Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"Give me five minutes of your time, Mr. Forbes, and then tell me what advice you would give him now."

"Young woman, I don't know what reason you have to involve yourself in the affairs of a man condemned by his own words and sentenced to hang, but I suspect that if your parents knew you were here today, they would be appalled."

"Colonel Crawford is well aware of what I am doing." Well, not completely, but he knew how I felt about getting to the bottom of things. And I knew he'd back me up, then lecture me privately. "The question is a very simple one, Mr. Forbes. Do you believe that Lieutenant Hart is guilty, despite his chances of acquittal on all charges?" When he didn't answer, I added, "Do you believe that Michael Hart deliberately set out to damage your reputation by changing his plea at the last minute? Or did he act out of despair and a misguided attempt to protect Marjorie Evanson's good name?"

He stood up, looming over me, his mouth a long, thin line. And then he said, "I suggest you leave while I remember that you are young and in love."

"I am not in love," I told him, taking my courage in both hands and remembering that an attack is often the best line of defense. "I have certain facts to present to you. And you may well discover that they have some merit to them. But you won't know if you don't listen to them. It could be that Michael Hart hangs on the day allotted. I'll be back in France by that time. But I should like to see his name cleared in the end. That's probably all I can do for him. I believe he deserves that final redemption."

I wasn't sure where the words had come from. They were suddenly there on the tip of my tongue, and my emotions were already running high.

Mr. Forbes sat down again. "Very well." He took out his pocket watch and set it on the table before him. "You have your five minutes, Miss Crawford. Proceed."

I was certain he'd agreed because he thought that I would make a fool of myself, stumbling over emotional attempts to be clever. Then he could put me in my place and show me the door.

He had overlooked the fact that I was a nurse and accustomed to thinking clearly in a crisis.

I collected myself, as I had done in Inspector Herbert's small office, and outlined, as I had done there, the case against Jack Melton. And then with equal brevity, I outlined the case against Victoria Garrison.

Mr. Forbes sat there listening with his eyes on the watch before him, nothing in his face indicating whether he was actually heeding me or simply marking time.

I finished and rose to go. I could see his watch-I still had thirty seconds of my five minutes.

"You would do better," he said before I was out of my chair, "to have taken your facts to Scotland Yard."

"I did present my arguments regarding Commander Melton to Inspector Herbert. Sadly, I didn't know about Mr. Garrison's will, or I would have told him about Victoria Garrison as well. Did you know that Mrs. Evanson's solicitor couldn't find her will? The staff told us that she was considering changing it. She had a child to protect, and she must not have been certain her husband would accept it. Perhaps she wanted something from its father too-a promise to recognize it, as the price of his own sins. After all, the Meltons have no children."

Mr. Forbes said, "Miss Crawford. Casting doubt on the facts of the case will not help Lieutenant Hart. I remind you. He confessed. Of his own free will, in open court."

"Then what would stop this execution?"

"If Mrs. Calder remembers the night she was stabbed and can tell the police who attacked her. Assuming, naturally, that it wasn't Hart."

It was so unfair.

"I've spoken to her. She's been made ill by trying to remember. It's a medical problem, not a parlor game. Is there no other recourse?"

"Of course. Give the police the murderer himself. Or herself."

I thought he was playing with me now. That made me angry.

After a moment, he added, "I know Mr. Melton. I refuse to believe he'd kill someone, even in anger."

"Then you should never have taken Michael Hart's brief," I retorted.

I'd failed. But Mr. Forbes's remark most certainly reinforced the fact that Jack Melton, fearing damage to his own reputation, had sent his brother to meet Marjorie Evanson.

Mr. Forbes picked up his watch, restored it to his pocket, and made a fuss of settling the chain across his vest. I thought my words had stung, a little.

I rose and walked to the door. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Forbes."

My hand was on the knob when Mr. Forbes said, "You must also surmount the obstacle of Lieutenant Hart's refusal to be helped."

I turned to stare at him, accepting for the first time the fact that Michael would hang.

"Someone should have reminded him that while he's being gallant and selfish, Marjorie Evanson's murderer will live a long and happy life," he added.

I quietly closed the door behind me. As I walked down the passage past the clerks' rooms, I told myself that I'd done everything that was humanly possible. I could do no more.

Nevertheless, I refused to be reconciled to Michael's fate.

As I stepped out into blindingly bright sunlight after the dim, paneled walls I'd just left, Mr. Forbes's words echoed in my head.

Give the police the murderer himself. Or herself.

And that was going to be a challenge.

For a fleeting moment I wondered if Mr. Forbes had meant it to be.

I walked nearly a mile before I looked for a cab to take me back to the flat.

I needed the exercise to counteract the depression settling over me. But it did little to help. I reminded myself that men could be incredibly stubborn and unconscionably blind at times, and that also failed to bring me any consolation.

Would Simon Brandon have any better luck talking to Michael in his prison cell?

Simon could be very persuasive when he wished to be.

But chances were, Michael had already reconciled himself to dying. I'd seen soldiers do that-make peace with the knowledge that they would very likely not survive, so that survival didn't enter into any decisions that they would have to make on the battlefield.

As the cab made its way around Buckingham Palace and the Royal Mews, turning toward Mrs. Hennessey's house and the flat, I looked out at the afternoon sunlight slanting across London's landmarks, and wondered what to do next. I felt at a loss, with no purpose.

How does one find a murderer in a matter of a few days?

In my careful reconstruction of the evidence against Jack Melton and Victoria Garrison, there had to be a flaw. But where?

I closed my eyes, reviewing everything I'd said.

And then I sat back in the cab, breathless for a moment.

Everything had fit to perfection. Except for one thing. How had Jack Melton known that Michael was intent on speaking to Mrs. Calder? Coincidence? Accident? If I knew the answer to that, I could eliminate him from my quest.

What had driven Jack Melton to murder a second time?

It wouldn't do to appear at Melton Hall and ask questions. Serena would show me the door, if her husband didn't.

I bit my lip, thinking. But my mind was a blank.

All right, then, save time and eliminate Victoria Garrison from the role as murderess.

We were just pulling up in front of Mrs. Hennessey's door. I hastily returned to the present and got out, paying the driver as I did. Above my head, the late-afternoon sun was turning the windows of our flat to gold.

It was the only time beauty entered the sensible little flat designed to be a home for a few of the hundreds of people who had descended on London at the start of the war to work in one capacity or another.

I went inside and climbed the stairs. If only Michael would listen to Simon and decide to help at last in his own defense. Wishful thinking indeed. How many people facing the gallows suddenly proclaimed their innocence? No one would even listen. But at least I could find out what he knew.