An Impartial Witness (29 page)

“Did you really sleep with Jack Melton? Just because Marjorie had?”

“I just let him think I would. He’s a very attractive man, and he likes women. I thought,
Imagine that!
Serena’s husband, a philanderer. And I knew it would make Marjorie wretched when he turned to someone else. Why not me? Besides, there’s the house in London. Serena is being an idiot about it. She wants it to punish Marjorie. I want it because it
was
Marjorie’s. I thought if it appeared I was going to lose it, I could convince Jack to put in a good word for me. With Michael up for murder, Jack owes me a favor.”

It was amazing to see her vacillate. But at the moment, she needed Jack Melton for reasons of her own. For how long, if he didn’t persuade his wife to let the house go to Serena?

“Were you ever in love with Michael Hart?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, “whether I wanted him to spite Marjorie or because I loved him. Over the years the two feelings got so entangled I couldn’t sort them out any longer. I was always afraid that when he looked at me, he remembered Marjorie. And in the end, I didn’t want that.” She moved slightly. “I’m tired of standing in the doorway, and I’m not about to invite you in. Why don’t you leave?”

I thought perhaps I’d touched a nerve. That in spite of her denials, she had cared too much.

And then, as if she’d read my thoughts, Victoria said in a tight voice, “I couldn’t marry him, even if Michael loved me a dozen times over. I can’t marry anyone. My father saw to that in his will. So Michael might as well hang and be done with it. Marjorie would hate that just as much. The sad thing is, she isn’t here to see it. But if there’s an afterlife, she’ll find out.” She looked toward the church. “I don’t see the torch. Mr. Hart hasn’t come sneaking back up here, has he? I will deny everything, you know. If you try to use me to free Michael, I’ll tell the world that you were so besotted with him, that you were willing to perjure yourself to save him. So don’t bother to try.”

“I could make a very good case for you as the murderer,” I countered. “In fact, I already have, to Michael’s barrister.”

She stared at me, then said contemptuously, “I’m sure you could try. But who would believe you? Helen Calder can’t remember who stabbed her. I called on her in hospital, to see.” She held out her hands. “Do these look like they could drive a knife into someone’s chest? Look at them.” She drew her hands back, clenching them into fists.

We were standing full in the light pouring out of the open door. I thought I was safe as long as that was so. Mr. Hart could pick out two figures—even Mrs. Hart at her window must be able to tell there were two of us, although we were blurred a little by the mist. I turned, looking for Mr. Hart by the church. But then I saw a light bobbing toward the Harts’ house, up the walk, to the door, then shutting off.

Victoria had seen it as well. I felt suddenly vulnerable.

She laughed. “He got tired of waiting for you, Mr. Hart. I don’t blame him. I’m here alone in the house. I could kill you quite easily now, and there would be no one to see.”

She was trying to frighten me. I laughed with her.

“You could try,” I said. “You’d find I was your match.”

I turned to go, but she pulled a revolver from her pocket. “Don’t be so certain of that.”

I stared at it.

“It’s from Jack’s collection. He gave it to me because I was traveling back from London on the train at all hours, and a girl had been raped and murdered two villages north of here by a soldier who got off at her station and followed her home.” She held it in her hand like a gift, admiring it. “If you want the truth, I think Jack used it on someone and then wanted to be rid of it. He never said, but I expect I know who it was. An officer whose sister Jack had seduced. He’d told Jack that as soon as he recovered from his wounds, he was going to hunt him down and kill him.” She looked up at me. “But that’s
Jack, you never know when he’s telling the truth and when he’s having you on.”

“You’ve already shot at Michael, haven’t you?” I asked, trying to distract her.

“I think Jack was hoping I’d kill Michael. But I’m no fool. I let the police deal with him instead.” Still, I thought perhaps she had shot at him, and was reluctant to say so. Even here, with no one listening.

I turned and walked away. My skin crawled as I did, knowing that she had the revolver and not knowing what kind of shot she might be. I was halfway down the walk when she went inside and slammed the door.

I reached the street and turned toward the church, and beyond it, the Hart house, hoping that I didn’t break an ankle on my way back. The mist was still heavy, and I felt enclosed in it, smothered. I couldn’t understand why Mr. Hart had deserted me. It was so unlike him, and I felt very much alone.

And then someone put a hand on my shoulder, and I thought my heart would stop.

I
DIDN’T SCREAM,
bottling it up in my throat. Instead I drew back my foot and came down hard on the instep of whoever was behind me.

Simon Brandon swore. “Damn it, Bess—”

I whirled, but he shushed me at once. “Just keep walking.” He moved closer and took my arm. “Watch where you go.” He went on when we were out of earshot of the house, “I was there, at the corner of the garden where she couldn’t see me. Hart had warned me to stay out of sight. I heard most of it.”

“You couldn’t have. I didn’t see your motorcar—”

“I left the motorcar at your friend’s house. Alicia. I thought you were there. When she told me she hadn’t seen you, I went to the Hart house. Mrs. Hart sent me here, and I found Hart just by the church. I thought it best to send him home.”

“Did you see Michael?” I asked, remembering why he was here, why he was late. “Is he all right? Please tell me he’ll let us help him!” I could deal with anything, once I knew Michael was willing to work with us.

“He wouldn’t see me.” Simon was curt, clearly still angry about what had happened at the prison. “Short of a full cavalry charge, there was no way to reach him.”

“Did you leave a message for him? Anything that would make him see the light?”

“I told him he was a damned fool to hang for another man’s murder. Whether the guards will carry that to him or not, I can’t be sure. The only person who could get in to see him now would be his lawyer.”

“I saw Mr. Forbes. I don’t think he was impressed by what I had to say.” I turned my ankle and nearly pitched forward, but Simon steadied me. “He told me to bring the police Mrs. Calder’s attacker, and then they’d consider listening to me.” I was still bitter about that.

We had reached the Hart house. “I must go and thank them. And tell them about Victoria.”

“No. They live here. It’s not wise.”

“They know part of the story already,” I protested.

“Listen to me, Bess. In less than a week, they could very well lose Michael. Don’t make it any harder for them to face that.”

“They sent me to Victoria. She knows Mr. Hart walked with me to her house.”

He let me have my way. They were expecting us and opened the door almost at once. I thanked them for all they’d done to help. “As for Victoria—” I began, and saw hope shining in their eyes, even though anything I’d learned was not evidence. “As for Victoria,” I went on, “she’s so twisted by hate that she can’t see herself clearly. Or anyone else, for that matter. But I don’t believe she killed Marjorie.”

“What about Melton, Serena’s husband?” Mr. Hart asked. “Is there any hope there?”

“I think it would be best if Inspector Herbert spoke to him. I’m going to London now to try. I’ll stay in touch.”

Their faces had fallen into the sadness I’d seen when I arrived. They thanked me, Mrs. Hart gave me a kiss on the cheek, and they both wished me Godspeed. But I could see, all too well, that I had intruded on the careful shell they’d built around themselves this last
week, and for a little time had made them feel anything was possible. And now they must build it up again, and mend the cracks I’d caused, to carry them through what was to come.

Simon and I wished them a good night, their door shut behind us with what sounded like finality, and we walked on through the heavy mist toward his motorcar.

“Didn’t you think to bring a heavier coat?” he asked as I shivered.

“No. It was warm enough when I left London. This one will do.”

Exasperated, he opened the boot and brought out a rug, handing it to me. I got in and hugged it to me, waiting for the shivers to subside. But they were the aftermath of my encounter with Victoria, not the night’s chill.

He started the motorcar and said to me, “Where do you want to go, Bess?”

“Home,” I said, “but I don’t have that luxury. Scotland Yard.”

Without answering, he pulled away from Alicia’s house and turned the bonnet toward the northeast. I sat huddled in my seat, thinking about Jack Melton as the miles slipped by.

It was late when we reached London. Simon threaded his way through what was left of the evening’s traffic, and found a space to leave the motorcar a few steps from the entrance to the Yard.

Coming around to open my door, he said, “Do you want me to stay here or come with you?”

“I spoke to him before. Let me try again.”

The constable on duty told me that he thought Inspector Herbert had gone home.

“Could you send someone to see? Please. It’s quite urgent.”

But I was told that Inspector Herbert’s door was closed and his light off.

“Is there anywhere I could sit to write a message? Something that can be given to him as soon as he comes back here in the morning?”

They showed me to an anteroom and brought me pen and paper. I sat in the time-scarred chair and tried to think what to say, how best to say it. Finally I wrote a few lines, signed my name, and folded the message.

It read simply,

I handed my message to the constable, and asked him to see to it that Inspector Herbert received it as soon as he came in the next morning. I’d marked it
Urgent,
all that I could do.

Simon, waiting by the motorcar for me, said, “That was quick. Were you shown the door?”

“His office was dark. He’s gone home. I left a message.”

He held the door for me, then got behind the wheel.

“Bess, there are circles under your eyes. You’ve had no rest since you got home. You’ve done everything that’s humanly possible. More, in fact, than anyone ever dreamed could be done. Michael doesn’t want to be saved—for the wrong reasons, I must admit. Or perhaps he is guilty after all, and it’s hard to accept. Who knows?”

I fidgeted with the fringe of the rug. “If I could talk to Jack Melton, I’d know whether or not he was guilty. I don’t think Victoria is. She’s just vicious, cruel, wanting to hurt because she’s hurt. If she’d killed her sister, I think she’d have met me at the door with a knife in her pocket, not that revolver. It was probably to protect herself, not to shoot me. She knew who was at her door, she’d had time to plan what to do.”

Simon chuckled in the darkness of the motorcar, a deep chuckle in his chest that reminded me of Michael.

“What’s funny?” I demanded angrily.

“Nothing. You. Rationalizing why you weren’t killed tonight.”

“Well,” I retorted, “if you’d thought I was in any danger, you wouldn’t have let me walk down that path with my back to the woman!”

His mouth tightened into a hard line.

“You should go back to Somerset. Tonight,” he said finally. “It’s safer. I have a bad feeling about this business.”

“I know. But I can’t abandon Michael.”

“In spite of all you’ve done, you can’t be certain he’s innocent. Your theories are no better and no worse than the one that put him in jail.”

“I know. But by the same token, I can’t be certain he’s guilty. I don’t want his death on my conscience. There must be something else I can do. I’ll think of something, I’m sure I will. And I want
to be here, in London, where I can act on it. It takes hours to drive in from Somerset. Besides, Inspector Herbert knows where to find me.”

“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.