Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

We set off along the rutted road, lurching and swaying like some mad creature in the throes of despair. It was always a wonder to me when a severely wounded man survived this ride. I felt bruised and battered as we pulled in at the hospital and I could turn my patients over to the staff waiting there.

Captain Ritter thanked me for my care of his men, and then said, "I have learned one thing in life at least. When I have given up all hope, there is still something to live for. I swore I would never be taken prisoner. And here I am, a prisoner. But I shall write to my wife now and tell her that very likely I shall survive the war after all. She will have a little peace, knowing that. It will be my good deed."

"There's no shame in being taken prisoner," I told him. "You are no use to your country dead."

He smiled. "I shall remember that. Good-bye, Fraulein." And he was gone, supported by two orderlies, followed by an armed guard.

I was to think about Captain Ritter when my mail at last caught up with me.

When I have given up all hope, there is still something to live for.

Michael Hart was speaking almost those same words to Simon Brandon that same afternoon. Only I wouldn't hear about it for another two weeks.

When Simon's letter arrived, the envelope was worn and splattered with mud. At least I hoped it was mud. I opened it gingerly, and drew out the sheets inside.

Unfolding them, I looked at the heavy, angular strokes of his pen, and I had a premonition of bad news.

Bess, it began, I am writing in haste, as there is a chance I shall be able to send this letter tonight. As you asked, I attended the trial. It was brought forward because Mrs. Calder regained some memory of events the night she was stabbed. Only a partial memory as it turned out, but she was able to tell the police that she'd received a message from Lieutenant Hart asking her to meet him. This was verified by her maid, who had brought the letter to her from the post. She replied that she had a dinner engagement that night-would it be possible for him to come another evening. He answered that he would meet her at nine thirty, if her dinner party ended in good time. She agreed, and was surprised that he wasn't waiting in her house. Instead he came toward her from the shadows at the corner of her house, and she called to him to join her. That was the last thing she remembered. Because the doctors had ordered a long and careful period of convalescence, it was decided to move the trial date to accommodate the medical needs of the chief witness. I spoke to the barrister who had taken Hart's case, and he felt that judgment could go either way-conviction or acquittal depending on the view of the jury when the evidence was presented. He believed your evidence regarding events at the railway station would be crucial, as it indicated that Hart was not Mrs. Evanson's lover, and therefore had no reason to kill her to protect himself from charges that he was the child's father. As she was already married, Hart could hardly be considered a jilted lover or cuckolded husband. This removed one motive for murder, and such circumstantial evidence as there was required a suitable motive. And Mrs. Calder could be shown to be recovering still, and perhaps not perfectly certain about what she thinks she remembers.

He had told Hart how he expected to conduct the trial, and had every expectation that his principal agreed with the plan.

The trial began on a Monday, and the general feeling was that it would last five to seven days. Your father had told me he had also arranged to attend, and we met outside the courtroom, taking our seats just as Hart was brought in.

His shoulder had healed sufficiently for the more conspicuous bandaging to be reduced to a padded sling. His counsel objected to the prison doctor's decision, believing it gave the jury a false impression of his ability to use that arm. Still, it was rather obvious that the shoulder was held awkwardly as he came up the stairs into the dock. I thought he appeared to be under considerable strain, but otherwise he seemed to be in control and aware of his plight.

When he was asked how he would plead, his counsel rose to speak, but Hart was there before him, and to the absolute horror of most of the spectators, he said quite clearly and without emotion, I plead guilty to both charges.

Pandemonium reigned for all of a minute, his counsel begging for time to confer with his client and nearly drowned out. When the bailiffs had restored order, the judge turned to Hart and said, Do you understand the consequences of your plea? And Hart replied quite steadily that he did and was ready to accept them.

I put the letter down, staring at nothing as the words brought me so close to that courtroom that I could imagine the scene quite clearly, Lieutenant Hart in the dock, his counsel and the KC staring alternately at him and at the judge, unable to fathom what was happening. After all, everyone had been prepared for a trial, not for the rug to be pulled precipitously from under their feet. And in the center of this maelstrom, his face pale but determined, was Michael Hart.

The effect on the jury must have been momentous. The trial couldn't continue.

But what in heaven's name had possessed him? Why had he thrown his chances to the winds, and ignored the advice of the barrister retained to save him from the gallows?

I sat there, my head reeling, my heart plummeting to the soles of my shoes.

It was the very height of foolishness, and it made no sense.

After a time, I picked up Simon's letter again and turned to the second page. Justice Bromley asked if Hart had any more to add to his plea, and he was answered by a single shake of the head, then a very firm No.

I needn't tell you what happened next. The court had no choice but to accept the plea before them, and I thought of you when the judge reached for his black cap. He declared that the circumstances of the two attacks, both on women alone and vulnerable, and the brutal stabbing before one had gone into the river and the other abandoned to bleed to death on the pavement, left no room for compassion or understanding. And he condemned Michael Hart to be hanged.

The words seemed to roll around my head, echoing through the room where I sat in the early twilight, unable to reach out and turn on the lamp beside me. Light would make it true. Sitting here in the shadows, I could almost pretend that this letter had never come.

Or that Michael Hart had offered something, some crumb of comfort or explanation to his bald statement. Why? Even if he had done these things-which I still doubted-why had he admitted to them? Was it conscience?

How had I been so wrong about him?

I picked up the letter again, hoping that Simon had an answer to that question.

But he didn't. He and my father had left the courtroom with the rest of the spectators, all of whom were talking about this shocking turn of events.

Simon ended the letter with a final paragraph. I tried to speak to his barrister, but the man refused to hear me. I had the feeling he was too angry to trust himself to talk to anyone. The Colonel and I decided the best move now would be to see Hart. If we can gain access to him. If he will see us. I have considered tearing up this letter. Or not sending it until we've heard what he has to say. But in all fairness to you, my dear girl, it had to be sent. I wish I could be there when you read it. I wish I had better news.

And it was signed with his name, nothing more.

I reread the letter, still trying to absorb it.

Why would Michael Hart condemn himself? What did he know that had made him confess to murder, whether he had done that murder or not?

And the answer was there in front of me.

I went back to the letter and looked for the words again. And there they were.