Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"Oh, never. She was at the engagement party of course, and the wedding. That's about the only time I remember seeing her at Marjorie's house. And she never came here. She knew how I felt about her, the way she'd treated her mother."

"I'm told she did come to London often, for several months in a row. And then she stopped coming. The Harts wondered if she was spying on Marjorie."

"Spying on her? I can't imagine why. Well, Marjorie did say that she had run into her while looking for a wedding present for a friend. That was in May, I think. But that was it, Marjorie was in a hurry and got out of the encounter as quickly as possible. She said Victoria wanted to know how Meriwether was, and seemed inclined to talk. But Marjorie wasn't in the mood."

And had Victoria's curiosity been tweaked, and had she followed her sister to see where she was in such a hurry to go?

I wouldn't put it past her.

"What is it that makes Victoria carry such a grudge? Was it just Michael? She seemed to have everything else she wanted-the house, Marjorie settled, out of sight and mind in London. What else was there to take away?"

"It's the will. Not many people know. The Garrison house was left to Victoria, of course, but the estate was divided fairly evenly. Much to Victoria's chagrin, let me tell you! There was a scene in the solicitor's office. I'd gone with Marjorie as moral support, and I was very glad I had, although it was a dreadful time, I must say! And on top of that was the way the trust was constructed. I don't understand all of it, but from what I gathered-what Marjorie gathered from the actual reading and told me-was distinctly odd. Neither daughter inherits anything outright."

"He forgave Marjorie-or at the end, felt some doubt about what he'd been told by Victoria?"

"I'm not so sure. You see, while both girls could draw on the income from their share of the trust, the capital wouldn't be distributed until both of them reached fifty. Past child-bearing age. At that time, the trust would be dissolved. However, if either daughter bore a child before that, and it was given its grandfather's name, the house and the entire trust would go to it at age twenty-one. There would be nothing left for Marjorie and Victoria."

I caught my breath. It was a cruel provision-it pitted sister against sister. And I had the fleeting thought that perhaps Victoria had inherited her father's mean spirit. After all, he'd turned against his wife and his daughter, and in the end, he'd punished both daughters for that. As Victoria had tried to punish Marjorie.

But Marjorie was expecting a child. Unless Meriwether was willing to acknowledge it and give it his name, the child would be a Garrison-Marjorie's maiden name.

What a revenge against her sister for all the grief that Marjorie had suffered!

It was almost shocking to contemplate what Victoria might do, given that knowledge. After all her scheming, she would have lost everything.

"Did anyone else know the contents of the will?" I asked.

"The servants were there for the reading; of course there was a small bequest to each of them. Then we were asked to leave. The final provision was read only to Victoria and Marjorie. As I mentioned, there was a terrific row, and none of us knew where to look. You could hear it, but not the words of course. Victoria screaming, and once, Marjorie laughing. If Mr. Blake hadn't been there, they'd have been at each other's throats. I expect Marjorie told her sister that as a married woman-the wedding was to be that October, you see-she might soon see Victoria evicted."

"How long ago was this? When did Mr. Garrison die?"

"In the winter of 1914. Six months before the war began. Meriwether had already told Marjorie that he wanted to fly, that he wanted above all things to be a pilot. Marjorie told me later that Victoria had said, 'If there's a war, I hope he's shot down and killed. It will serve you right.'"

Three years ago. The wounds would still be raw. And when Victoria had asked after Meriwether when the sisters met in May, it had not been a friendly overture-it had been a reminder that Marjorie hadn't had her child, and that Meriwether was still at risk.

"But if that's how the trust stood, why didn't Victoria marry as soon as possible, and have a child of her own?"

"And lose her house and her substantial income to it? Besides, I think she wanted to marry Michael and throw that in Marjorie's face. She might have taken the risk for him."

"I could almost believe that it was Victoria who killed Marjorie. That perhaps Marjorie had gloated about the child she was carrying. It would make sense."

"Oh, I'm sure Victoria isn't a murderer."

But it might explain as well why Helen Calder herself had been stabbed. If Marjorie had told her about the peculiar provision, and now she was about to tell Michael. Was that the question he was burning to ask Helen? It gave Victoria the perfect motive for murder.

Had I been wrong about Jack Melton? I hadn't known about the will when I spoke to Inspector Herbert. And I couldn't go back to Scotland Yard.

Helen Calder must have read the uncertainty in my face.

"You surely don't believe that Victoria attacked Marjorie? Or me? No, she may be vicious and uncaring, but she's no murderer. She's my cousin."

As if that prevented murder from happening in a family.

Helen Calder leaned back against her pillow. "You have successfully diverted me from thinking about Michael. That was very kind of you, Bess."

I said, "Did you know that Victoria tried to persuade Meriwether not to marry Marjorie? He was furious with her. I thought she was just being a spoiler. But perhaps she had the will in mind."

"I wouldn't be surprised. It was just the sort of thing she might do."

The Harts had called Victoria evil, but I wondered if seeing all her schemes come to nothing, she must have been beside herself with fury. And perhaps helping to destroy Michael had been the last act of vengeance open to her, in addition to seeing her sister's name dragged through the scandal sheets.

"I'm tired now. But I'm so glad you came to see me, Bess."

"I'm glad too," I told her, meaning it. "But remember, I'm a nurse, I know wounds. If you languish here, you'll never recover. Get up and dress and go out for lunch somewhere. It will do you the greatest good. You'll see."

But she shook her head. "I couldn't enjoy myself, knowing that Michael is counting the days down to his last. Perhaps-perhaps when it's over, I'll feel more like going out."

There was nothing I could say that would change her mind. I held her hand for a moment, and then left.

My own mind was in turmoil. None of the questions I'd left for Simon had anything to do with Victoria, only with Jack Melton.

If Helen Calder believed she carried a burden of guilt, she had no idea of the depth and breadth of mine at this moment.

I found a cab and gave him the direction of Mrs. Hennessey's house, then sat back in the anonymous darkness and told myself over and over again that I wouldn't fail, that I wouldn't be too late.

To my surprise, when I reached Mrs. Hennessey's house and the cabbie had been paid, it was Simon Brandon who held the door for me to step out.

"Have you been to see Michael?" Those were the first words out of my mouth.

"I'm doing my best to arrange it. Have you had any dinner? You look distressed."

Standing there on the street looking up at him, I burst into tears.

He held me for a while, letting me cry into his lapels. Then he said briskly, "If you aren't starving, I am." He led me to his motorcar and put me inside. Coming around to the driver's door, he went on, "Where would you like to go?"

"Nowhere. I've been crying."

"So you have."

He drove through London, through the City, and came out on the far side of the Tower, down toward the river.