Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"You may be right, my dear, but the truth is, I don't hold out much hope."

I walked on down the carpeted passage for fear one of them might come out and find me there, eavesdropping.

But I carried with me food for thought.

For one thing, Inspector Herbert hadn't told Serena about the man at the railway station. And probably wouldn't until he knew whether or not it was pertinent to his investigation.

For another, it appeared I wasn't the only one searching for Marjorie Evanson's lover. Even here. And I had the very strong feeling that if Serena found the man before I did, she would take savage pleasure in exposing him to the world.

Before she killed him…

The thought occurred to me out of the blue. I didn't know whether she was capable of such a thing or not, but her brother's death had affected her deeply, and sometimes people who turned to anger as they grieved acted rashly, in the heat of the moment, wanting to hurt the person who had hurt them.

Still, now I knew the purpose of this wartime birthday party and why it hadn't mattered if Mary had brought a friend. Serena Melton saw me as a smoke screen, added to make up the party's numbers and conceal her true purpose in inviting certain guests. Well, I needn't feel quite so guilty now about coming here under false pretenses, out of curiosity.

Last evening during croquet and again during the tennis match this morning, I'd seen Serena casually drawing aside first one guest and then another. She and Captain Truscott had had a long conversation, and soon after that, Lieutenant Gilbert. I'd thought she was making them feel at home, just as she'd chatted to me about my father and my duties.

And that reminded me of the naval commander she and Mary had discussed. Had Marjorie known him as well? I'd tried, politely, not to listen at the time. Now I made an effort to bring the exchange back. I didn't want to mention it to Mary.

"When was his last leave, do you remember?" she'd asked. "Was he in London then?" And when Mary told her he'd taken the train directly to Scotland, to see his parents, she'd replied, "No wonder Marjorie had missed seeing him. I must say, Jack was wondering about him too."

Serena must not have been very close to her sister-in-law or she wouldn't be fishing among Marjorie's friends for answers.

And that brought to mind another question.

Was there jealousy between Marjorie and Serena? Had Meriwether Evanson's marriage caused a rift with his sister?

I'd taken refuge in the Meltons' dining room from a storm that had suddenly blown up, sending us all dashing for the house. As I stood there looking out at the rain sweeping across the lawns, I heard someone come in the door behind me, and turned.

It was Lieutenant Bellis, one of the late arrivals last night. He'd missed the tennis match, pleading fatigue, and I hadn't seen much of him at lunch. He was drenched, his hair plastered to his skull, and he said lightly, "Is there nowhere in this house that a man can find a drink?"

I laughed. "I suspect Jack keeps what's left of his precious stock under lock and key."

"I'm beginning to think you're right. Known him long, have you?"

"Actually, not very." I took a chance. "I met his brother-in-law once, I think."

"Meriwether? A good man. He didn't deserve what happened to him." He'd found a table napkin in one of the drawers of the sideboard and was busy toweling his head. Pausing, he looked at me from between the folds. "I thought I remembered you. A nursing sister, aren't you? From Britannic, I think. I was in Mesopotamia."

I fished quickly for a face in a hospital bed, then smiled as I remembered. "George Bellis! The leg's healed, I see." I didn't add that the thin, sun-baked man with a broken leg and cracked ribs, a fractured skull and the bites of myriad insects looked nothing like the tall, muscular officer standing before me now. His brother was a captain in one of the county regiments. I tried to recall which. Wiltshire?

"Indeed it has," he said as we shook hands like lost friends. "I was sent to France after I recovered. Were you still with Britannic when she sank? I'd wondered."

"I was," I told him, "and escaped with a broken arm."

"Harrowing experience, I should think."

"I still dream of it sometimes."

He nodded, folded the napkin, and put it aside. "Not surprising. My dreams aren't what they once were." He made a gesture intended to lighten his next words. "My favorite is finding myself flying through a hail of bullets, diving headfirst into the nearest trench, only to find it crowded with the most despicable collection of Turkish soldiers you can imagine. Bazaar thieves, guttersnipes, and murderers all. Better than any rooster for a fast wake up."

But the lines around his mouth as he spoke told me that it had really happened, only to be repeated over and over again in his dreams.

I smiled, as I was expected to do, and then said, "Who wins?"

"I never find out. Since I'm still here, I expect it was me."

We laughed together, then I quickly changed the subject. "Wasn't there a girl? I seem to remember writing a letter for you. You could have written your own, but you were malingering."

"So I was. A few minutes with the pretty ward sister, and I was envied by every man present. Yes, there was-is-a girl. She's in Norfolk, helping her family grow whatever it is they grow in Norfolk. Worse luck, she couldn't meet me in London. It was harvest-time for something."

I could hear the disappointment in his voice. "Why didn't you go to her?"

He grimaced. "Apparently marrows or parsnips or whatever they are rank higher than a mere lieutenant." And then he brightened. "But I'm taking the train from here to London, meeting my brother, and we're driving on to Gloucestershire."

"How nice!" I was trying to think how to bring Meriwether Evanson back into the conversation when George did it himself.

"When did you know Merry? After his first crash or his second?"

"The second."

"Ah. The burns." He stared out the window, watching the rain. "I've always had a horror of fire. I can't imagine finding myself aflame. How bad were they?"

"Head. Hands and feet. Part of his torso. Infection is the greatest danger."

"Bloody hell," he said, shuddering as he considered that. Then he realized he'd sworn aloud and was busy apologizing.

"Did you know his wife?" I asked.

He smiled. "If you knew Merry, you knew Marjorie. She's all he ever talked about. I'm surprised he didn't name that bitch in the stables for her." And once more he realized he'd put foot in mouth. "Sorry-I didn't mean it the way it came out."

"I'd seen her photograph. She seemed to be such a lovely woman. In every sense."

"Yes, well, she most certainly was pretty." He smiled, remembering. "But it hadn't turned her head. Do you know what I mean? She was a thoroughly nice person. That's what makes it so hard to believe she was murdered. I mean to say," he went on, frowning now, "one doesn't think of murder touching nice people."

Before I could stop myself, I spoke in defense of Marjorie Evanson. "I don't think murderers care if one is nice or not."

"Oddly enough, Serena asked me yesterday if I thought Marjorie had fallen in with the wrong sort of people. I couldn't imagine what she was getting at. Marjorie wasn't like that." He took a deep breath. "Is there something worrying her?"

"I expect she's also having trouble understanding murder," I said. "Grasping at straws-the wrong sort of people, money, debts, secrets-anything to explain what happened."

"I doubt if it was money or debts. Marjorie was comfortably off in her own right, but not rich. As I remember, she and her sister shared the inheritance from their father."

Someone-Inspector Herbert?-had mentioned a sister.