Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

It was hardly what anyone would call a restaurant, just a few tables and a counter where during the day workingmen might sit and eat their lunch. Except for one man who looked half asleep at a table by the window, the place was empty. We walked in and Simon nodded to the aproned man who stuck his head out of what must have been the kitchen. Seeing who had come in, he nodded, then disappeared.

We took the table in the far back corner, and I expected to find it dotted with crumbs and spots of grease from the diners before us. But it was spotlessly clean, though worn, and the man reappeared from the kitchen with a cloth for it and our silverware. He brought Simon an ale, and asked what I'd have.

Simon answered for me. "Tea," he said.

The man disappeared again.

Intrigued, I said, "He knows you?"

"I've come here from time to time. He was a cook in the regiment. This was what he dreamed about, a small place of his own where there were never more than twenty people to serve at any one time."

I smiled in spite of myself. "I can appreciate that."

"He won't remember you. We'll leave it that way, shall we?"

Nodding, I said, "What do they serve?"

"Fish. It comes in fresh. He never says from where, but I would guess Essex. There are enough tiny coves and waterways there for a fleet of fishing vessels to hide if they even smell a German ship or U-boat. People have to eat. There's precious little food as it is."

"I thought all the channels were mined."

"Those who saw to it were absentminded."

We waited in silence until our plates were brought steaming on chargers and smelling heavenly of well-cooked fish, today's bread, and a surprising array of vegetables.

We began to eat, and I realized just how hungry I was.

Halfway through the meal, I said, "Do you want to know-"

"Not here. Just eat your dinner and put it all out of your mind."

I did as I was told, grateful actually for the respite.

When we'd finished and I'd drunk my tea, Simon got up to settle his account with the owner, and then we went out to the motorcar, driving back the way we'd come.

He found a place in a street above Trafalgar Square, and we left the motorcar there, walking down to the square and settling ourselves near the ugly lions. There was no one about, and even the traffic heading down The Mall was light.

"All right. I'm listening," he said.

I began to talk, slowly at first, then with gathering assurance as he listened without interrupting. When I'd finished, he leaned back against the wall behind him, and considered me.

"You've hardly been in England three days, and already you've managed to confuse yourself and me."

I laughed, as he'd intended. Then I said, "What am I to do, Simon? Will any of this help Michael?"

"We need to take what we know to his barrister. Name of Forbes. Find out if the man will listen to us at all. He was in an almighty fury when Hart did what he did."

"I should think he might have been. He must have felt betrayed. And people like that don't care to be ignored. It's losing face in a sense."

"I'll try to get in to see Michael. If he'll see me. But I think he might. You should keep your fingers crossed."

"Shall I try to see Mr. Forbes?"

He considered me. "A pretty face might have better luck. But I think the evidence in both Victoria Garrison's case and in Jack Melton's as well has merit. On the surface they cast doubts, because they are as good as the evidence Herbert gave the Crown. Whether they would hold up if investigated is another matter."

"Simon, there isn't time for a lengthy and thorough investigation!" My voice had risen, and a passing constable turned, then walked our way.

"Everything all right, then, Miss?" he asked.

I smiled as best I could. "Sad news, that's all. Thank you, Constable."

He nodded and walked off. Simon watched him go then turned back to me.

"I don't know what to tell you, Bess. You've done wonders, no one could have done more. If only we'd known before the trial-but there was no way to know."

"What you're saying," I retorted, "is that the chances are slim to none. And Michael will hang. Well, I won't be satisfied with exonerating him after his death."

"You have to face it. Your mother is worried about that. She wonders if you are-too fond of him."

"I won't die of a broken heart," I told him. "But I will have a hard time forgetting."

"You still must remember one thing, Bess. He may be guilty. There's always that chance."

"No," I said resolutely. "He wouldn't have killed Marjorie for the reason given. He loved her enough to let her live her life as she chose, even if it included marrying Meriwether Evanson and having an affair with a married man."

He was silent for a time, his mind a long way away from me. And then he came back and said, "Well. It's late. I've bespoken a bed at my club. Time to return you to the dragon."

"Mrs. Hennessey isn't a dragon, and you know it."

He laughed and gave me a hand to rise. It was warm and comforting. Then we walked in companionable silence to where we'd left the motorcar.

I slept that night, mainly because I was very tired, emotionally drained, and had taught myself to snatch sleep where I could and when I could. That training stood me in good stead once more.

Mary was up making tea before I dragged myself out of bed and walked into the kitchen, drawing the sash of my robe around me.

"Anything new?" she asked casually. And when I didn't say anything right away, she added, "I did glimpse Simon waiting for you last night."

Nodding, I told her about seeing Inspector Herbert and then speaking to Helen Calder.

"It's such a pity that she can't remember anything really useful about her attack. It would make a difference."

"We can't count on it."

"No. On the other hand, if you want my vote, I'll plump for Victoria. She's a nasty piece of work, anyway you look at her."

"If Jack was Marjorie's lover, he's no better. He knew she was married, he knew whom she'd married. It was a malicious thing to do to his wife, never mind Marjorie."

"I know Jack Melton," Mary said. "I don't know Victoria."

"Be glad. I must go and speak to a Mr. Forbes today. He was Michael's counsel."

"Forbes?" She frowned. "I think I went out with his son a time or two. I don't envy you. He has a reputation for eating prosecution witnesses alive."

I laughed. "Know where I can find him?"

"Not a clue. I never met him."

"I'll try the Inns first."

"Wear your uniform. It might get you in to see him."

"Clever thinking."

I went off to dress, wondering if Mr. Forbes might be in court today. I prayed he wasn't.

As it happened, when I reached his chambers, not far from the Inns of Court, he was preparing to leave to interview a witness. I was taken down a narrow passage to a room nearly overflowing with briefs and law books, a ladder leaning against the tall shelves, an empty hearth surrounded by a Victorian mantelpiece that would have done justice to a French chateau, it was so massive, and a desk with nothing more on it than an inkwell, a tray of pens, a blotter, and a small statue of blind justice sitting on a Purbeck marble base.

Mr. Forbes regarded me with impatience, which was rather more daunting than lack of interest. He was a spare man with graying hair that would have suited an Oxford don, overly long and quite thick. The spectacles he wore hid sharp blue eyes that were unpleasantly piercing.

A feeling of unspecified guilt materialized from out of nowhere and swept over me.

When I told him my reason for coming, he said shortly, "Lieutenant Hart made his decision. He took the case in the direction he chose, not the one I was prepared to follow. He refused any appeal. Young Mr. Hart is a fool. I washed my hands of him."