Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

Simon's discussion with Michael's barrister: He believed that 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.

Michael had confessed because he didn't want the world to hear about Marjorie's lover, Marjorie's infidelity, Marjorie's shame. It would have had to come out. It would be in all the newspapers, the gossip of London, a nine-day's wonder, and at the end of it, Marjorie would have been seen as the woman who betrayed her severely burned husband, the husband who had killed himself rather than live with the truth.

Whether Michael was guilty or not, he had given her one last gift of love-his silence.

Still, the Colonel Sahib would have something to say on that subject. "Gallantry," he often told his men, "is an act of great courage under fire, of bravery beyond the call of duty. But if it kills your comrades as well or puts the battle in jeopardy, then it is arrant pride and foolishness. Learn to know the difference."

But then Michael was only putting himself in jeopardy.

I set the letter down and went to my small trunk. Lifting the lid, I searched through my belongings for the photograph of Marjorie Evanson that I still carried with me because no one else seemed to want it.

I found the frame, turned it over, and looked at the face of the dead woman, trying to think what it was about her that had made two men love her so fiercely.

She was quite pretty, with fair hair and what must have been blue eyes, but that wasn't the person, only an outward reflection.

There must have been some quality that the camera couldn't capture, something in her smile or a vulnerability that appealed to men.

There were prettier women-Diana, my flatmate, was certainly far more beautiful.

Possibly Raymond Melton had seen her as a challenge. Some men liked that.

It occurred to me that I should send this photograph to Michael Hart. If he hadn't killed her, he would take comfort in it.

Perhaps he would whether he had killed her or not.

But it seemed a betrayal of her husband, who had clung to this photograph through the darkest hours of his life.

And how Victoria Garrison and Serena Melton must be celebrating now. They had got what they wanted, both of them.

I took a deep breath and put the frame back in my trunk and closed the lid.

The practical question now was what to do about Michael?

Did I take him at his word? Or should I go on searching for a murderer?

I turned, pulled on my boots, and went to see Matron.

If I could have leave, I could go to England and try once more to get to the bottom of Marjorie Evanson's death.

But Matron, swamped with wounded, refused to consider my request for leave, although I told her that it could be a matter of life or death.

"We're shorthanded, Sister Crawford. And your love affair will just have to wait."

"It isn't a love-"

She cut me short. "You aren't the first nursing sister to come to me with such a request. Nor will you be the last. I was young, like you. I can appreciate the fact that your world feels as if it's coming to an end. But men are dying here, and I will thank you to concentrate on their needs, not your own. Selfishness has no place on the battlefield."

With that she dismissed me, and I had no option but to walk out of her office and return to my quarters.

Consoling myself as best I could, I wrote a letter to Simon, and set it out for the post. If only he'd told me when the date of execution was. But perhaps he didn't know. I had a feeling that Michael would ask that it not be delayed. And he would go to the gallows before Christmas.

A thought came to mind. Inspector Herbert had been in no hurry to send for Captain Raymond Melton, because he believed that my encounter with Marjorie in the railway station had sufficiently explained his role in her life: lover, rejecting her, unwilling to believe the child she was carrying was his-but in no way connecting him to her murder. His alibi was about as sound as one could be.

But what if I could break it?

I had two hours before I was scheduled to return to duty.

I set about searching for Raymond Melton.

My father had commanded a regiment. There were soldiers from that regiment scattered across France, combined with other units, making up the armies in the field.

I only had to find one or two of its present officers, and the rest would be easy.

It was three days before someone from my father's regiment was brought in to our station, and he was walking wounded, his arm laid open by machine-gun fire. I asked the sister who was already cutting away his sleeve if I could attend to the young lieutenant.

He smiled as I came over to him, and I think he believed I must be flirting with him when I asked his name.

"Timothy Alston," he said. "And yours, Sister?"

I told him, and added, "I expect you might know of my father. Colonel Crawford."

"My God, yes," he answered, giving me a very different sort of look. And then he winced as I began to clean his wound. "How is he?"

"Fighting this war from London, much to his chagrin."

"They still tell stories about his time in India, you know," he went on. "I never had the pleasure of serving under him. I joined after he retired, but I'd have been proud to be one of his men."

"He would be very pleased to hear that," I told Lieutenant Alston truthfully. "He misses his command."

"There was the tiger hunt that nearly killed a maharajah. Has he ever told you about that? The beast leapt right into the blind, directly in the face of the maharajah, and no one could move. The maharajah was certain to be clawed to death. And then your father swung a rifle and gave the tiger an almighty whack on the side of his head-there was no room to shoot, too dangerous, but the tiger turned, looked at your father, and everyone in the blind thought he was going to attack. Then the tiger wheeled about and leapt out of the blind, disappearing into the high grass before anyone could bring a gun to bear. They say he came back to that blind, you know, the day your father marched away, and stood there, head down, mourning the loss of a brave man."

I'd heard the story from others, and those who told me, his bearers among them, swore it was true. But I said only, "I expect the tiger was still looking for the maharajah."

Lieutenant Alston laughed. As I was binding the wound, I asked casually, "By the bye, have you run into a Captain Melton in the Wiltshire Fusiliers? I've been trying to find him. I was at his brother's birthday party."

"Melton? Name doesn't ring a bell. But I'll put the word out, if you like. One of us is bound to come across him."

I thanked him, turned him over to the doctor for suturing, told him to keep the bandaging clean for at least three days, and then he was gone, back to the fighting.

I wondered if he'd remember my request. But ten days later, I received a message from Lieutenant Alston. He told me that Captain Melton had been seen not three miles away, where he was in rotation from the Front.

This time, with Matron's blessing and the excuse of needing medical supplies, I commandeered an ambulance and went to find the Fusiliers.

They were well behind the lines, men stretched out on cots, even on the ground, or smoking and pacing, writing letters, shaving, reading-anything to put the war behind them for a few precious hours. The rows of tents gleamed in the morning sun, and I felt at home as I walked down between them. The guns were loud here, our own and the Germans', and the sharp chatter of a Vickers could be heard faintly in the distance. But tired men ignored everything but the pursuit of peace for as long as possible.