Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

I set aside my soup spoon. "When I learned that the man was his brother, I found myself wondering if what I'd said to Jack Melton outside the Marlborough Hotel in London might not have put him on to Raymond as the man I'd mentioned. I didn't describe him of course. But Jack was rather short with me as well. Almost rude, in fact. Still, he must not have said anything to his wife-she'd have brought it up when she came to Somerset to see me."

"Very likely not," my father put in. "On the other hand, by the very nature of his work in cryptology, Melton isn't likely to be talkative. He can't afford to be, given what he reads every day in dispatches and intercepts. After a while, secretiveness must become a way of life."

"It's more likely that he prefers to steer Serena away from suspecting his brother was the man with Marjorie. She's angry enough to cause trouble. And that wouldn't go down well with his superiors either." I'd had a taste of how angry she could be, and how hurtful. "But it's rather two-faced of him, isn't it? Protecting the man who seduced his brother-in-law's wife."

"I expect," my mother said, surprising us all, "Mr. Melton feels that since Marjorie Evanson is dead, and her child with her, there's no point in ruining his brother's marriage, career, or life. It's finished. And so he can simply put it behind him."

It was a very perceptive remark.

"And now," she went on, "perhaps we can dispense with murder as a subject for dinner conversation."

Not five minutes later, I was summoned to the telephone. I almost failed to recognize the voice at the other end.

"This is Matron speaking-"

I thought she meant Matron at Laurel House, and was about to greet her warmly when the voice continued, "-at St. Martin's Hospital in London."

"Yes, Matron. This is Sister Crawford."

"I thought perhaps you'd want to know that Mrs. Calder is out of danger and has been removed from the surgical ward to the women's ward. We have kept her heavily sedated, to keep her quiet. But that's been reduced, and I expect her to regain consciousness in a few hours."

"I should like very much to be there," I said. "Will I be permitted to see her?"

"I see no reason why not. Unless Scotland Yard objects."

"I'll be there," I promised. "And if she awakens before I arrive, will you tell her that I'm on my way?"

"I'll be happy to," she said, and rang off.

I hurried back to the dining room. "I must go to London tonight-as soon as may be."

Simon was already pushing his chair back. "I'll drive."

My mother said to me, "I suggest you finish your meal first, my dear. Ten minutes shouldn't matter, not with Simon at the wheel."

And so we finished our dinner in almost indecent haste, and then I was rushing upstairs to change and fetch my coat.

I was tense on the drive to London. The hours crept by, and Simon said little, his concentration on the road intense.

It was late when we walked through the doors of the hospital and asked for Matron.

She greeted me, and with a warning not to tire her patient, she turned me over to a young nursing sister. Simon was asked to remain outside. He touched my arm and said quietly, "I'll wait in the motorcar."

I nodded, grateful, and then I was shown to a bed near the middle of the ward. A small lamp burned above the bed, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. I could hear the quiet breathing of other patients, and one moaned softly.

Helen Calder's eyes were closed, and she appeared to be sleeping as well as I took the chair by her bedside. She must have heard the slight rustle of my skirts, for she stirred a little and bit her lip as if in pain.

I said in a low voice that I hoped would carry only to her ears, "Helen? Do you remember me? It's Bess Crawford."

She opened her eyes, focusing them with some difficulty at first. And then she said faintly, "Oh yes. Of course. How kind of you to come and see me. My family has just left-"

"Then you'll be tired. I just wished to be sure that you were recovering. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Is there anything you need?"

The young woman in the bed behind me coughed a little, and then slept again.

"The sisters have been so good," she said. "But I hurt-"

"I'll ask them to look in on you," I promised. "I was so shocked by the news," I went on. "Do you have any memory of what happened?"

"I remember dressing and leaving the house, looking forward to dining with friends. And then I woke up here and didn't know where I was." She frowned. "I'm told I was attacked-knifed. As I came home alone. Is it true?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But who would do such a thing?" A tear ran from the corner of her eye down her pale cheek. "I've never harmed anyone. Not ever…" Her voice trailed off.

"You're safe, now." I touched her hand. "Let the police deal with it." Her fingers closed tightly over mine.

"Bess-it's frightening that I can't remember. They tell me it happens. The shock, they said." She moved restlessly. "I'm told it will all come back. Only I'm not sure I want it to."

"If it starts to return, ask a nurse to send for the police," I said, trying to soothe her. "They'll want to know. It will help them apprehend whoever did this."

"Yes, that's what Inspector Hemmings-no, that's not right-" She closed her eyes. "I didn't imagine him-" She was still drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Inspector Herbert," I said. "From Scotland Yard."

"Was he here? Did you see him?"

"I've spoken to him before, about Marjorie Evanson."

"That's right. You were anxious to find out who killed her."

"Did he-did Inspector Herbert ask you about Lieutenant Michael Hart?"

"I can't think why he wished to know if I'd seen him last night-no, it wasn't last night, was it? I'm so confused."

"It doesn't matter," I answered her, though I felt myself go cold.

"He told me I'd been calling Michael's name when I was found and brought to hospital. But that makes no sense. I'd have asked for my husband, wouldn't I? Not for Michael."

"Perhaps you were thinking about him."

"Not at dinner-afterward-"

I told myself that I must stop now, before I heard more than I wanted to hear. If she brought back some fleeting memory that would damn Michael, it would all be my doing. But truth is something I'd been taught to value. I couldn't walk away from it, whatever the consequences.

"Afterward?" I asked, before my courage ran out.

But she had drifted into sleep, and I recalled my promise to speak to one of the sisters and tell them she was in pain.

Still, I sat there for another several minutes, in case she awoke again. Then, after a brief conversation with the ward sister, I left, feeling very depressed for Helen Calder's sake and my own.

I was just walking down the steps of the hospital, taking a deep breath of the cooling evening air after the familiar smells of the wards, and nearly passed Inspector Herbert without noticing him, so distracted that I just registered a man coming toward me.

"Miss Crawford," he said, stopping me. He frowned. "Not questioning my witness, I hope?"

"I'm a nurse," I replied shortly, "and the patient is someone I know."

He nodded. "How is she? She wasn't making much sense earlier."

"The ward sister tells me she's doing as well as can be expected. The fear, as always, is infection. From the knife, from bits of cloth driven into her wounds, from the surgery itself. She's healthy and that's in her favor. They're still sedating her for her pain." It was a cowardly comment, but I told myself that it was also true.

"I was just on my way home and decided to stop and ask if she was awake again."

"She's asleep at the moment. Or she was when I left the ward."

"Did you speak to her?"

"Briefly. She told me you had called earlier, and that she couldn't remember what had happened. She added that she was afraid to remember. I tried to assure her that she was safe now and it would be all right. Which of course isn't really the truth-if she does remember, she'll relive that night for years. If not while she's awake, then in her dreams. Is there any possibility that you could send for her husband? It would be a comfort to her."