Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

He arrived on the dot, and Mrs. Hennessey, bless her, climbed the stairs to our flat and told me he was waiting.

He smiled as I came down, saying, "It was good to see you again. I'm looking forward to dinner."

Frederick Truscott turned out to be a very nice dinner partner. It made up for the Marlborough's very indifferent menu. We had a number of friends in common, and that kept conversation rolling comfortably all the way to the hotel. "I've borrowed Terrence Hornsby's motor," he told me. "And so, like Cinderella, I must have you at home before the stroke of twelve. He's driving to Wales tonight to visit his family."

"I haven't seen him in ages! How is he?"

"Bullet clipped his ear. Still looks rather raw there, but he's glad it wasn't his head. He says he needed it, although some of his friends are in serious debate over that."

Which sounded just like Terrence. I laughed.

While we were on the subject of absent friends, I said quite casually, "I only discovered today that Jack Melton's brother is a serving officer. A captain in the Wiltshire Fusiliers. I don't think Jack mentioned him when we were at Melton Hall."

"Someone told me they were estranged, though not why. I've never met him."

"He's married, I think?"

"I couldn't say."

We swapped other names, and then, against my better judgment I asked, "Did you know Captain Fordham?"

His face lost its humor. "Sadly I did. A loss there. He was a good officer."

"Was he by any chance acquainted with Marjorie Evanson?"

"Strange you should mention that. The police asked his family about a connection when they came to inquire into his death. Apparently he did know her."

"How well?"

"I've no idea, really. Marjorie was good company. I was fond of her myself." Changing the subject, he asked, "When do you go back to France?"

"In another five days."

"Bad luck. I leave the day after tomorrow. Said my good-byes at home and came up to London to put that parting behind me. Easier that way. Where is your family?"

"Somerset. I haven't spent as much time with them as I'd promised."

"Was that your elder brother in the motorcar with you?"

"Good heavens, no. That's Simon Brandon. He was my father's sergeant-major at the end of his career."

A light dawned behind his eyes. "You're not Colonel Richard Crawford's daughter, are you?" When I nodded, guessing what was coming, Captain Truscott said, "My God. He was a fine officer. We've a man in the Fusiliers who served under him. He knows more about planning battles than half the general staff."

I could agree with that. There had been complaints that the generals were fighting the wars of the past. My father and Simon often refought the battle of the Somme over cigars, and it always put them in a rotten mood.

We discussed my father for a bit, and then suddenly, we'd finished our pudding, drunk our tea in the comfortable lounge, and it was time to go.

I said, as we walked through Reception and out of the hotel, "Can you think of any good reason for Captain Fordham to kill himself?"

"I don't know that we need a reason," Freddy Truscott answered somberly. "What keeps you going is your men. You don't let them down. Fordham lost most of his men in a charge ordered against a section of line that reconnaissance had indicated was poorly defended and certain to fold. But the Germans had put in a concealed machine-gun nest during the night, and they held their fire until Fordham and his men were within easy range. They were wiped out-he was one of only a handful of wounded who somehow made it back to their own lines. The rest were dead before they knew what they were up against. He blamed himself for trusting HQ. He felt he'd betrayed the dead, and refused all treatment when they got him back to the nearest aid station. One of the nursing sisters put a needle into his arm and that was that. He was more sensible when he came out of surgery."

I recalled the incident-although I hadn't known it was Captain Fordham who'd fought the nursing staff. Diana had been there, had witnessed the struggle to treat the wounded man, and she had told us about it. Even she hadn't learned why the officer had gone mad, only that in spite of his severe injuries he'd fought like a tiger.

But this went far to explain Fordham's suicide. Still, if he'd been intent on taking his own life, why wait until he was nearly mended?

Trying for a lighter note on which to end the evening, I asked Freddy if I could write to him in France.

He said, "I was trying to get up the courage to ask just that."

And then it was time to say good-bye. As we stood outside the door of Mrs. Hennessey's house, I wished him safe in France and he held my hand longer than was needful. "Thank you, Bess, for a happy evening. I've enjoyed it more than I can say."

With that he was gone, walking to the borrowed motorcar with swift strides, not looking back even as he drove away. I watched him go, watched his taillights vanish around the far corner of our street, and with a sigh, said a silent prayer that he would come home whole. Then I turned and went inside. Where had Simon got to?

I hadn't learned a great deal about Raymond Melton, and only a little about Lieutenant Fordham.

But as I climbed the stairs to my flat, calling good night to Mrs. Hennessey who had come out to ask me if I'd enjoyed my evening, I wondered why Jack Melton and his brother were estranged. Because he knew what sort of person Raymond Melton was?

What had been the fascination there for Marjorie? Attention when she needed comforting, her fears for Meriwether smoothed away? Sometimes very cold men could be utterly charming when it served their purpose. I preferred someone like Michael Hart, who made no bones about flirting, enjoying it and expecting no harm to come of it.

Like the woman at the garden party, I remembered as I drifted into sleep. Henry's wife, who had been amused by Michael's flattery, gave it back in full measure, and made both of them laugh.

Someone was knocking at the flat door. I heard it in my dreams before I realized that the sound was real. Surfacing from sleep, I tried to think what time it was, and if I'd overslept. I fumbled for my slippers and my dressing gown and made my way through the dark flat. But the windows told me it wasn't the middle of the night, as I'd first thought, or late morning. Dawn had broken and the first rays of the sun were touching the rooftops opposite.

I opened the door to Mrs. Hennessey, her gray hair in a long plait that fell down over the collar of her dressing gown.

"What is it? What's the matter?" I asked, thinking she must be ill.

"My dear, it's Sergeant-Major Brandon. He says it's most urgent that he speak to you. I do hope it isn't your parents-"

My mind was racing ahead of me as I brushed past her and went headlong down the stairs, nearly flinging myself into Simon's arms as I tripped on the last three steps.

"What is it?" I said again, tensed for the blow to come.

"I told Mrs. Hennessey not to frighten you," he said, angry. "It's a police matter, but important enough to make sure you were safely here."

Mrs. Hennessey had seen me come in. She could have told Simon-and then I realized that he had been frowning with worry until he saw me on the stairs.

"Do you know a Mrs. Calder?" he continued, and I tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

"Calder? Yes-she's a friend of Marjorie's. Marjorie Evanson."

"She was attacked last night and nearly killed."

"She-" I began and had to stop to catch my breath. "Nearly killed?"

Mrs. Hennessey had made her way down the stairs and said to Simon, "If you wish to use my sitting room-"

He thanked her and we went into her flat, where a lamp was burning in the small room where she sat in the evening. She asked if we'd like a cup of tea, but Simon shook his head. With that she left us alone, but knowing Mrs. Hennessey, she wouldn't be far, even though she knew that Simon was a family friend. Her staunch Victorian upbringing wouldn't allow her to eavesdrop, but she would be able to hear if I screamed or had to fight for my virtue, since I was not properly dressed to receive a gentleman.