Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

"As for secrets," he went on, "Marjorie was hopeless there. Merry told me she couldn't wait for an anniversary or a birthday, and was forever asking if he wanted to know straightaway what she was giving him."

And yet she had kept a very different secret from her husband and everyone else.

Lieutenant Bellis began to pace restlessly. "How did we get on such a morbid subject? The weather is wretched enough."

Taking the hint, I said, "It does seem a little lighter in the west."

"Your imagination," he replied, grinning, coming to stand by me at the windows. "It's still as black as the bottom of a witch's kettle out there. This could go on for hours."

But it didn't. A tiny square of blue grew to the size of a counterpane, and then spread quickly, offering us the spectacle of a rainbow as the sun finally burst through.

The grass was too wet for sport, and so we collected in the study for our tea.

Jack was looking tired, as if he rather regretted inviting so many guests for the weekend. Watching him, I thought perhaps he was feeling the strain of his duties. It must be a burden to know the truth about what was happening in France or the North Atlantic and say nothing. I'd noticed several times that when he was asked for his views on the course of the war or the prospect for the Americans to come in, he evaded a direct answer, giving instead the public view we could read for ourselves in any newspaper.

My own father had told me privately that if the Americans didn't commit themselves soon, we would run short of men. I'd asked him if the Germans were in the same state, and he'd answered gravely, "We'd better start praying they are." It was a worrying possibility that we could lose the war. That so many might have died in vain.

The men drifted off to the billiard room, and the women settled down to read or knit. We were all expected to do our share with our needles, and most of us were thoroughly tired of the drab khaki wool intended for stockings, scarves, gloves, hoods, and even waistcoats to keep men warm in the trenches.

Serena came to join us after seeing to matters in the kitchen, and I noticed the shadows on her face as she sat by one of the lamps, rolling yarn into a ball.

Cynthia Newley said, "Serena, is there any news regarding Marjorie? Has the Yard learned anything more?"

"Apparently not," she answered coldly. "At least we haven't been told."

"It seems so-odd. You would think Marjorie's death would receive top priority."

"Indeed."

I glimpsed Serena's eyes as she looked up briefly at her friend. There was angry denial there. It was a pity the police had had to tell her about the unborn child. It had only added to her distress. Any indiscretion on Marjorie's part should have died quietly with her. But this was murder, and there were no secrets in cases of murder.

And then Serena was saying, as if unable to stop herself, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't seem to concentrate on anything. You knew Marjorie, Cynthia. So did you, Patricia. Those last months in London-what did she do? Where did she go? I wasn't in London often, I seldom saw her. When the police asked me if she had met any new friends, I had no idea. Or if she was worried about something. I was so out of touch, I couldn't give them an answer."

Patricia, a quiet woman with dark hair, said, "These past few months-well, since late winter for that matter-I saw her hardly at all. A few memorial services, and once at a morning church service. I asked Helen Calder if Marjorie was all right. Helen replied that she was probably worried sick about Meriwether. Let's face it, pilots don't have very long lives, do they?"

Juliana said, "Well, I can vouch for the fact that she didn't spend much time with her usual friends. I invited her to several parties, and she declined."

"Which could mean," Cynthia commented dryly, "she must have made new friends."

"Still, you must have seen her somewhere. Dining out, volunteering somewhere, the theater." Serena looked around the room, inviting comment.

Cynthia, sitting by the window, peered over her glasses. "Well. Since you ask. There must have been a man."

Serena bristled. "That's disgusting!"

"Is it?" She ran her fingers through her fair hair. "Look, we're not the innocent lambs we were in 1914, are we? If Marjorie stopped seeing her friends and family, there's probably a good reason. She had new friends-or she had something to hide. And what would she have to hide, if it wasn't a man?" Cynthia added bitterly, "She's not the first, Serena, and nor will she be the last. You're fortunate, you know where Jack is, even if he's not at home. He isn't off in France or God knows where, being shot at, and his letters coming in bunches or not at all, and you're left wondering if he's dead or wounded or missing. You can't stand in judgment of Marjorie, you haven't lived with her fears."

Serena said, "She never said anything to me about any fears."

"No, I'm sorry. But you're Meriwether's sister, you had your own worries there. I expect she didn't want to add to them."

Mary said, trying to pour oil on troubled waters, "There's been nothing more in the newspapers. Have the police made any progress at all?"

Serena gave her a cold, hard look. "The inquest was adjourned at the request of the police, citing the ongoing inquiry into her murder by person or persons unknown."

Mary answered mildly, "I was in France, Serena. I didn't know."

Nor did I.

Cynthia held her ground. "There's no use asking us about Marjorie. Talk to her sister. It's possible she knew more about what was going on. Marjorie may have confided in her."

"I doubt it," Patricia interjected. "My impression was that they didn't get on."

Serena turned to Cynthia. "You seem to feel there was something to hide. No one else does. It must mean that you know something you aren't willing to tell me."

"If you're asking if I know who murdered her, I don't. She avoided all of us these past few months. Even you, if you think about it. One doesn't advertise adultery, Serena, but the signs are there. If you haven't noticed them, I'm sure the police have. If the man she was seeing killed her, then she threatened him somehow. But I hardly think, knowing Marjorie, that she would do such a thing. So who else could it be? That's a matter for the police. But you won't get anywhere unless you look the truth in the face."

Patricia winced. We were all feeling decidedly uncomfortable. One didn't discuss such things openly, and yet Cynthia had.

Juliana was bent over her ball of yarn, rewinding it after dropping it, avoiding looking at any of us.

I shot a quick glance at Serena's face. I don't think she'd bargained for someone as strong willed as Cynthia.

And then Serena surprised me. She said, "I don't want to believe there was someone else. After all, Marjorie was married to my brother. But I'm grateful for your honesty. I'll speak to the police. I wasn't supposed to mention it, but they're of the opinion now that someone noticed the rather fine lozenge brooch she was wearing when she was killed. It's missing, of course. Along with her purse. These new friends she possibly made-the police ought to be aware of them. Surely it won't hurt to look into who they are." She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and set aside her knitting. "I think the gentlemen have had long enough to bore themselves to death. Let's rout them out and have our tea brought in."

She turned away to ring for tea, but her shoulders were stiff, and I thought she wouldn't soon forgive Cynthia for being outspoken and voicing what Serena already knew to be true.

As for a missing brooch, Inspector Herbert hadn't asked if she was wearing it at the railway station.

Serena had just lied to distract Cynthia and the rest of us from any thought of a lover.