Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

We were standing there together when the rector came around the corner of the church and spoke to us. He remembered me from the fete, and told me he was happy to see me again.

"Alicia has been rambling about in that empty house long enough," he went on. "It's nice that friends can come and stay. We hope we'll see more of you."

I smiled and thanked him.

Looking down at the grave, he said, "Did you know Mrs. Evanson?"

I told him the truth, that I had nursed her husband and brought him home to England to recover from his burns, and I left it at that.

"He was a very fine man," the rector told me. "The sort you're happy to see marrying one of the young women in your parish. A tragedy that he should die of his wounds after coming so far."

"Yes." I gestured toward the grave at my feet. "Tell me about his wife."

"A thoroughly nice young woman. I shouldn't wish to speak ill of the dead, but she was not really happy here. She didn't see eye to eye with her sister or her father. I never understood what lay behind that. I was glad when she made a life for herself in London."

"Did Victoria visit her there?"

"She went to London a few times," he said, frowning, "but I don't know that she visited Marjorie. I remember asking for news, once, when Victoria had been up to see a play. She told me she'd been too busy to call on her sister." He smiled sadly. "A shame, really, they had only each other."

He left us then, and Alicia said, "You know, you really ought to speak to Mrs. Eubanks. She's the rector's cook now, but she was the Garrisons' cook until she had words with Victoria's father and walked out. That was ages ago, before the war. I'd all but forgotten."

I glanced at the watch pinned to my apron. A cook would be starting preparations for dinner very shortly, but it wouldn't take long to ask my questions. "I'm so glad you remembered. And there's just time." I started for the rectory.

"I'll go with you!" Alicia said eagerly.

"No, that's probably not a good idea. If she's kept any secrets all these years, she might well not wish to make them public now. And you live in the village."

"But that's not fair-it was I who told you about her-"

"Alicia, think about it for a moment-"

She was angry. "I've helped you thus far. It's really unkind of you to shut me out now. And I was the one who introduced you to Michael."

"Alicia-"

"No. You've just used me, that's all. I should have guessed. Victoria said you would, you know. The day of the fair. I told her she was trying to make trouble, but I see now she was right." She turned and walked away, hurt and disappointed.

I felt my own anger rising. I liked Alicia, I wouldn't have upset her for the world. But thanks to Victoria's meddling, she had taken what I'd said in the worst possible light.

I called to her, told her I was sorry, but the damage had been done. She kept walking, and disappeared through her door without looking back. I started after her, and after a few steps, stopped. It was useless. Even if I could persuade her that I'd been wrong about Mrs. Eubanks, Alicia would think I was apologizing because I still needed her help, not because I meant it. Otherwise she would have come back when I called to her. I couldn't help but wonder what else Victoria could have said, then recalled Alicia's parting words about Michael Hart. She had enjoyed matchmaking, but Victoria had poisoned that as well.

With a heavy heart I crossed the churchyard to the rectory gardens, and made my way to the kitchen yard and up the path to the outer door. It led into a passage littered with boots and coats and umbrellas that had seen better days, and thence into the kitchen.

I opened the door, and the woman up to her elbows in flour and dough looked up, ready to say something, then stopped short.

"Oh-you aren't Rector. If you're looking for him, he should be in the vestry just now. At the church."

"Are you Mrs. Eubanks?" I asked. But of course she must be. Short and compact, she was graying, although her face was unlined. I put her age at perhaps fifty-five.

"I am. And who might you be, Miss?"

"My name is Elizabeth Crawford. I'm a nursing sister, and one of my patients was Lieutenant Meriwether Evanson," I began. "I was with the convoy that brought him to England for treatment of his burns."

I explained that I was visiting with Mrs. Dalton, and she nodded. "I think I saw you with her at the garden fete."

"Yes, I was here then as well."

"The poor man. We heard that he barely survived a fortnight after his wife's death. I met him a time or two, you know. He came here to speak to Rector in regard to marrying Miss Marjorie."

"I've been learning a little about her as well. Alicia Dalton said that you could tell me more about her than anyone else in Little Sefton. Would you mind?"

We talked for a while about the Evansons, and it was clear that Mrs. Eubanks would have been glad to go to London with them as their cook, but she had already, as she said, "gotten used to Rector's little ways, and he to mine."

"I understand there was no love lost between Marjorie and her sister."

Mrs. Eubanks's lips thinned into a hard line. After a moment she said, "I know Rector preaches that it's wrong to hate anyone, but I come as close to that as never mind when it comes to Miss Victoria. She's a piece of work." She had been making dough as I came in, and now she turned it out onto a floured board, and began to knead it vigorously. I hoped it wouldn't be tough as nails as a result.

"Was she always so rude?"

Mrs. Eubanks turned her head to listen, decided that no one could overhear us, and said, "Rudeness isn't the half of it. My sister Nancy, God rest her soul, worked with Dr. Hale, and when Miss Marjorie's dear mother went into labor prematurely, he took Nancy with him to help. She was very good with women in labor and newborns. She had that way about her."

"Did she? That's a gift."

"To be sure it is. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Garrison had only been married the seven months when Miss Marjorie was born, and she had that breathing trouble that so often carries off those little ones born before their time. But my sister and Dr. Hale kept her alive, and though she was sickly for months, she survived and began to thrive. It was a miracle, and Mr. Garrison paid my sister handsomely for her services, so grateful he sang her praises to everyone who would listen."

I couldn't quite see where this was going, but I looked encouraging and hoped she would continue. But she set aside the dough and put the kettle on, as if the subject were finished.

"I could do with some tea," she said, getting out cups and the milk pitcher, and a bowl of precious honey to sweeten it. Then she went to a cupboard and brought out a plate of biscuits.

That done, she and I sat down at the table, and she picked up the thread of her story. "All was well, then. The next child, a little boy, was born in winter with a weak chest as well, and he didn't live very long. After that came Victoria, and she was a lusty, healthy little one, kicking and crying with such strength, you wouldn't believe it possible. There was only four years difference in their ages, and Miss Marjorie adored her sister. But when Victoria was about twelve, their mother died."

The kettle was on the boil, and Mrs. Eubanks stopped to make the tea. When she had poured our cups, she sat down again.

"Miss Marjorie and her mother were always close, I expect because she nearly died. And Miss Victoria was closer to her father, they were always out and about together. She followed him everywhere, as soon as she could walk. Slowly, with malice, that girl set out to turn her father against her sister. Little things at first, the spilled milk, the broken vase, any small mishap, and it was blamed on Miss Marjorie. Even when the old dog died. Victoria swore Miss Marjorie had poisoned it. When she was old enough to understand such things, she told her father she didn't believe that Miss Marjorie was his true daughter, that her mother must have been pregnant when she married. And she would point out little things-the fact that Miss Marjorie looked more like her mother, and not at all like her father-I don't know what all. The housekeeper was a friend of mine, and she'd tell me tales that made me want to cry. But in the end, Victoria Garrison got her way, and Mr. Garrison came to hate his own daughter, hated the sight of her, and nothing her mother could say changed his mind. Miss Victoria had her father's love, but now she wanted all of her mother's, and when she saw she wasn't going to get it, she made the poor woman's life a misery. And her father stood by, letting her do it. It was as if he didn't have the courage to come right out and attack his wife himself. But he enjoyed seeing her unhappy."