that everything I learned generated more questions.

I thanked Inspector Herbert, and he nodded.

"Finding this photograph was a piece of luck. We've been on the point of setting this inquiry aside for lack of new information." He smiled ruefully at Simon. "You'd think, in a time of war, when England is fighting for her life, people would put their petty differences aside and work together. But crime never goes away. We're shorthanded here at the Yard, but the number of cases seems to climb by the day."

It was a way of reminding us that he was busy. But I had one more question for him. "Captain Fordham," I said. "How did he die? You never told me the outcome of your investigation."

At first I thought he would tell me it was police business and not mine. But he said, "That's a very odd affair. There is a small lake on the Fordham property. At one end a bridge crosses to an island just large enough for a stone table and benches. Summer picnics and that sort of thing. As far as we can determine, he walked out onto that bridge one evening and shot himself. He went over the low parapet into the water, but he was already dead. The weapon went with him, and we haven't found it yet. The water is rather deep just there and quite murky."

"Was it really a suicide?" I asked.

"We believe now that it must have been. But we can't be sure. No note, you see, and his family can't think of a reason for him to take his own life. He didn't use his service revolver. That was still in the armoire with his uniform. He was wearing trousers and a white shirt when he died. His family is adamant that he wasn't grieving over Mrs. Evanson. They refuse even to consider suicide."

"Which leaves murder? Or was his wound severe enough to drive him to do something drastic?"

"A stomach wound," he said. "Very unpleasant, I'm told." He reached for a folder, pulling it in front of him but not opening it. A sign that our visit had ended.

We exchanged polite farewells.

Dismissal as well, telling me that the Yard no longer required my efforts.

He rose as I did, reached across the desk to shake hands with Simon Brandon, and came around to accompany us to the door, where a constable was waiting to see us out of the Yard.

Simon had nothing to say until we had reached his motorcar, and then he turned to me before he opened my door.

"It was really very clever of you to discover who the officer with Marjorie Evanson was."

"It was more a matter of seeing what was before me. And of course making Alicia's acquaintance in the first place. She wouldn't have thought to show those photographs to an inspector from the Yard. I don't think her husband knows Raymond Melton, by the way. Alicia did recognize the other two men. He probably just happened to be with one of the other men at that crossroads." I smiled, remembering. "I like Alicia. She's been busy matchmaking, you know. She suspects there's a growing attachment between Michael Hart and me. There was, of course-a murder."

Simon laughed in spite of himself. "You're impossible," he said, opening my door.

And then he was suddenly quite serious, one hand on my arm to make certain I was paying attention. "But mark me, Miss Elizabeth Alexandra Victoria Crawford, you will heed the advice of Inspector Herbert and leave the death of Mrs. Evanson to the proper authorities to solve. You're in enough danger in France; I don't wish to spend every leave pulling you out of trouble before it comes to your mother's ears!"

He invariably brooked no nonsense when he used my full name.

I wisely said nothing.

When he got behind the wheel, he added for good measure, "And that includes the suicide of the unfortunate Captain Fordham."

I was actually thinking about his death and wondering if the weapon would ever turn up, deep end of that lake or not.

As if he'd read my mind, which I was sometimes convinced he could do, Simon turned to me and said, "Bess."

I spent the afternoon in Mrs. Hennessey's apartments ironing the uniforms I'd soon be packing to take back to France. It was cooler there, and getting the collars and cuffs stiff enough was always hard work. I had had to do one set over again.

Mrs. Hennessey was having tea with one of her friends. I was grateful for the use of her iron, and having to concentrate on what I was doing kept my mind from dwelling on Marjorie Evanson and Captain Fordham.

Simon had gone to his club, refusing to leave London without me.

"If I do, you'll just get up to mischief of some sort," he'd told me.

"You aren't showing up in the Marlborough Hotel, to sit across the room and scowl at poor Captain Truscott, are you?" I'd demanded before shutting the door behind me. "The poor man's hands shake badly enough as it is."

"Captain Truscott appears to be a decent enough sort. No, I'll wait here on the street to make certain he brings you home at a reasonable hour. Mrs. Hennessey may even ask me in for tea."

I slammed the door in his face, and heard him laughing all the way back to the motorcar.

Ironing cuffs and aprons isn't a soothing activity. By the time I was dressed and waiting for Captain Truscott to call, I was not in the mood for dinner and was beginning to wonder why on earth I'd been so eager to see him again.