Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"He's not going to listen, Bess, he's already got his man. There are too many hurdles to leap now, he won't risk his career on what Michael Hart's friends have to say."

"Then tomorrow we go back to Michael's defense counsel. I have a witness now. He'll have to listen. And if he won't, we'll go to the newspapers."

"They won't risk lawsuits to print your accusations."

I was tired, my mind wasn't working as it should. But a night's sleep would make a difference.

I said stubbornly, "I won't go to Somerset tonight. If I have to, tomorrow I'll go to Serena and tell her what I know. Or to Jack Melton himself."

"I tell you, it isn't safe."

"Mrs. Hennessey is there. I'll be all right."

He stopped arguing with me then. "All right." He drove on, turning toward the flat, his face in the shadows. I knew he was very angry with me. I knew he'd seen me take a risk I shouldn't have, speaking to Victoria alone. But I couldn't go home.

"Simon?"

He said nothing, driving in silence, and I subsided into my seat.

The problem was, Michael had confessed. And because of that, all doors were closed. Simon was right. Battering at them was a useless exercise.

I collected myself, swallowed my frustration and the feeling of helplessness that made me so angry.

We were halfway to the flat now.

"Simon. Give me one more day. Please? And then I'll go to Somerset. I promise you. I was drawn into this business because I nursed Meriwether Evanson. I wish now he'd carried a photograph of Gladys Cooper, like thousands of other men in France."

"None of this is your fault, Bess. You must understand that. It would have happened even if you had never recognized Marjorie Evanson that night at Waterloo Station."

And that was true. Her fate had been decided months ago when she embarked on a love affair.

I took a deep breath. "One more day, please?"

"All right. Against my better judgment. One more day."

Ahead was the house. There were no lights showing. Mrs. Hennessey had gone to bed, and Mary wasn't in. I could pace the floor or sleep, it wouldn't matter.

"Thank you, Simon."

He walked me to the door and saw me inside, waiting until I had climbed the stairs and unlocked my door. I went to the window and drew back the curtains, then turned on my light.

He lifted his hat to me and got back into the motorcar.

For once I wished Mrs. Hennessey wasn't the dragon at the gate, that Simon could have come upstairs with me and had a cup of tea before leaving. I'd have known then that he was over his anger.

Sighing, I locked the outer door and made a cup of tea for myself. I sat there sipping it, my mind finally slowing down enough to sleep. And then, finally, I went to bed.

I don't remember turning out the light, but I must have done, for I woke up some hours later to find my room dark, with only the star glow from the windows telling me it was still hours until dawn.

I drifted off again, dreaming that I was a witness to Michael's execution, standing there like stone as he climbed the steps to the gallows and his sentence was read to him by the warden. Then the executioner slipped a black bag over his head. I was thinking that the last thing he'd seen was a bare prison yard and my face. Overhead the sky was cloudy, not even the sun shining for him one last time, and I wanted to cry, but couldn't. There was a priest just behind Michael's shoulder, and as he turned to say something to the warden, I recognized Jack Melton's face. It was he who stepped forward to throw the lever, not the executioner, and I made myself wake up before the trap fell and Michael died.

I lay there breathing hard from the effort, trying to shake the last remnants of the dream.

And then I heard something that brought me wide awake in seconds.

Someone was trying to open the flat door.

Everyone here had a key, unless we were to be away for some time, in which case we often left it with Mrs. Hennessey. Elayne and Diana weren't due for leave for a while, and Mary was staying with friends. Pat had been in Egypt these past six months or more. The flat below us was empty as well, its occupants in Poona, India, just now.

I got up very quietly, and stood at the bedroom door, listening. It hadn't been my imagination. There it was a second time, the scratch of something hard against the plate. It was very dark at the top of the stairs, and finding the keyhole wasn't always easy.

My flatmates and I could locate it blindfolded, from long experience.

Someone was trying to get into the flat.

My throat was dry now. I ran through a swift inventory of possible weapons.

There was the knife we used to cut bread and make sandwiches, but I didn't think the blade was stout enough to drive into someone, and I had no intention of getting that close. Diana had a golf club in her room. She was trying to learn to play, and sometimes amused herself by putting into a glass wedged between the door and her trunk. I wasn't sure I could reach it before whoever it was got the door open. I didn't want to be caught empty-handed.

My tennis racket wouldn't do much damage.

Think!

For a fleeting moment I hoped it was Simon, come back to look in on me to be sure I was all right. But he wouldn't have come upstairs. Not without Mrs. Hennessey in tow. And he would have knocked.

The lock was old, and it didn't take long to force it open.

Whoever it was stood there on the threshold for a moment, letting his or her eyes adjust to the small amount of light there was in the flat. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman.

I stood still, not breathing, and heard the rustle of clothes and a first tentative step inside. There were five tiny bedrooms. Which way would he turn?

He made a move toward Diana's room-nearest the door-and I caught the flash of light from the window on something in his hand. A knife?

I was barefoot, and it occurred to me that I could reach the flat door quietly and lock the intruder inside, if I was fast enough, before he realized what was about to happen. My fingers searched for my key, which was lying on the bedside table-and they knocked it to the floor.

The clank was so loud it could have awakened the entire street. But I knew it had shocked him, as well. Taking advantage of that, I caught up my hairbrush and ran on silent feet, reaching with the other hand for one of the chairs in the sitting room, sending it spinning across the floor toward Diana's bedroom as I went. It too seemed to make a tremendous racket, and I heard someone swear as he tripped over it.

I had reached the open door. I was out of it in a flash, slamming it shut behind me and flinging the hairbrush over the banister to skitter its way down the stairs for all the world like flying feet. But before I could turn the key and then conceal myself in the shadowy alcove on the opposite side of our door, it was flung open. In the same instant, a hand came over my mouth and an arm encircled my waist, lifting me off my feet, shoving me into the alcove. Frantic, I began to kick. But just as suddenly I was released, and as I regained my balance, whirling to defend myself, I realized with astonishment that I was alone and someone was clattering down the stairs. No, two people-

My intruder was trying to escape. But who was at his heels? I rushed to the top of the stairs and leaned over the banister to peer into the dark well below.

And then in the faint light from the windows by the street door, I saw the second figure make a flying leap to close the distance between them and take the other figure in a headlong fall down to the entrance hall.

There were flailing fists and feet, grunts and a curse broken off in midsentence. I went down the stairs after them, and reached the bottom just as the two men crashed into Mrs. Hennessey's door, then rebounded into the far wall.