Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"What happened then?"

"Constable Tilmer searched the gardens and the back lanes, and told the Harts that all was well, the excitement was over. But Michael wouldn't hear of it. He demanded that the constable ring up Scotland Yard and report the incident directly. And then we all went home to bed and that was the end of it."

"Who could possibly want to shoot Lieutenant Hart?"

"That's what everyone is asking. Jason Markham claims it was a jealous husband." She laughed at that. "If so, he had very poor aim."

The village was taking the incident very lightly, finding amusement in it.

"But why should Michael make up such a story?"

"Too many drugs, everyone says. Hearing things." She shrugged.

"Is that true?"

"I don't know how the rumors got started. But they did. I imagine it was when Michael first came here to rest after they had worked on his shoulder. He wasn't himself at all-barely able to speak, and even when he did he didn't always make sense. Slept much of the day and paced his room at night-I could see for myself once or twice that his lights were on until the small hours. And his shadow passing between the lamp and the window, back and forth, back and forth. Even when he finally came outside where people could see him, he was pale and often sweating and his eyes looked right through you."

"Such wounds can be terribly painful. And the shoulder is awkward-difficult to sit down, difficult to lie down, difficult to stand. So you don't rest. Even when you're so sleepy you can hardly stay awake."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Alicia admitted. "It sounds pretty grim, doesn't it?"

"It is grim," I said. "And something to help with the pain is necessary."

"He told the rector when he first came here that the next surgery would be drastic. And he didn't want to survive it."

I could understand. Michael was used to being noticed. He was handsome and charming and amusing. People enjoyed his company. But a man with only one arm was usually pitied, not admired. And amputation at the shoulder would be ugly.

Alicia suggested a walk, and I agreed, thinking that if Michael saw me with her, he might come out and speak to us, saving me from having to find a proper excuse for calling on him.

"It helps the day go by faster," she admitted as we leisurely strolled by the Hart house. "Walking, knitting, taking care of the gardens-anything is better than worrying about Gareth."

And I was right, not five minutes later, as Alicia and I were retracing our steps, Michael Hart came out his door and moved purposefully in our direction. We were just by the churchyard when he caught us up.

Alicia hastily recalled that she must have a word with the rector about flowers for the coming Sunday services, and left me alone.

"You came back," Michael said as soon as he was near enough.

I could see that he had taken his pain medication last night, for his eyes looked dull, and his hands shook a little.

"Alicia was just telling me about your narrow escape."

"Hardly that," he said, an edge to his voice. "Since I imagined the entire incident. I'm surprised Scotland Yard didn't call to inform you of my delusions."

It was too close to the truth for comfort.

"Yes, they do seek my advice regularly. They dare not make a move without me."

He had the grace to apologize. "I'm sorry. I wrenched my shoulder ducking the first shot. Afterward I had a long couple of nights."

Men who had been at the Front often ducked when a motorcar backfired or there was some other loud noise. It was a reflex action, learned to save their lives and not as easily unlearned in a peaceful setting like one's uncle's garden.

"And you never saw anyone. Or heard anything except for the shots?"

"You sound just like Constable Tilmer," he told me sourly. "If I'd seen who it was, I could have named him to the police. Or lacking that, described him."

"What makes you so certain it was a man?" I asked.

That gave him pause.

"I just assumed it was," he said after a moment.

"And why would someone shoot at you?"

"I don't know. Unless someone believes I learned something in London that made me a threat."

"Such as?"

He surprised me with his answer. "If someone learned that I went to Scotland Yard. He-she-could believe I went there to pass on information."

"Then why kill you now? If the Yard already knows what you've learned."

"I haven't worked that out yet."

"Are you sure you heard shots? I mean, as opposed to something that sounded very much like shots."

"I've spent two years in France. Do you think I'd confuse a farmer scaring crows with a shotgun for a pistol shot?"

"No."

I walked a little way toward the church, then turned again and walked back to where he was standing. "How did two shots miss you? Both of them?"

"Think what you like," he snapped and strode away.

I shook my head at his attitude, then hurried after him.

"Michael. Be sensible! Listen to me."

He stopped and turned a stony face toward me, already rejecting what I had to say.

"If whoever it was missed you both times, then it tells me the person aiming at you wasn't used to firearms and was either out of range or couldn't hold the weapon steady."

"I wouldn't put it past Victoria," he answered bitterly.

But I thought it was more likely to be Serena. She'd talked to Inspector Herbert. And so had Michael. For all I knew, she had seen him leaving the Yard.

If it was Serena, this could be the second time she'd fired at a human being. And the first time she had hit her mark, which would have frightened her if she hadn't intended murder.

"I remember the first time I fired a revolver. I missed the target and nearly hit a troop of monkeys in a tree. It was six weeks before they ventured that near again."

He was smiling at the story about the monkeys, but his mind wasn't on what I was saying.

"Did the police at least search for the spent bullets?"

"A cursory search. I went back later to look on my own. But it's a garden, for God's sake, and finding anything would be a miracle."

"Let's have a look together."

He was about to refuse me, but I stood there waiting, and finally he said disagreeably, "All right, then."

I wanted very much to tell him that handsome is as handsome does. But that would be sinking to the same childish level.

Still, I was tempted.

And what would Alicia think when she came back to find I'd gone off with Michael Hart? That her stratagem had worked?

We walked in silence to the house where he was staying with his aunt and uncle. The grassy path branched about three-quarters of the way to the door, and stepping-stones led to a gate in a well-trimmed hedge. Through that I found myself in a very pretty formal garden. Small boxwoods lined the paths in a geometric pattern, dividing the beds. Along the far side of the garden, matching the hedge at the front gate, was a bank of lilacs, which must have been beautiful in the spring, their fragrance wafting to the chairs set out on a narrow stone terrace, rising above two shallow steps.

"What's behind the lilacs?"

"The carriage drive to the stables. Beyond that a small orchard."

"So someone could have come as far as the lilacs without being seen."

"Yes. That was what the police suggested as well."

"And where were you standing?"

"I was in the center, by the little sundial, my back to the lilacs. The house had felt stuffy, and I'd come out here. But I couldn't sit still, so I walked as far as the sundial, stood there for several minutes, and was just turning back to the terrace when I heard the shots."

He was right. Finding the spent bullet amongst the beds of roses, peonies, larkspur, and other flowers in full bloom, much less the loamy earth they were set in, would be a miracle.