Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

I knew what he was asking: if not, did she have other lovers? I didn't want to believe that of her. But then I really knew nothing about her.

I pictured her again in my mind's eye. If I'd been touched by her anguish, why hadn't he? How had he managed to remain indifferent? Could that mean she'd only just told him her news? There at the station, where they were surrounded by strangers? She might have lost her nerve earlier, or been afraid that he wouldn't allow her to come to see him off.

I remembered a detail that I hadn't put in my letter. When he bent to kiss her on the cheek, she hadn't responded. She hadn't put her hand up to his face or turned to kiss him. It was as if he hadn't quite known how to walk away from her. And she had been numb, the perfunctory kiss a gesture on his part that she barely felt. That could mean he'd just made it clear that for him the affair was over. What if her distress was her bitter realization that he would do nothing to help her now, even if he knew about the child?

I took a deep breath. "It would be easy to read into what I saw all sorts of explanations that very likely weren't there. At a guess, there was more estrangement between them than passion. That's why I felt at the time that she never expected to see him again."

Inspector Herbert nodded. "I've drawn much the same conclusion. Still, there's always the possibility that he left the train at the next stop because he knew where to find her. I must keep an open mind there."

"If he was rejoining his regiment, he might not have had the option of waiting for a later train."

"Then we must find the man, if only to clarify that point. To be honest, we're no closer to discovering our murderer now than we were when our plea for information was published in the newspapers." Which I interpreted to mean that he was in some way disappointed in my evidence.

"If you'd told me she was a suicide, I would have found that believable, given her state of mind. Or even if he'd been found dead instead of Mrs. Evanson. Not to suggest that she could have killed anyone. It's just that her death seems so-inexplicable."

Inspector Herbert smiled. "You have been very helpful, Miss Crawford. Thank you for coming forward."

I was being dismissed.

I rose to take my leave.

But at the door, I turned, my training reminding me. "Do you know-had she seen a doctor, to confirm her suspicion that she was pregnant?" She must have guessed by the third month.

"We've had no luck there either. I sent my men out with photographs of Mrs. Evanson, in the event she had used a false name. They spoke to doctors and their staffs all across London, and to midwives as well as-er-less savory practitioners in the poorer neighborhoods of the city. So far it would appear that she hasn't been to anyone. We had hoped that the father was decent enough to accompany her and someone remembered him."

Scotland Yard had been thorough.

"Surely her family must have some idea who her friends were. There must have been someone she'd seen more of than was proper."

"Neither her sister nor her sister-in-law had any inkling that there was someone. And the friends we've spoken to tell us the same thing," Inspector Herbert replied. "On the other hand, it's more than likely that when she was with this man, she'd avoid places where she might be recognized. Otherwise there could have been gossip, which might even reach her husband's ears in time." He paused. "You're a woman. Where would you look for help if you were in Mrs. Evanson's shoes?"

"I can't imagine that I'd turn to the man's family. I'm sure they were kept in the dark as well. I'm not sure about friends either. I'd be afraid they would stand in judgment of me. I expect I'd go somewhere I wasn't known, and pose as a war widow. People might be more kind in such circumstances. I'd be frightened about doing anything until I'd told my lover. And perhaps even after I'd told him."

"Frightened of him?" Inspector Herbert asked sharply.

"Frightened for myself and what was to come. I couldn't count on him, could I? He might be married. And even if he were not, I couldn't be sure he'd stand by me and marry me when-if-my husband divorced me. I'd have to face everything alone-my family, my husband, my friends. There's nowhere else to turn, then. And there's the child to think about. I wish now I'd caught up with her outside the station. But that's hindsight, of course. She wouldn't have confided in her husband's nurse, would she?"

"Quite. At least, thanks to you, we've discovered she was with someone later that day. That leaves only five or six more hours to account for. It had been ten, in the beginning. And in ten hours, she might have gone anywhere and still returned to London in time to be murdered. A needle in the proverbial haystack."

I remembered Sister James's comment. "I don't like to suggest-but there are men who prey on women, and if she had nowhere to turn, literally, if she sat crying on a bench along the Thames, or walked in Green Park-"

"We've had no problems of that sort-thank God-these past twelve months. But yes, we've taken that into account. Far-fetched, perhaps, but we haven't shut our eyes to the possibility. And her husband's family is pushing for an early conclusion. We have none to offer at present."

I thanked him and left. The patient constable led me down the stairs and out to the street. He asked as I stepped out onto the pavement, "Shall I find a cab for you, Miss?"

"I'd like to walk a bit first. Thank you, Constable."

He smiled. "Safe journey home, Miss."

Little did he know that I'd be in France in another four and twenty hours.

I'd come nearly as far as Buckingham Palace, going over what I'd learned from Inspector Herbert. This meeting at Scotland Yard had been distressing. Both because of what I'd seen at the railway station and because I'd had Lieutenant Evanson in my care long enough to be concerned for him and his welfare. Yes, Marjorie Evanson had transgressed in the eyes of society. Sadly, such affairs were more common in the disruption of war. I'd heard patients worry about their wives when letters were slow in arriving, long silences that were never fully explained. They would ask me if I thought there was someone else, and always I'd tried to be reassuring, for fear of a relapse. And I'd had patients confess to me that they'd been unfaithful to wives or sweethearts, afraid to die with that on their conscience.

"Sister, I have to tell someone…"

But I couldn't judge Marjorie Evanson. I knew nothing about her, about what or who had tempted her, how she had come to do what she did. Whether it had anything to do with her death was something Scotland Yard must discover.

I found myself looking at the watch pinned at my shoulder. There was time-just-to find a telephone and put in a call to my parents, to say hello. And then I could take the early train to Portsmouth and stop at Laurel House on my way there.

I could see for myself how Lieutenant Evanson was faring, and it would help me put all this behind me. There was probably very little I could do for him, but perhaps a familiar face would cheer him, and we needn't mention his wife at all.

I felt a little better as I turned to hail a cab.

This was a lovely summer's day to be traveling, the roadsides and meadows rampant with wildflowers, villages quiet under the afternoon sun. A herd of sheep, recently shorn, ambled down a lane on their way back to pasture as we waited half an hour at a crossing to give a troop train priority. Lambs frolicked about the ewes, and robins were nesting in the hedgerow beyond. Birds had all but vanished in France, even the carrion crows.

I was looking forward to seeing Lieutenant Evanson, but I was beginning to wonder what I was to say to him. I needn't explain precisely why I was in England. He would take it for granted that I'd brought other patients back. And I wouldn't speak of his wife unless he brought up her death. Least said, soonest mended, my mother had often warned me. There was no need to mention my encounter with Marjorie at the railway station either. And if there were other visitors, my stay could be brief. I'd know, after five minutes in his company, how he was coping.