Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

She said, "Your visitor was crying when she left. Is everything all right?"

Surprised, I answered, "She hoped for good news."

Mrs. Cox nodded. "We could all use a little of that."

I just wished Helen Calder would regain consciousness and tell us what she remembered. Good news-or bad-but better than this limbo.

The dinner party went exceedingly well, our cook outdoing herself with the chickens and even with a lovely French tart for the sweet. I couldn't help but wonder where she had found the sugar for the glaze.

Most of all I enjoyed the guests, many of them friends of my parents, a few of them friends of mine. Diana was in London and arrived in high spirits, flirting with Simon, although Mary had told me it was likely she would be engaged by the autumn. Another of my flatmates, Elayne, was a surprise. I hadn't seen her in weeks and we had much to catch up on. She too was expecting a proposal, she said, and I was happy for her.

Even Melinda Crawford had traveled all the way from Kent. She and my father were distantly related, and both her husband and her father had served in India in their time. As she leaned on Simon's arm as we went in to dinner, she said, "When this wicked war is finished, I want to go back to India. I've unfinished business there. Will you take me?" Overhearing that, I made a promise to myself that I would go with them.

Throughout that dinner, I enjoyed watching my mother's face. She loved entertaining, did it well, and was a clever hostess. I smiled at her down the table, and won a smile in return.

My leave was nearly up. I felt a twinge of regret, knowing how much this time meant to my parents.

I had wanted to see Alicia Dalton before I left for France, to apologize again for hurting her feelings. But there was much to do the morning after the party, and I couldn't leave all of that to my mother and Nell. And I was waiting for news of Helen Calder. Diana had promised to find out what she could.

Simon had driven Melinda Crawford to the train and my mother had taken the last of the chicken, made up as a fricassee, to two elderly women in the village. My father had been summoned to Sandhurst for a ceremony of some sort, and I was rather at loose ends.

Remembering that Victoria had telephoned Serena, I decided I would return the favor.

As the call was being put through, I realized too late that I should have left well enough alone. This was borne in upon me by the coldness in Victoria Garrison's voice when I told her who I was.

"I should have thought I would be the last person you wished to speak with," she said. "After what happened the other day."

Refusing to be drawn, I asked, "Miss Garrison, did Lieutenant Hart tell you why he wanted to go to London?"

"Why don't you ask Inspector Herbert? I've told him what I know."

"It was you who took Michael there. And so I'm asking you."

"Someone had told him I had tickets for that play. I didn't twist his arm, he came to me. He said he would very much like to see it. I was surprised, but I was glad of the company, driving back after the performance. And then later, when we reached London, he hurt his shoulder getting out of the motorcar, and he was in pain. He couldn't sit still, and even before the curtain went up, he walked out, saying that he needed air. I offered to go with him, but he told me to stay there, he wouldn't be gone very long. When he hadn't returned by intermission, I went to look for him. I missed a part of the play searching. The doorman told me he thought he'd seen the lieutenant leave the theater. I couldn't think where he might have gone. I went back to my seat, and toward the end of the last act, he was there, looking as white as I'd ever seen him, his hands shaking. I drove him home, and he had very little to say for himself. I was very angry with him; I thought him selfish, to ask to come and then to ruin my evening."

"Did he tell you where he'd been?"

"He said he'd walked until he was too exhausted to walk any longer. He found a cab and was driven back to the theater."

"Did you believe him?"

"I didn't know whether to believe him or not. I wondered if he'd had no interest in the play after all, and had only used me to bring him to town."

"Could the people who had the seats nearest you swear that you were alone until the end of the play?"

She was angry then. "Are you suggesting that I wasn't there either?"

I hadn't been, I'd just wondered if she'd been lying, but she was furious and said, "You won't get him off, you know. However much you try. I tell you, I was lucky that he didn't decide to kill me on the way home. I didn't know then that he was a murderer."

"But I don't understand why you should think he would harm Marjorie. Or had any reason at all to attack Helen Calder. If he couldn't bear to sit still, he might well have tried to walk instead."

There was silence for a moment, and then she said, "There was a dark smear on his sleeve. I pointed it out to him, and he said he'd stopped for a glass of wine and spilled some of it, then tried to wash it out with cold water. The sleeve was still damp; it must have been true."

I couldn't decide if she was telling the truth about that. Her voice seemed a little different, somehow. Or had I imagined it? "That still doesn't explain-"

"The next day, a friend telephoned to tell me about Helen Calder. She knew that Helen was a connection on my mother's side. She lives across the square, she'd watched the police come and go from the garden, and she'd sent her husband to find out what had happened. He told her that Helen Calder had been the victim of a knifing, and he thought she must be dead. But his wife had seen an ambulance come and then leave. I expect she hoped that I might know more about the attack. She said Helen Calder's assailant hadn't been found."

"I still don't see the connection with Michael Hart," I pressed.

"My friend-Mrs. Daly-told me she herself had seen a young officer with his arm in a sling come to Helen Calder's door, earlier in the evening. He spoke to the maid, then left to sit in the garden for a time before walking away."

My heart sank. Whether that maid knew Michael by name didn't matter, her description of the caller would be enough. That, coupled with Victoria's statement about the stained sleeve, would be telling evidence.

"Do you really believe he killed Marjorie?" I asked, as soon as I could collect my thoughts.

"Oh, yes. Once the police asked me if I was aware that he was in London on that same day, I knew it must be so. Someone got her pregnant, did you know that? The police told me she was pregnant when she died. If Michael had found that out, I think he would have killed her out of sheer jealousy. I was convinced from the start that she must have written to him in France and confided in him that she'd had an affair. She always had confided in him, why shouldn't she turn to him now? I kept after him to tell me if he knew the name of the man she'd been seeing, and he swore he didn't. I was starting to believe him. Did you know he hadn't even told his aunt and uncle that he was in London that night? But he must have told Marjorie. He'd found a way to get leave and confront her."

Her voice changed again, and I wished I could see her face. "He never got over her marriage, did you know that? He always thought she'd marry him. I remember him at the wedding, looking as if he'd like to snatch the bride up and ride off with her across his saddle bow."

That made a dreadful sense. After the man at the station, Raymond Melton, walked away from her, Marjorie would very likely have turned to Michael.

"But why should he kill Helen Calder?"

"How should I know? Perhaps he's still trying to find out Marjorie's lover's name. For all I know, Michael intended to kill him next."