Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

We had reached the main door. I smiled. "We often have no choice."

"This is your driver?" she asked, looking out at the motorcar by the door. "I wish you a safe journey, my dear. If you-should you find that Mrs. Evanson's family would like to have that photograph, do let me know. It will set my mind at ease. I believe the obituary listed Little Sefton as their address. Sadly, that's not all that far from here, but it might as well be on the moon. They never came to visit, you see."

And then I was on my way to the train, my leave nearly up, and France waiting for me across the Channel.

At the railing of the ship, staring out at the water as we passed out of The Solent and into the Channel, I found myself thinking that whoever had murdered Mrs. Evanson had killed her husband as well, just as surely as if he'd held that scalpel to the lieutenant's throat. Two victims-three if one counted the unborn child.

I found it hard to put Marjorie Evanson out of my mind. Perhaps because I'd first seen her through her husband's eyes as he held on to life amid great pain so that he could come home to her. Not to her as a murder victim or disgraced wife but as his anchor.

I had kept the photograph with me. Of course there was no time to find the direction of Mrs. Evanson's family and post it to them, but remembering her sister-in-law's emotional response as well as Matron's comment that they had never visited, I felt I ought to ask their wishes before sending it to them.

And in the weeks ahead I often caught myself looking for a face I was certain I would recognize, every time I saw an officer wearing the uniform of the Wiltshire regiment.

It had become a habit.

I was hardly back in France-a matter of a fortnight-before we were given leave. It was unexpected, but the little dressing station in St. Jacques was too exposed and was being moved to another village. A fresh contingent of nursing sisters was assigned to take over there.

First, however, we were to escort a hundred wounded back to England. It was never easy, and on this occasion, even though our convoy moved at night, we were strafed by a German aircraft, racing down our lines with guns blazing and then swinging around behind the lines to find other targets of opportunity. Ambulances were clearly marked, so there was no excuse for the attack. The wonder was, only three people were wounded and no one died. I couldn't help but think the pilot had intended to frighten us rather than kill us. If that were true, he'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

The weather had changed by the time we reached the coast, and on our crossing there was a storm that turned the rough Channel into bedlam. We were all seasick, patients, nurses, orderlies, and doctors, and probably half the crew if they were honest about it. I'd sailed from India to England and never met a storm like this.

My stomach agreed with me as I ran to the railing for the third time.

Then it was back below, cleaning sheets as best I could, washing faces, swabbing the decks. By the time we reached Dover, I could have kissed the quay from the sheer joy of having dry land under my feet once more.

Dover Castle was a familiar sight looming above us, half hidden in the clouds, its walls dark with rain. A friend was on duty there, but I didn't catch a glimpse of him. We were pressing on, for the sake of the worst cases, and pulled into London late in the afternoon. A watery sun greeted us, the worst of the storm well behind us.

I was relieved of my duties there, and after seeing the train on its way again, I took the omnibus to the corner of our street and walked down to the flat I shared with friends.

None of them was at home, but there were signs that Mary might be on leave again as well, and I left her a note before taking a leisurely bath and falling into bed. It was Thursday evening, and I'd have enjoyed dining out if I hadn't been so tired.

Mary came in later, bringing me a cup of tea and a plate of cheeses and biscuits that she'd just received from home. She was small, British fair, with rosy cheeks and dimples. The soldiers adored her, wrote poems to her blue eyes and curls, and flirted outrageously with her, but her heart was in the Navy, the first officer on a cruiser.

"You can't sleep away your leave," she said cheerfully. "How long do you have?"

"Ten days," I said, stretching and yawning. "I thought I might go home for the last half of it."

"Your parents will be delighted." She paused, then said, "I've heard stories. Was it a bad crossing?"

"Very bad. I thought I would never be able to swallow food again. Now I'm ravenous. Tell your father how grateful I am that he is in the cheese business. I haven't had a Stilton this good since the war began."

"And these are the leftover bits. Think what it would be like to have half a wheel to ourselves."

Laughing, we caught up on news, chatting among the biscuit crumbs, and then Mary said something that nearly caused me to choke on my tea.

"I've an invitation to spend the weekend with friends. A house party in the country. Would you like to come?"

"It would make a nice change. Do I know them?"

"I don't believe you do. It's the Melton family. But I think you convoyed Serena's brother home from France. Lieutenant Evanson. He killed himself not long ago, had you heard? Serena's husband will be coming home after a fortnight somewhere he can't talk about; it's his birthday, and she wants to do something nice to celebrate-here!" She reached out to pound me on the back as I turned red from coughing.

I cleared my throat and said politely, "Surely this is a family occasion-she wouldn't care to have strangers hanging about."

"The truth is, nearly everyone they know is somewhere else-in France, at sea, in the Middle East. She told me I could bring one of my flatmates with me, if I cared to. She wants it to be a gay weekend, no sadness to mar it."

I thought of the envelope with Marjorie Evanson's photograph still sealed in it. I'd carried it through France and now it lay in the top drawer of the small chest under my window, where I'd put it when I unpacked. It was Mrs. Melton who had decided that it shouldn't be buried with her brother. I thought I'd guessed why, but both Matron and I had felt it was-wrong. I really shouldn't go to this house party.

On the other hand, I hadn't had any news about the search for the killer. Perhaps I could satisfy my curiosity without causing any trouble.

"Yes, all right. If she'll have me. But it might be best if we don't say anything about my having nursed her brother. It could bring up-painful memories."

"If you don't mind, then I won't."

Which is how I found myself on a crowded train to Oxford-shire, with malice aforethought.

The house where the Meltons lived was within walking distance of the station. We arranged to have our valises brought there by trap and set out on foot. It was a lovely day, and the dusty scents of summer wafted from the front gardens of the small village of Diddlestoke, and then from the pastures and fields that surrounded us as we reached the outskirts. Another quarter mile, and we could see the gates of our destination.

Melton Hall was a charming old brick house with a central block, spacious wings to either side, and a small park through which the drive meandered on its way to the handsome Pedimented front door. Two small children ran out to greet us, the girl taking my hand and the little boy clinging to Mary's.

"Niece and nephew," she said over their heads, and I nodded. "On Jack Melton's side. Serena told me they'd be leaving before dinner."

We were greeted in the marble foyer by Serena Melton herself, and I was most interested in my first impression of her. Tall, dark, and rather elegant, she embraced the shorter, fairer Mary, then held out her hand to me. "Elizabeth! I may call you Elizabeth, may I not? We are so pleased you could come."