Charles Todd: An Impartial Witness

I hadn't met Lieutenant Evanson before he was burned, and so I couldn't judge the likeness between brother and sister.

And then she was leading the way up the stairs to our room, which overlooked the east gardens. Over her shoulder, she was telling us about her plans for the grand celebration and then, while we washed away the dust of travel, she was asking me about my family, expressing interest in the exotic places where my father had served, and then wanting to know about my work in France.

"I hear it's frightful to be the first to deal with the severest wounds. My brother was badly burned. I was never so shocked as I was when I saw him the first time. They were changing his bandages, and his skin was raw and weeping. It was all I could do to keep myself from showing what I was feeling, that he could have been a complete stranger."

"I hope he's continuing to heal," I said, though Mary cast me a sharp glance.

"Alas, he didn't survive," Serena Melton answered, her eyes filling, and I made appropriate noises of sympathy. I could see how much she cared for her brother. In her shoes I might have felt the same about Marjorie Evanson. After all, it was Marjorie's betrayal of her husband that had led to his suicide. Sometimes in cases of sudden death, people needed someone to blame. Or blamed God.

Taking a deep breath, Serena added, "I was never so grateful than when they found that Jack was good at numbers, and assigned him to break codes instead of carrying a rifle. He was furious, but as I told him, one martyr to the cause in a family is enough. If he can protect a convoy or warn of an attack, he saves hundreds of lives. Surely that's more useful than slogging through France in the hope of killing a few Germans. I don't know why men think that they aren't doing their part if they aren't up to their knees in mud and frightfully cold and hungry and tired."

We followed Serena down the stairs. She and Mary were having a conversation about a mutual friend serving in the Navy, and exchanging news about him. Then we were in the kitchen, where she was supervising the main course for dinner. Serena said proudly, "I got my hands on a roast. Don't ask how! It nearly cost me my virtue and my firstborn. But it's Jack's favorite."

From the oven came the most tantalizing aromas-beef, I was sure of it. After a quick look at her prize, and a few instructions for the cook, a Mrs. Dunner, Serena whisked us out to the north terrace where her husband was sitting with several other guests. There she made the introductions.

Captain Truscott, Lieutenant Gilbert, and Major Dunlop were Army of course, while Jack wore his naval uniform with panache. I thought perhaps that he was making up, a little, for not having war stories to tell, for he worked in the Admiralty in Signals. He looked particularly handsome, regular features, his hair only lightly touched with gray, and his eyes without that haunted look one so often sees among men who've served at the Front. Still, there were lines in his face, and I had the feeling that he knew more about the war than most, and carried different burdens because of it.

I realized very quickly that everything happening outside this household had been set aside for the weekend. Talk ranged from past shooting parties in Scotland to the Thames regatta. Any topic would do that didn't remind us of war and death and destruction. We laughed at stories that weren't really funny, made no mention of absent friends, and pretended to be happy and lighthearted. Other guests arrived in the next hour, but none of them was a certain officer in a Wiltshire regiment. Not that I'd expected him to be here, he was no doubt still in France. But Marjorie Evanson must have met him somewhere, in just such a social setting. It was entirely possible that someone would mention him. Remember Fred? Serving with the Wiltshires? We had a letter from him last week…

Of course he could be a complete stranger. Someone Marjorie met in London and never introduced to anyone she knew. That was surely the safest way to conduct an affair. But people don't fall in love with safety in mind. Sometimes risk must be half the excitement of a secret affair.

Neither Mary nor I wore our uniforms to dinner. Nurses at a dinner table tend to cast a pall over conversation. Men in uniform on the other hand tend to look dashing, whether they are or not.

The roast was indeed heavenly. There was even horseradish sauce, and Yorkshire pudding. For an hour the war faded into the background and it was 1914 again, when food was plentiful and parties like this frequent and fun.

That evening we played croquet on the lawn in the long summer twilight, a ruthless game with no holds barred. The next morning, Saturday, we played tennis and were silly over the litter of pups that one of the English setters had produced in the stable-cum-garage instead of the box carefully prepared in the house for her accouchement.

As we admired the little family, under cover of the ohs and ahs someone behind me commented quietly, "That was Evanson's bitch, you know. He'd arranged to breed her to FitzGerald's dog, the one the King admired. He'd hoped to give HM the pick of the litter."

"Pity about all that," the other voice said. "His wife. I mean to say, murder."

But before I could turn and see the speakers, we were being handed pups and I couldn't be sure who had been just behind me.

The warm, furry little bodies, wriggling and squirming in our arms, licking our faces, kept us occupied for another half an hour, and then it was time for our luncheon.

We trooped out of the stables in good spirits, and I listened for the same voices as people laughed and congratulated Serena on the litter. Still, the two men had been nearly whispering, so it was harder to identify them with a normal voice.

Serena said nothing about the mother of the pups being her brother's dog.

Not an hour later, I overheard her speaking to Jack as I passed the study.

She was saying, "I don't believe any of them could have been Marjorie's lover. It was sheer foolishness to think we could find out this way."

Her husband answered quietly, "You were desperate. It was the best I could do on short notice. So many of the people we know are in France, or God knows where. The man may even be dead, as far as that goes."

"By his own hand, I hope," she retorted viciously. "After all he's done to us."

Jack said nothing.

"It's not your family," she went on into the silence, answering it as if her husband had spoken aloud. "I'm the one who has to live with the whispers and the shame. I can read pity in my friends' eyes. That is, when they can't avoid me. And wherever I go I can feel the stares behind my back. 'Did you know? Her sister-in-law was murdered, and then her brother killed himself.' As if I've done something wrong. No one asks how I'm coping, for fear I might embarrass them by telling them and expecting a little comfort in return. What if they knew the rest of it? I'd never dare show my face in public again." Her voice broke, but not with tears. "I should have had that damned bitch put down!"

"I understand," her husband answered her. "But you're tormenting yourself as well, you know. As for the poor dog, find her another home if you feel that way. Don't blame her."

"I'm not blaming her. I see her looking up at the door sometimes, as if she's waiting for Merry to come through it any minute. She loved him. Probably more than Marjorie did, if you ask me. And how do you tell a dumb brute that her master is dead?"

"I think she knows Meriwether is dead. I think she also hopes it isn't true."

"This is the third time we've had one of these parties. I don't know if I can face another one, Jack. But I can't think of a better way to question someone about Marjorie's friends than inviting them here under false pretenses. And the women come out of curiosity, hoping I'll drop some crumb of gossip that they can take home with them. The men come because they like you, but I watch their faces when I mention Marjorie, to see if she meant more to them than she should have. Surely whoever that man is, he still feels something. He's bound to give himself away. A shift in the way he looks at me, a tightness in the mouth. I want to know who it is. I won't have any peace until I do and can put the blame where it belongs."