An Impartial Witness

I was becoming a favorite surgical nurse among the staff, and this kept me too busy to think or worry about anyone, myself included.

And then I was sent to another forward hospital, a receiving station for wounded brought in by stretcher bearers rather than ambulances. We could hear the guns, see their flashes all night long, and sometimes their screams as they raced overhead deafened us.

We had just cleared out a contingent of our own wounded when the Front moved forward three hundred yards in that salient, and suddenly the men I was working with wore the field gray of German uniforms.

I’d heard several nurses state flatly that they wouldn’t touch German wounded, Edith Cavill fresh in their minds. She had been shot by firing squad for staying with her duties to her own wounded when the Germans had overrun that part of Belgium. They had called her a spy, and rid themselves of her.

But as I looked at these men, some of them so young and frightened, others stoic in their pain, I could hardly turn them away.

I spent endless hours working over them, sorting the more serious cases from those we couldn’t move until they were stabilized, listening to the ragged breath of the dying, holding the hands of those facing surgery, trying to discover the names of those who couldn’t speak.

I soon forgot that this was the enemy. But for their uniforms and their language, they could have been any soldier from our own armies. I gave them all the care at my command, and cried when one of them died in my arms.

Their officer, his foot badly lacerated by shell fragments, hobbled around the tent speaking to each one of his men, comforting and reassuring them, taking down their names in a little leather book along with a description of their wounds, so that there would be a record of where they were and why.

Twice I asked Hauptmann Ritter to sit down and let me examine his foot, but he shook his head, continuing his rounds. Finally I stood in front of him, forcing him to stop and face me.

“You are risking infection that will cost you your foot and possibly your leg as well. It might even kill you. Is that what you want? If so, it’s a poor example for these men who are letting us care for them.”

I wasn’t certain he understood me until I saw a flash of anger in his blue eyes, and he said in passable English, “I am responsible.”

The Colonel Sahib would have liked him in other circumstances. They saw eye to eye on the duties of command.

“Yes, well, you can be just as responsible once I’ve cleaned and disinfected that wound, then bandaged it.”

He gave me a look that was withering, and then as he turned he saw that the men on cots around him were listening with open interest to hear what he would say.

It must have taken enormous effort to quell his pride and let me lead him to one side where his foot could be examined properly. He refused to let his men out of his sight, but I found a bench where he could sit and rest his foot on a wooden crate.

And it was a nasty wound. I summoned one of the doctors and he came to have a look as well.

“You could lose this, you know,” he told Herr Hauptmann. “And with it your career in the Army.” He fetched what he needed and began to clean the foot and remove any fragments still buried there.

I watched as the muscles in our patient’s jaw tightened, and I knew what sort of pain he was enduring, refusing to show weakness.

I realized that not only the German soldiers but Dr. Newcomb himself was watching Captain Ritter with interest.

Dr. Newcomb did what he could with the wound, then said, “This will require surgery. We must get him and those five men over there back to where they can be taken care of.”

Ritter wanted no part of being separated from his men, the walking wounded already being lined up to be taken under guard to a processing center for prisoners, the others to remain here until they were fit to move.

It took some argument and persuasion before Captain Ritter accepted the fact that he had no choice in the matter. He finished the entries in his small notebook, then reluctantly allowed us to put him in the ambulance waiting outside.

I was the transport nurse, and after making certain the other critical cases were as stable and comfortable as possible, I climbed into the seat next to the driver. Captain Ritter called from the back, “Claus is bleeding again.”

I got out and stepped into the rear of the ambulance. And Claus had indeed pulled at his bandaging, blood already welling in the wound in his chest. I worked to stop the bleeding, and finally succeeded.

Captain Ritter said bitterly, “The war is over for him. I don’t know whether to mourn for him or congratulate him.”

I stayed with Claus, sending Captain Ritter to take my place next to the driver, who gave me a long look. I knew what he was asking—if this German officer was to be trusted next to the driver, where he could try a mischief.

I said, “Captain Ritter understands I am exchanging places in order to keep this soldier alive. He will give me his word to respect this decision.”

Captain Ritter smiled at me, and I knew he’d been weighing his chances. But he nodded, and closed the ambulance door on me before hobbling painfully to the front of the vehicle.

We set off along the rutted road, lurching and swaying like some mad creature in the throes of despair. It was always a wonder to me when a severely wounded man survived this ride. I felt bruised and battered as we pulled in at the hospital and I could turn my patients over to the staff waiting there.

Captain Ritter thanked me for my care of his men, and then said, “I have learned one thing in life at least. When I have given up all hope, there is still something to live for. I swore I would never be taken prisoner. And here I am, a prisoner. But I shall write to my wife now and tell her that very likely I shall survive the war after all. She will have a little peace, knowing that. It will be my good deed.”

“There’s no shame in being taken prisoner,” I told him. “You are no use to your country dead.”

He smiled. “I shall remember that. Good-bye, Fräulein.” And he was gone, supported by two orderlies, followed by an armed guard.

I was to think about Captain Ritter when my mail at last caught up with me.

When I have given up all hope, there is still something to live for.

Michael Hart was speaking almost those same words to Simon Brandon that same afternoon. Only I wouldn’t hear about it for another two weeks.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHEN SIMON’S LETTER arrived, the envelope was worn and splattered with mud. At least I hoped it was mud. I opened it gingerly, and drew out the sheets inside.

Unfolding them, I looked at the heavy, angular strokes of his pen, and I had a premonition of bad news.

Bess, it began,

I am writing in haste, as there is a chance I shall be able to send this letter tonight. As you asked, I attended the trial. It was brought forward because Mrs. Calder regained some memory of events the night she was stabbed. Only a partial memory as it turned out, but she was able to tell the police that she’d received a message from Lieutenant Hart asking her to meet him. This was verified by her maid, who had brought the letter to her from the post. She replied that she had a dinner engagement that night—would it be possible for him to come another evening. He answered that he would meet her at nine thirty, if her dinner party ended in good time. She agreed, and was surprised that he wasn’t waiting in her house. Instead he came toward her from the shadows at the corner of her house, and she called to him to join her. That was the last thing she remembered. Because the doctors had ordered a long and careful period of convalescence, it was decided to move the trial date to accommodate the medical needs of the chief witness. I spoke to the barrister who had taken Hart’s case, and he felt that judgment could go either way—conviction or acquittal depending on the view of the jury when the evidence was presented. He believed your evidence regarding events at the railway station would be crucial, as it indicated that Hart was not Mrs. Evanson’s lover, and therefore had no reason to kill her to protect himself from charges that he was the child’s father. As she was already married, Hart could hardly be considered a jilted lover or cuckolded husband. This removed one motive for murder, and such circumstantial evidence as there was required a suitable motive. And Mrs. Calder could be shown to be recovering still, and perhaps not perfectly certain about what she thinks she remembers.He had told Hart how he expected to conduct the trial, and had every expectation that his principal agreed with the plan.The trial began on a Monday, and the general feeling was that it would last five to seven days. Your father had told me he had also arranged to attend, and we met outside the courtroom, taking our seats just as Hart was brought in.His shoulder had healed sufficiently for the more conspicuous bandaging to be reduced to a padded sling. His counsel objected to the prison doctor’s decision, believing it gave the jury a false impression of his ability to use that arm. Still, it was rather obvious that the shoulder was held awkwardly as he came up the stairs into the dock. I thought he appeared to be under considerable strain, but otherwise he seemed to be in control and aware of his plight.When he was asked how he would plead, his counsel rose to speak, but Hart was there before him, and to the absolute horror of most of the spectators, he said quite clearly and without emotion, I plead guilty to both charges.Pandemonium reigned for all of a minute, his counsel begging for time to confer with his client and nearly drowned out. When the bailiffs had restored order, the judge turned to Hart and said, Do you understand the consequences of your plea? And Hart replied quite steadily that he did and was ready to accept them.

I put the letter down, staring at nothing as the words brought me so close to that courtroom that I could imagine the scene quite clearly, Lieutenant Hart in the dock, his counsel and the KC staring alternately at him and at the judge, unable to fathom what was happening. After all, everyone had been prepared for a trial, not for the rug to be pulled precipitously from under their feet. And in the center of this maelstrom, his face pale but determined, was Michael Hart.

The effect on the jury must have been momentous. The trial couldn’t continue.

But what in heaven’s name had possessed him? Why had he thrown his chances to the winds, and ignored the advice of the barrister retained to save him from the gallows?

I sat there, my head reeling, my heart plummeting to the soles of my shoes.

It was the very height of foolishness, and it made no sense.

After a time, I picked up Simon’s letter again and turned to the second page.

Justice Bromley asked if Hart had any more to add to his plea, and he was answered by a single shake of the head, then a very firm No.I needn’t tell you what happened next. The court had no choice but to accept the plea before them, and I thought of you when the judge reached for his black cap. He declared that the circumstances of the two attacks, both on women alone and vulnerable, and the brutal stabbing before one had gone into the river and the other abandoned to bleed to death on the pavement, left no room for compassion or understanding. And he condemned Michael Hart to be hanged.

The words seemed to roll around my head, echoing through the room where I sat in the early twilight, unable to reach out and turn on the lamp beside me. Light would make it true. Sitting here in the shadows, I could almost pretend that this letter had never come.

Or that Michael Hart had offered something, some crumb of comfort or explanation to his bald statement. Why? Even if he had done these things—which I still doubted—why had he admitted to them? Was it conscience?

How had I been so wrong about him?

I picked up the letter again, hoping that Simon had an answer to that question.

But he didn’t. He and my father had left the courtroom with the rest of the spectators, all of whom were talking about this shocking turn of events.

Simon ended the letter with a final paragraph.

I tried to speak to his barrister, but the man refused to hear me. I had the feeling he was too angry to trust himself to talk to anyone. The Colonel and I decided the best move now would be to see Hart. If we can gain access to him. If he will see us. I have considered tearing up this letter. Or not sending it until we’ve heard what he has to say. But in all fairness to you, my dear girl, it had to be sent. I wish I could be there when you read it. I wish I had better news.

And it was signed with his name, nothing more.

I reread the letter, still trying to absorb it.

Why would Michael Hart condemn himself? What did he know that had made him confess to murder, whether he had done that murder or not?

And the answer was there in front of me.

I went back to the letter and looked for the words again. And there they were.

Simon’s discussion with Michael’s barrister:

He believed that your evidence regarding events at the railway station would be crucial, as it indicated that Hart was not Mrs. Evanson’s lover, and therefore had no reason to kill her to protect himself from charges that he was the child’s father. As she was already married, Hart could hardly be considered a jilted lover or cuckolded husband.

Michael had confessed because he didn’t want the world to hear about Marjorie’s lover, Marjorie’s infidelity, Marjorie’s shame. It would have had to come out. It would be in all the newspapers, the gossip of London, a nine-day’s wonder, and at the end of it, Marjorie would have been seen as the woman who betrayed her severely burned husband, the husband who had killed himself rather than live with the truth.

Whether Michael was guilty or not, he had given her one last gift of love—his silence.

Still, the Colonel Sahib would have something to say on that subject. “Gallantry,” he often told his men, “is an act of great courage under fire, of bravery beyond the call of duty. But if it kills your comrades as well or puts the battle in jeopardy, then it is arrant pride and foolishness. Learn to know the difference.”

But then Michael was only putting himself in jeopardy.

I set the letter down and went to my small trunk. Lifting the lid, I searched through my belongings for the photograph of Marjorie Evanson that I still carried with me because no one else seemed to want it.

I found the frame, turned it over, and looked at the face of the dead woman, trying to think what it was about her that had made two men love her so fiercely.

She was quite pretty, with fair hair and what must have been blue eyes, but that wasn’t the person, only an outward reflection.

There must have been some quality that the camera couldn’t capture, something in her smile or a vulnerability that appealed to men.

There were prettier women—Diana, my flatmate, was certainly far more beautiful.

Possibly Raymond Melton had seen her as a challenge. Some men liked that.

It occurred to me that I should send this photograph to Michael Hart. If he hadn’t killed her, he would take comfort in it.

Perhaps he would whether he had killed her or not.

But it seemed a betrayal of her husband, who had clung to this photograph through the darkest hours of his life.

And how Victoria Garrison and Serena Melton must be celebrating now. They had got what they wanted, both of them.

I took a deep breath and put the frame back in my trunk and closed the lid.

The practical question now was what to do about Michael?

Did I take him at his word? Or should I go on searching for a murderer?

I turned, pulled on my boots, and went to see Matron.

If I could have leave, I could go to England and try once more to get to the bottom of Marjorie Evanson’s death.

But Matron, swamped with wounded, refused to consider my request for leave, although I told her that it could be a matter of life or death.

“We’re shorthanded, Sister Crawford. And your love affair will just have to wait.”

“It isn’t a love—”

She cut me short. “You aren’t the first nursing sister to come to me with such a request. Nor will you be the last. I was young, like you. I can appreciate the fact that your world feels as if it’s coming to an end. But men are dying here, and I will thank you to concentrate on their needs, not your own. Selfishness has no place on the battlefield.”

With that she dismissed me, and I had no option but to walk out of her office and return to my quarters.

Consoling myself as best I could, I wrote a letter to Simon, and set it out for the post. If only he’d told me when the date of execution was. But perhaps he didn’t know. I had a feeling that Michael would ask that it not be delayed. And he would go to the gallows before Christmas.

A thought came to mind. Inspector Herbert had been in no hurry to send for Captain Raymond Melton, because he believed that my encounter with Marjorie in the railway station had sufficiently explained his role in her life: lover, rejecting her, unwilling to believe the child she was carrying was his—but in no way connecting him to her murder. His alibi was about as sound as one could be.

But what if I could break it?

I had two hours before I was scheduled to return to duty.

I set about searching for Raymond Melton.

My father had commanded a regiment. There were soldiers from that regiment scattered across France, combined with other units, making up the armies in the field.

I only had to find one or two of its present officers, and the rest would be easy.

It was three days before someone from my father’s regiment was brought in to our station, and he was walking wounded, his arm laid open by machine-gun fire. I asked the sister who was already cutting away his sleeve if I could attend to the young lieutenant.

He smiled as I came over to him, and I think he believed I must be flirting with him when I asked his name.

“Timothy Alston,” he said. “And yours, Sister?”

I told him, and added, “I expect you might know of my father. Colonel Crawford.”

“My God, yes,” he answered, giving me a very different sort of look. And then he winced as I began to clean his wound. “How is he?”

“Fighting this war from London, much to his chagrin.”

“They still tell stories about his time in India, you know,” he went on. “I never had the pleasure of serving under him. I joined after he retired, but I’d have been proud to be one of his men.”

“He would be very pleased to hear that,” I told Lieutenant Alston truthfully. “He misses his command.”

“There was the tiger hunt that nearly killed a maharajah. Has he ever told you about that? The beast leapt right into the blind, directly in the face of the maharajah, and no one could move. The maharajah was certain to be clawed to death. And then your father swung a rifle and gave the tiger an almighty whack on the side of his head—there was no room to shoot, too dangerous, but the tiger turned, looked at your father, and everyone in the blind thought he was going to attack. Then the tiger wheeled about and leapt out of the blind, disappearing into the high grass before anyone could bring a gun to bear. They say he came back to that blind, you know, the day your father marched away, and stood there, head down, mourning the loss of a brave man.”

I’d heard the story from others, and those who told me, his bearers among them, swore it was true. But I said only, “I expect the tiger was still looking for the maharajah.”

Lieutenant Alston laughed. As I was binding the wound, I asked casually, “By the bye, have you run into a Captain Melton in the Wiltshire Fusiliers? I’ve been trying to find him. I was at his brother’s birthday party.”

“Melton? Name doesn’t ring a bell. But I’ll put the word out, if you like. One of us is bound to come across him.”

I thanked him, turned him over to the doctor for suturing, told him to keep the bandaging clean for at least three days, and then he was gone, back to the fighting.

I wondered if he’d remember my request. But ten days later, I received a message from Lieutenant Alston. He told me that Captain Melton had been seen not three miles away, where he was in rotation from the Front.

This time, with Matron’s blessing and the excuse of needing medical supplies, I commandeered an ambulance and went to find the Fusiliers.

They were well behind the lines, men stretched out on cots, even on the ground, or smoking and pacing, writing letters, shaving, reading—anything to put the war behind them for a few precious hours. The rows of tents gleamed in the morning sun, and I felt at home as I walked down between them. The guns were loud here, our own and the Germans’, and the sharp chatter of a Vickers could be heard faintly in the distance. But tired men ignored everything but the pursuit of peace for as long as possible.

I smiled and asked for Captain Melton. The young officer who had risen to greet me looked around him and then said, “I expect he’s still in hospital, Sister.”

Alarmed, I asked, “Is it serious?”

“Um, I’d rather not say.”

Which usually meant dysentery. I thanked him, returned to the ambulance, and found my way to the rear hospital where more serious casualties were taken.

The first sister I met as I walked through the door was young and flushed with excitement.

“Rumor says the Prince of Wales is coming here to speak to the wounded,” she exclaimed. “Everything is at sixes and sevens.”

I gave her a list of the supplies I needed, then asked if there was a Captain Melton in the officers’ ward.

She pointed the way, then rushed off to finish my errand before the Prince arrived.

She was right that the hospital was at sixes and sevens. Another sister told me that the Prince was coming to pin a medal on someone. Victoria Cross, she thought. Someone else said that the Prince was coming to see one of his former equerries who was just out of surgery for life-threatening wounds.

Threading my way to the busy ward, I went down the row of cots and looked at each patient, hoping to find Captain Melton without drawing more attention than necessary to my visit. A few patients were heavily bandaged, and I asked quietly, “Captain Melton?” only to receive a shake of the head in return.

I nearly missed him. He was at the far end, a weak and exhausted man who had lost several stone of his original weight. His skin was gray, and his eyes sunken. But a second glance confirmed that this was indeed the man I recalled from the railway station.

I went to sit beside him, and after a moment I spoke his name softly, to see if he slept or was awake.

He turned his face toward me, and his eyes when he opened them were those of a dead man, no life at all in their depths, as if he had given up all hope.

Severe dysentery could kill. But I thought, he’s weak, not dying.

When I said nothing, he spoke in a thread of a voice. “Whatever you gave me seems to be working. Thank you, Sister.”

He was so far from the cold, heartless man who wouldn’t comfort the distressed woman clinging to his arm that I felt a wave of compassion and was torn about bringing up the past. But this might be my only chance. When—if—he recovered, he might be sent anywhere, and the next big push might be his last.

Steeling myself against softer feelings, I said, “My name doesn’t matter, Captain Melton. But I happened to be at Waterloo Station when you were saying good-bye to Marjorie Evanson, just before you sailed for France.” I gave him the date and the time, told him that it was raining hard, a summer rain that made it impossible for me to find Marjorie again as she was leaving.

He listened, his face changing to a coldness that made him seem more familiar to me than the wasted man lying on the cot as I’d approached.

“What of it?” he demanded.

“The police asked me questions about her and about you. I didn’t know your name then, I found it much later when I saw some photographs taken by the husband of a friend.” I hoped I could still consider Alicia a friend. “I had met your brother Jack only a few weeks before I saw that photograph. And so I know who you are.”

“You’ve got the wrong man,” he said, turning away from me. “Please leave.”

“It isn’t a mistake. I knew Marjorie by sight and I have a good memory for faces. I also recognized your cap badge. You don’t look like your brother, I would never have guessed who you were. But cameras don’t lie. You were with Marjorie that night.”

He said nothing, keeping his face resolutely turned toward the far wall.

“She was three months’ pregnant. Did she tell you that?”

No response, though I saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. It struck me that he was angry, not ashamed.

“She was murdered that same evening. Were you lovers? If you were, perhaps you can tell me who Marjorie Evanson would turn to in her distress, after you got on that train and left her to cope alone.” I was guessing at some of what I was saying. “Please, if you know anyone she might have seen after your train left, it would help the police enormously and might even lead to finding her killer.”

“He’s been found.” The three words were clipped, and I was right about the anger.

I was on the point of asking him who had told him, and then of course I remembered that he was Jack Melton’s brother. Jack would have passed on the news. But had he realized when he did so that the man he was telling was Marjorie’s lover? I wondered too who had initiated that telling of events. Had Raymond Melton asked? Or had Jack Melton volunteered? Perhaps a little of both. It was, after all, expected to be a sensational trial and indirectly the Meltons were involved through Serena and her own brother.

“The question is, have the police got the right man? I’m not very sure of that.” I kept my voice steady, interested but impersonal. “I have to be impartial, and while I don’t believe you could have killed her—after all, I saw you board that train—I can’t help but think your evidence would be helpful. As mine was, for it told the police that she was alive at five forty-five that day.”

He showed no interest in what I was saying. And so I pressed a little harder.

“Haven’t the police asked you to provide proof that you didn’t leave the train at the next stop, and then find someone to drive you to Portsmouth so that you reached your transport just before it sailed?”

His head turned, and his eyes met mine. There was fire in their depths, shocking in so weak a man.

“Get out of here.”

“I should like your word that you never left the train. And then I will walk away, even though you’ve done nothing to help the woman you seduced and then left to deal with the aftermath on her own. I would have believed in her suicide that night. It’s amazing that you never gave that possibility even a thought.”

“I never left the train. My word.”

We’d kept our voices low, in order not to disturb other patients or draw the attention of the ward sisters.

I sat there, looking into his eyes, trying to plumb their depths for truth.

“My word,” he repeated, and I had to believe him.

As I rose to walk away, I watched his face. Something stirred there, and I wondered what it was. Satisfaction?

Satisfaction that he’d managed to drive me away with only a portion of the truth?

I wondered how hard Michael Hart’s counsel had tried to find this man and establish his alibi, even if the Crown had not. But then, I reminded myself, they might have done, and when it was shown he hadn’t left his train, they had not felt it worthwhile to bring him back to England. There was no getting around the fact that Raymond Melton had been in France when Mrs. Calder was stabbed.

I thanked him and turned away as I’d promised, feeling deflated and uncertain. But then I went back to his bedside and said, “Has anyone told you that Helen Calder was also attacked in the same fashion as Marjorie Evanson, and presumably by the same man? Or woman? The two stabbings so close together are most likely linked, because Mrs. Calder was a Garrison before her marriage, and a cousin of Marjorie Evanson’s.”

He stared at me. “I know Helen Calder,” he said, eyes wide now with disbelief. “I was at Mons with her husband. Is she dead as well?”

“She ought to be. But she was found in time, in spite of loss of blood and emergency surgery to repair the damage done. There will be weeks of recovery ahead of her, but she’s alive.”

He went on staring at me, trying to absorb what I’d said. Then he asked, “Surely she was able to identify her attacker?”

“She has no memory of what happened. What little she recalls of the hours before she was stabbed point to the man the police took into custody. He’s been tried, and will be hanged.”

I fought to keep my voice steady as I said the words.

Captain Melton closed his eyes and lay there, spent. Then he said, “Poor devil, he must be out of his mind with worry.”

I understood that to mean Mrs. Calder’s husband. I couldn’t help but think that this man had shown more pity for a fellow officer than he had for the woman he’d used, if not loved.

I left then, walking swiftly down the center of the ward, and in the distance I could hear shouting, loud huzzahs, and assumed that the Prince had finally arrived. A piper began to play, the pipes wheezing and then settling into the melody. I’d always liked the pipes, and listened for a moment to what the man was playing. It was, I realized, “God Save the King,” in honor of the Prince’s father.

I slipped out a side door, in low spirits and not in the mood for a spectacle. For that’s what it would be, and rightly so. Men needed to know that the royal family remembered their sacrifice. Reaching the ambulance, I discovered that the sister I’d given my list to had set several boxes in the rear, where the stretchers usually went. Grateful to her, I drove back to my own unit, and turned the boxes over to the nurse in charge of stores.

And then I went to my own quarters and sat there as darkness fell and the rains came again, turning mud to a treacherous slickness and breeding a miasma of odors that seemed to cling to the walls and my sheets and the very air I was breathing.

I could understand now why Inspector Herbert, far more experienced in such matters than I could possibly hope to be, had discounted finding Captain Melton. He had indeed taken the train to Portsmouth and boarded his ship as scheduled and landed in France at the required time. While it had been important to identify the man with Marjorie Evanson and the likely father of her child, the instant he’d stepped into his compartment on the train, his alibi was secure.

Then where was there any small, overlooked fact that would save Michael Hart?

Or was the right man going to hang at the time set for him to climb the stairs to the gallows?

Why was it that I couldn’t be satisfied with what was looking more and more like the truth?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE NEXT TWO and a half weeks were busy. I was coming to realize that this war was producing nothing but dead and wounded men. No glorious victories, no great advances into German-held territory.

There was talk that the Americans would be coming to France, but even so, it would be months before they could take the field and make a difference. By that time, it appeared that England and France would be bled dry.

I was too tired to do the arithmetic, but it seemed to me that for every yard of ground won or lost, the toll was enormous. If I, a nurse in the field, could see this happening, why did the men in staff positions, the men who made both the daily and the long-term decisions about fighting the enemy, not look at the casualty lists and find another way to win?

I was reminded of my great-grandmother at Waterloo. There the English squares held despite charge after charge by Napoleon’s best troops. And at the end of the day, in spite of the slaughter, the squares still held, and Napoleon was forced to retreat. Not a very decisive victory, attrition at its worst. And without the backing of Blücher’s men, arriving in the nick of time, the tide might have turned the other way. But at least the battle lasted only that one day. And by the next evening, my great-grandmother knew whether or not her husband still lived.

I was coming off duty when I encountered Dr. Hall just coming on. We smiled wearily at each other, and he asked, “Do you sleep?”

“Not very well,” I answered truthfully.

He nodded. “Nor I. Well. We do our best.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve had word we’re to be relieved in the next fortnight.”

This was news I hadn’t heard. It revived me a little and I said, “Another convoy home?”

“Very likely. Would you like to be listed as the transport nurse?”

“I would indeed.”

He nodded a second time. “I’d heard that you had approached Matron about leave some time ago. Was it important? Or perhaps I should ask, is it still important?”

I told him the truth. “An officer I know has been convicted of murder. I’d have liked to have been at his trial. Since then, I’ve not received any news of the date he’s to die. Either that or no one wishes to tell me when it will be. I keep hoping for some fresh evidence to prove that he’s not guilty. I’d like to see him a last time and hear what he has to say.”

Dr. Hall regarded me with interest. “He’s more than a friend?”

“No, sir. Just—a friend. But I feel rather responsible for his situation. I was a witness in the case, though not called on to give evidence in court. I was in the right place at the wrong time. And what I saw proved to be important. An attempt on my part to help the police uncover the identity of one man in the case led them to another man, but it seems to me that there were problems with evidence. And circumstance conspired to put the worst possible interpretation on that evidence. Given my friend’s wounds in two instances, I can’t see how he could have committed the crimes he was charged with. But the police surgeon must have seen the matter differently. And so my friend will hang.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Hall said. “What sort of wounds?”

I told him about the particle in Lieutenant Hart’s eye, and then about the damaged shoulder.

Dr. Hall looked at his watch. “I don’t have time to pursue this now. But if you’ll meet me when I come off duty, I’d like to hear more.”

I thanked him, thinking he was trying to be polite and would have lost interest by morning.

But I was wrong. I was sitting in the canteen finishing my tea when Dr. Hall came looking for me.

He took the chair across from me, and said, “I’m so tired I could sleep on my feet. But talk to me, and if I can stay awake, I’ll give you my opinion. It won’t make any difference to the Crown, or to the case in hand. Still, I might be able to set your mind at ease on the medical issues.”

I tried to marshal my thoughts, and then told him as concisely as I knew how the way the murders had occurred and what Michael’s physical condition was at this time, after his shoulder had healed. At least to the best of my knowledge, which was superficial at the very least.

Dr. Hall stirred his coffee—he had picked up the French habit of drinking coffee, as so many others had done during this war—and considered the medical implications.

“He could have done these things, in spite of his injuries—that is to say, if he didn’t care about the physical damage and was prepared to take the risk.”

I wondered if his barrister had ordered a physician to examine Michael’s eye. He hadn’t complained—but then he wouldn’t have, would he? If he’d disobeyed the doctor’s instructions?

He must have read my face.

“My dear, you must understand that people who kill are not marked by the brand of Cain. They appear no different from you or me. It’s hard to believe sometimes that someone we know well—or think we know well—could do horrible things. But they can.”

He was right, of course he was.

I smiled, trying to make it appear bright and accepting.

“Thank you. I needed impartiality.”

He cocked his head to one side. “The position as transport nurse is still yours. Sometimes it’s better to learn the truth firsthand.”

He was a small man, graying early, lines forming around his eyes that would not go away even when he slept for a week. But his hands were gentle in the operating theater, and they worked miracles with torn flesh and sinew and bone.

I sighed. “You’re very kind.”

“No,” he said, finishing his coffee and getting to his feet. “I’m just very tired.”

We brought the wounded to England and I discovered I’d been given ten days’ leave.

I went home and surprised my parents. As I stood in the doorway, they stared at me as if I were a ghost, then they rushed to greet me, talking at the same time, laughing with excitement, sweeping me into the family circle with such warmth it was as if I’d never been away.

I said nothing about Michael Hart. Not then, nor at dinner. But after my parents had gone to bed, I pulled on a sweater against the night’s chill and walked the mile to the cottage where Simon Brandon lived.

He hadn’t come to dinner. He hadn’t come to welcome me home. My parents hadn’t mentioned that he was away. So where was he?

I could hear a night bird calling as I went up the lane and came to the path to the cottage door.

The house was in darkness except for a single lamp in the front room.

I stood for a moment on the step, then lifted my hand to the knocker. It was shaped like an elephant’s head. Simon had had it made in Agra at a little shop where a man sat cross-legged and spent his days carving useful objects. A rectangular length of brass had been fitted to the back of the head, and the plate was also brass. It had a musical ring as I let it fall.

I didn’t think he was going to come to the door. But after what seemed like a very long time, the door opened, and Simon stood there in shirt and dark trousers.

“I was waiting,” he said, and stepped aside to allow me to enter.

I had always liked the cottage. It was strictly a man’s home, of course, filled with a lifetime’s treasures and memories, but as tidy as a sergeant-major’s quarters in camp.

I moved into the parlor as Simon closed the door behind me and I took the chair that had always been mine, by the window overlooking the garden.

“The news isn’t good,” he said, coming in to join me, but not sitting down. “He’s stubborn, your Michael Hart. He asked that his sentence be expedited. Mrs. Calder isn’t doing well. Preparing herself for the trial has taxed her strength. And of course there was no trial. As such.”

“He’s not my Michael Hart.”

Simon nodded, then said, “The execution is set for a fortnight tomorrow.”

I couldn’t stop myself from reacting. I had thought, before Christmas. Months away.

More than enough time, surely. But there was almost none.

“You didn’t write,” I accused him.

“No. He refuses to see you. He asked me to wait to tell you until it was—over.”

“He did it for her, you know. To prevent what she’d done being opened up for the public to gawk at and whisper about.”

“I think he did it for himself as well. That arm will probably be useless for the rest of his life. He can’t live with that. So why not die for a good reason?”

“It’s stupid! There was a chance—you said so as well—that the trial could have ended in an acquittal.”

“At what price to Mrs. Evanson’s reputation?”

“Well, he hasn’t considered one thing. And I intend to bring it to his attention. Can you or the Colonel arrange for me to see him?”

“I told you. He refuses to see you.”

“He may refuse. But you might tell him that I am bringing a photograph of Marjorie to take with him to the gallows.”

Simon’s face had been in shadow, but suddenly I saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. “My dear girl. I bow to your brilliance. But where will you find a photograph of Mrs. Evanson in ten days’ time?”

“I’ve had it since I went to Hampshire and learned that Meriwether Evanson had killed himself. Serena refused to put it in his coffin. Matron couldn’t bear to throw it away, and so I took it. I had thought—if I’d considered the matter at all—that I might somehow put it by Lieutenant Evanson’s grave.”

“You had told me the photograph went with Evanson from France to the clinic. But not that it was now in your possession.”

“It was—personal. Whatever she did, whatever reason she might have had for doing it, he loved her more than living.”

Simon went to the sideboard in the dining room. I could hear him collecting two glasses and a decanter. It was whiskey he brought back with him, and a small carafe of water as well.

He poured a small measure of the whiskey in a glass, added water to it, and passed the glass to me, then poured himself a larger measure without the water. Holding his glass out to me, he said, “Welcome home, Bess.”

I drank the whiskey. They say Queen Victoria drank a small tot each night before retiring. If she approved of it for herself, it would do me no harm. But I wasn’t sure I really cared for the taste of it, a smokiness that caught at the back of my throat and belied the smoothness of the first swallow.

Simon smiled and took my glass from me before I’d finished it, setting it on the table. “It’s late. I’ll see you home.”

“I can find my own way.”

“I’m sure you can. But I shouldn’t care to face the Colonel tomorrow if I allowed you to walk that mile alone.” He drained his own glass and set it down.

“Who killed her, Simon, if Michael didn’t?”

“I don’t know. Who had the most to lose?”

I stepped through the door he was holding for me and out into the night. “Raymond Melton? He had a career in the Army, a wife. He could have lost both if the affair had come to light. As it surely must have done.”

“But he was on that transport ship.”

We walked down the path side by side and turned into the lane.

“Victoria? She was jealous of her sister from childhood.”

“Why then? Why wait until that moment?”

“Because with the child of her affair, she would have had to come home to Little Sefton and back into Victoria’s life?”

“Possible, of course. On the other hand, Victoria might well have relished her sister’s fall from grace.”

“There’s that. Serena, then, for what Marjorie was about to do to Meriwether.”

“That’s far more likely. Except that Serena told her brother the truth about Marjorie, after she was dead.”

“I think that was her own pain speaking. She hated Marjorie and wanted her brother to hate his wife too.” I sighed. “A tangle, isn’t it?”

“Which brings us full circle, back to Michael.”

We walked on in silence, shoulder to shoulder. As Simon lifted the latch on the door to my parents’ house, he said, “I’ll go to London tomorrow.”

“And I’m going to Little Sefton. I want to speak to Michael’s aunt and uncle. After that, I must go to London and look in on Helen Calder. She must be feeling rather awful after her testimony sent Michael to trial.”

Simon said good night, and waited outside as I shut and locked the house door. I stood in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs and watched him out of sight. Then I turned toward the stairs, intending to go straight to my room.

My heart leapt into my throat. There was someone on the stairs, standing there in silence, watching me.

All at once I recognized the shape of my father.

He must have known somehow that I had gone to see Simon.

He said only, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Simon is going to London tomorrow. I’m going to Little Sefton myself. And then to London. There isn’t much time…”

“For what it’s worth, my dear, I don’t believe he killed Marjorie Evanson.”

My father knew men. He’d fought with them, led them, listened to them, disciplined them. Little escaped his notice, and he was a good judge of character.

I went up the stairs to him and hugged him.

“Thank you for telling me that,” I said.

“You smell of whiskey. Brush your teeth before your mother comes to kiss you good night.”

I promised, and we went up the remaining stairs to bed.

Between my own fatigue and the whiskey, I slept soundly.

I wondered if that was what Simon had intended.

The next morning I said good-bye to my parents and set out for Little Sefton.

It was well into September now. I’d first taken this road in early June, with high hopes that I could in some fashion bring to light a name that would lead the police to Marjorie’s killer. Now I drove with a sense of desperation goading me.

A fortnight today. That’s all the time I had. And even if I found new evidence, the courts would have to be persuaded to hear it and act upon it.

The urgent order of business, however, was mending my fences with Alicia.

The first person I saw was the rector, who greeted me warmly and asked if I’d been in France again.

I told him I had, and then said, “Still, I heard about the trial. It must have been terribly trying for Michael’s aunt and uncle.”

He shook his head. “I’ve offered them what comfort I could. And I’ve written to Michael, to ask if I could serve him in the days to come.”

“How has he answered?”

“Sadly, with silence.” He looked up at the weathervane on the church tower as if it could point him in the right direction. “I’ve never counseled a man facing the gallows. I’ve prayed to find the right words, when the time comes.”

“I’m sure you will do,” I replied. “Do you think I could speak to Mr. and Mrs. Hart? I know Michael pleaded guilty, but I also believe I know why he did. If I’m right, then it may be that he’s innocent of murder.”

The rector stared at me. “You mustn’t raise false hope,” he warned. “It would be very unkind. They have been in seclusion, I don’t believe it would be wise.”

“Which is worse for them, thinking Michael is a murderer or watching him die knowing he’s innocent? I’ve wrestled with that question for hours. I think I’d find comfort in knowing the truth. In knowing that my own flesh and blood is dying for what he believes in, not because he has done something appalling.”

But he remained steadfast in his belief that I would do more harm than good.

I left the subject there, and asked instead, “How has Victoria Garrison taken this news?”

The rector said, “Walk with me to the rectory, won’t you?” I nodded, and as we crossed the churchyard, he went on. “Victoria Garrison troubles me. She was eager to give her evidence. And when proceedings were halted almost before they had properly begun, she was beside herself with anger. I was there that first day myself, I felt it was my duty, you know. If young Hart looked out at the crowded courtroom, I thought it might be steadying to find a familiar face. Victoria was waiting with the other witnesses, and when the trial ended abruptly, a bailiff must have gone to tell them that they were free to leave. And so we ran into each other on the stairs, and I was shocked. I had expected distress, disbelief, even. But her face was flushed with fury. I asked if she was all right, but she turned on me and said, ‘I’ve been cheated!’ in such a savage tone that I stepped back, and she hastened out the door and into the street. I’ve been at a loss ever since to understand.”

I thought I did understand. Victoria had wanted her pound of flesh, to hear in open court a discussion of the sins of her sister. I couldn’t imagine that Michael’s fate moved her—she had been eager to see him taken into custody.

I had wondered before if a woman could have stabbed both victims. It was possible. But was it likely?

Given Victoria’s hatred of Marjorie, it could have happened. But how did Victoria know about the love affair before her sister’s death? Or about the child? Surely Marjorie hadn’t confided in her. And so Victoria couldn’t have killed her.

There was the problem. If Marjorie had been living her life quietly in London, Victoria had no reason to be aware of her situation.

The rector, suspecting my inner struggles, invited me to have lunch with him. “My excellent cook always makes more than enough sandwiches for one person,” he ended. “It will be no imposition.”

And so I did. There was a plate full of sandwiches, with a dish of summer apples stewed in honey. “We’ve been keeping bees,” the rector told me. “Have you tried honey in your tea?” There were also small potatoes baked in milk and grated cheese.

We talked about the village, and I confessed that I’d come to mend fences with Alicia.

He smiled. “She was saying on Sunday last that she wished it had never happened. I think if you go to her door, she will be glad to see you.”

I wasn’t as certain. But I promised I would try.

After our meal, against his advice, I went to knock at the door of the Hart house.

A maid opened it and told me that Mr. and Mrs. Hart were receiving no visitors.

“Will you tell them that Elizabeth Crawford has called and would like to speak with them?”

She went away and after several minutes came back to say that the Harts would see me.

Surprised and grateful, I thanked her and was taken to the small sitting room with its comfortable furnishings and a lovely Turkey carpet.

I could see at once that Mrs. Hart’s eyes were puffy and red from crying. Mr. Hart appeared to have aged in only a matter of weeks.

He said, as I was shown into the room and the maid had closed the door behind me, “Miss Crawford,” and indicated a chair to one side of his own.

I answered at once. “I can’t express what I feel. I wasn’t allowed leave to come home for the trial. I doubt if I could have made a difference if I had. But I wanted to try.”

Mrs. Hart said, “Michael expressly forbade us to attend the trial. He told us that it would be distressing and hurtful, and he didn’t want us to see that. He didn’t want to sit there in the dock and watch our faces. Now I think he knew, even then, what he was intending to do, and that’s why he asked us to stay away. And it was the most horrible shock when the rector came to tell us what had happened. I refused to believe it then, and I still do. But most of Little Sefton feels that we stayed away out of shame for what he’s done. And to make it all even worse, he won’t let us come to see him one last time. I’m unable to sleep, I can’t—we had him from a little boy, and there’s no meanness in Michael. I want him to know that we love him still and would do anything—anything!—to keep him with us.”

“My dear, you mustn’t—” her husband began.

“Don’t tell me not to cry! He was like my own child. How shall I go on, knowing what they’ve done to him?” She turned to me. “You stood up for him, there in the street, when they came for him. I never said a word in his defense—I was so shocked, my tongue seemed as paralyzed as the rest of me. But you kept your wits about you and defended him. I will always be grateful for that, Miss Crawford. You will always be dear to me because you did what I couldn’t.”

I took her hand. “Let me tell you what I think. It may not ease your suffering, but it could explain what happened in that courtroom. Michael was informed while he was in prison that although his shoulder has healed, he won’t regain the use of that arm. I don’t know if that’s true or not. There are trained people who are doing wonders with such wounds. I do know that he isn’t the only solder to feel his life is over because he’s lost the use of a limb or an eye. It isn’t an easy truth to live with. I’d like to believe that he decided then to protect Marjorie’s name and reputation by stopping the trial before it had begun. He’s always loved Marjorie. It would be like him to see this as a noble gesture, a very good reason for dying and ending his own wretchedness.”

Mr. Hart stared at me. “I—If I hadn’t been so blinded by my own grief, I would have seen that for myself. It’s possible. Very possible.” He smiled for the first time, although there were tears in his eyes. “That foolish boy. But dear God, what are we to do?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “But perhaps if we talk about the people who knew Marjorie best, we might find something that could help.”

“Victoria.” Mrs. Hart’s voice was cold and angry. “She tried to ruin Marjorie’s life, and now she’s ruined Michael’s. Did you know, Miss Crawford, that she went to Meriwether Evanson shortly before the marriage, to tell him that Marjorie was very likely illegitimate? He showed her the door, and said that if she ever said as much to any other living soul, he and Marjorie would take her to court for defamation of character. I think she was a little afraid of him after that. He came to Michael afterward to ask what sort of person Victoria was. And Michael told him how she’d alienated Mr. Garrison and Marjorie, to the point that Marjorie went to live in London. Meriwether swore Michael to secrecy, and he never broke his word until a week before he was taken into custody. He wanted us to know what Meriwether had said—that Victoria was evil. To beware of her.”

“Then why did he let her drive him to London?”

“Because he was desperate to go there,” Mr. Hart replied, “and I’m really not comfortable driving such distances now.” He put his hand to his heart as if in explanation. “I asked him to wait a few days, that I’d find someone to take him. But he was impatient, he said there was something he had thought about, that he must ask Helen Calder, although he wasn’t about to tell Victoria his real reason for speaking to her. Michael had been rereading Marjorie’s letters to him, but he didn’t have all of them. He believed Mrs. Calder might remember what he was searching for.”

I leaned forward. “What was it he was hoping to ask her? I expect to see Mrs. Calder tomorrow. Perhaps I can ask her instead.”

“I wish I knew,” he replied. “I didn’t understand the urgency, you see, or I’d have risked the journey myself. I’ve regretted that bitterly. I would have been with him instead.” Michael’s alibi, which Victoria couldn’t—or wouldn’t—give him.

“Could Victoria have been suspicious enough to follow him?” I asked. “If she was jealous of Marjorie, she could have been jealous of Helen Calder as well. She might have jumped to the conclusion that he had used her to see Mrs. Calder.” But even as I said the words, I thought about Mrs. Calder’s long, thin face. And she was a few years older. What was there to be jealous of?

But jealousy didn’t always heed reason.

Small wonder Victoria was eager to testify at the trial. She would have enjoyed twisting the truth if it put Michael Hart in the worst possible light.

“Just how much did Victoria know about Marjorie’s life in London?” I asked after a moment. “Did she go up to London often, after her father’s death?”

“If you want to know what I think,” Mrs. Hart said, “she went to spy on her sister.”

“My dear,” her husband cautioned, “we couldn’t be sure where she was going when she left here.”

“Well, you saw her often enough at the station in Great Sefton. Where else could she have been going at that hour but to London? It isn’t as if trains pass through Great Sefton as often as they do in Waterloo Station or Charing Cross! There are only two a day, the morning train to London and the evening train to Portsmouth.”

“She was fond of the theater and the symphony,” her husband reminded her. “And Mrs. Toller mentioned that Victoria volunteered there, arranging programs for the wounded. I’ve told you before.”

“Yes, that’s all well and good. It doesn’t convince me she wasn’t spying on Marjorie.”

I said, “Perhaps there was a man, someone she cared about.”

But they would have none of that. Not Victoria, they said. They weren’t even certain she’d cared for Michael, except for the fact that he belonged to Marjorie.

“She wanted him because she couldn’t have him,” Mrs. Hart declared. “And what she can’t have, she despises.”

I tried to pin Mr. and Mrs. Hart down to precise dates when they’d seen Victoria in Great Sefton, but too much time had passed.

When I left the Harts, I wondered if Michael had weighed the grief his decision had inflicted on them. Protecting the dead was admirable, but the living counted too.

From there, I went to call on Alicia.

Her face was cool when she answered the door.

I said quickly, before she could shut it again, “Please. I’m so sorry that I made you angry on my last visit. It was wrong of me to exclude you when I spoke to the rector’s cook. I thought I was being wise, and I was only being selfish.” I stopped, seeing no softening in her expression. “I’ve only just come back from France. I couldn’t get leave for Michael’s trial. And he’s to be hanged next week.” I wanted her to know that I hadn’t been in England since the day of our quarrel.

“I was shocked by your behavior when he was taken into custody. To argue with the constable and that man from Scotland Yard on a public street was unseemly. It embarrassed me. After all, I’d introduced you to everyone here.”

I didn’t think that had bothered her as much as my interviewing the rector’s cook on my own. But I said, “It was the only chance I had to speak up. I had to stand up for what I believed to be true at the time.”

“And he confessed, didn’t he? To murdering one woman and attempting to murder another. I couldn’t believe it, but I expect he did it to save his aunt and uncle the ordeal of a trial. At least in that he showed some courage.”

I didn’t argue. What good would it have done?

After a moment she said, “What brings you back to Little Sefton?”

“I came to offer my support to Mr. and Mrs. Hart. They are guilty of nothing, except perhaps for loving Michael and still believing in him.”

“He wasn’t their child. As Victoria has been busy pointing out.”

“I don’t think they consider whose child he was, only that they are losing him before very long.” I hesitated, and then said, “Speaking of Victoria, I hear she was often in London. Did you ever go with her to a play?”

Grudgingly she answered me. “I did once, yes. I didn’t enjoy it very much. I didn’t know anyone there, and I felt guilty enjoying myself while Gareth was in France.”

“I understand that.”

“No, you can’t. You aren’t married. The man you love isn’t likely to be killed in the next push, or at risk of dying in an aid station before you even hear that he’s been wounded.”

I realized then that she hadn’t heard from him for a while. And looking more closely, I could see that she had passed sleepless nights as well.

“I’m sometimes the last caring face they see,” I told her gently. “I often write letters for the dying. I know that their last thoughts are for those they love.”

She burst into tears then, unable to hold them back, burying her face in her hands. “You don’t know. No one can know.”

I took her arm and led her into the house, then sat with her as she cried. After a while I went to the kitchen and found the kettle, put it on, and made a pot of tea. She was quieter when I came back to the sitting room, and drank her tea obediently, sniffling at first, and finally dully sitting there, worn and worried.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a muffled voice. “I’ve been out of sorts, worrying. There’s been no news for weeks and weeks.”

“If there is bad news, you will know. It won’t take weeks and weeks.”

Taking a deep breath, she set her teacup aside. “Thank you, Bess,” she said simply. “And I’m so sorry about Michael. I feel responsible, I introduced you to him. I didn’t dream—”

“No, that’s all right.” I rose to take my leave. “Will you be all right now?”

“Yes, sometimes it just overwhelms me, the worry about Gareth.”

Following me to the door, she added, “I am sorry about Michael. I know you were beginning to care for him. But you’ll forget in time. There will be someone else.”

I didn’t contradict her. I thanked her for the tea and asked her to write to me if she felt like it.

I had reached the walk, heading for my motorcar, when she stopped me.

“Bess?”

I turned.

“I think Victoria was seeing someone in London in the winter. But it must not have come to anything. It was over by the spring.”

“Did you know who it was?”

She shook her head. “I only heard the gossip. Someone told me he was an officer. And Mrs. Leighton swore that he was married. She saw them coming out of a mean little restaurant near Hampstead Heath. Those were her words, ‘a mean little restaurant,’ and she interpreted this as proof he was married, because he hadn’t taken Victoria somewhere nice in London.”

I thanked her, glad we were parting as friends, and walked back to the church, where I’d left my motorcar. I’d just turned the crank and stepped back when someone came up behind me.

I turned, expecting it to be Alicia again, but it was Victoria Garrison.

“I thought that was your vehicle, hidden in the shrubbery where no one would notice it.”

“Hardly the shrubbery. If I’m not mistaken, those are a stand of lilac. What is it you want, Miss Garrison? To gloat?”

“Well, you won’t be marrying Michael Hart. I’ve seen to that.”

I stood there stock-still, feeling my jaw drop. I snapped it shut and tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t tell her how angry I was.

“Do you mean you were so willing to drive Michael to London because you thought he might be falling in love with me?”

“He wanted to go. I accommodated him. I didn’t stab poor Helen, and he did.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “How do you know what I feel?” she demanded in a different tone of voice. “How dare you even suggest you know me?”

“You just suggested that you knew me well enough to believe I was in love with Michael Hart and he with me. Well, let me disabuse you of that notion. What drew the two of us together was your sister’s murder. Nothing more, nothing less. I liked Michael, I still like him. But if he were freed tomorrow, I wouldn’t marry him. I’m not in love with him and never will be.”

“Alicia said—” She stopped.

Ah, the power of gossip! And the damage it can do.

“Alicia has been matchmaking. She’s a happily married woman, and she wants everyone to be just as happy, because it’s all she can cling to with Gareth at the Front. I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

I got behind the wheel, and she came to stand by my door, pinning me there. “I don’t believe you.”

“Perhaps that’s because you were in love yourself not long ago. And like Alicia, expect that everyone else is looking for someone to care about.”

For an instant I thought she was going to step closer and slap me. I could see her hands clenching at her side. A mixture of emotions passed across her face, anger and something else that was barely controlled. I’d wondered if she could kill. And now I knew she could. I drew back a little, but she leaned toward me. After looking around to be sure no one was near, she said through clenched teeth, “Have you ever seen someone die on a gallows? That handsome face will be black and swollen, hardly recognizable, and I hope that’s what you see in your dreams for the rest of your life!”

I caught my breath.

Meriwether Evanson had called Victoria evil. And now I knew he was right.

What she had done to her mother and father, to her sister, what she had hoped to do to Michael, and what she had just said to me, spoke of a deep-seated streak of cruelty.

Driving away before she could change her mind and do something rash, I was glad to see the last of Little Sefton.

I was halfway to London before I was calm enough to go over again what I’d said to Victoria Garrison. I’d been angry, and yes, a little frightened by her, so the words were lost at first. In the end, they came back to me. What I’d said hadn’t angered her—it was the fact that I knew something she wanted to hide.

If Victoria had had a romantic fling in the winter, it hadn’t survived. I couldn’t help but wonder if he, whoever he was, had thrown her over for someone else. Married or not.

I turned the bonnet of my motorcar toward London, and when I got there, I went directly to the flat. It seemed a haven, just now. It was late afternoon, and Mrs. Hennessey was out.

I climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, and reached for the latch of our door, but it opened under my hand. Someone was here.

I walked into the flat, and Mary glanced up from the letter she was writing. After one look at me she frowned.

“Have you lost your last friend, or your last penny?” she demanded, and capped her pen before setting it aside and moving into what we euphemistically called our kitchen, to make a pot of tea.

“I’m in low spirits,” I admitted. “I’ve just been very rude to someone who was rude to me first. And I’m trying to save a good friend from hanging, and I am in the early stages of panic, because he goes to the gallows next week.”

She looked up from measuring the tea and said, “Who’s going to the gallows next week? Anyone I know?”

“Michael Hart. He was convicted of the murder of Serena Melton’s brother’s wife. Marjorie Evanson. And of attacking a distant cousin of Marjorie’s, with the intent to kill.”

“You do have an unusual range of friends, Bess,” she retorted. “I hope you’re saying he’s innocent?”

“God knows. The evidence against him was strong, but the feeling was, he could very well be acquitted. He had a very good barrister—Mr. Forbes for the defense—who was certainly sanguine about his chances. And then to everyone’s amazement and shock, he changed his plea to guilty in the first minutes of the trial.”

“Ah. I remember now. He’s extraordinarily handsome. I saw his photograph in some broadsheet or other.”

“No doubt. They thought it was going to be a notorious, scandalous trial, and instead he disappointed everyone.”

Mary brought the tea to the table, and set out the cups. “Drink this, and then tell me everything from the beginning.”

“You know a part of it—”

“Doesn’t matter. Start at the start. I won’t be able to see any solution if I don’t know it all.”

I didn’t like telling Mary all about the Garrisons and the Harts and the Meltons. She knew Serena, after all. But Mary is the soul of discretion, and what I said to her would be treated like the confidence it was.

The afternoon had faded into early dusk by the time I’d finished, and the teapot was empty, the biscuits she’d found in the cupboard, hard and stale as they were, had been finished as well. There’s something about eating a sweet that raises the spirits.

I sat back, tired by the tale and tired from the emotions of the day and the long drive. “Well. There you have it.”

She picked up the cups and the teapot to do the washing up, and it was while she was working that she said, “I hesitate to tell you this, Bess, but you’re right. The evidence is very strong against your Lieutenant Hart.”

“He isn’t mine,” I said testily, “although everyone is busy insisting that he is.”

“All the same.”

“Yes, I know. But there’s just enough doubt…” My voice trailed away. Then I said, “But why do I have this sense of failure? I’m a fairly good judge of character, Mary. How could I be so wrong about the man?”

“I expect the reason is that you don’t believe strongly in his motive. That he killed Marjorie Evanson because she was seeing someone else. But he knew her husband, and it seems to me that a decent man wouldn’t kill a married woman because she’d been dithering with someone else instead of him. He was more likely to lecture her on her behavior and make certain that the man was out of her life altogether. Simon would have done that, wouldn’t he? If you stood in Marjorie’s shoes? Well, you aren’t married of course, but you know what I mean.”

It was typically convoluted—Mary was good at convoluting—but she was also very sensible and practical. It was what made her an excellent nurse.

“I do see.” I was already feeling better. “And even if he went to Helen Calder’s house, I can’t understand why he would have a reason to kill her. But that’s the problem, she can remember that he was coming, but not why, or if he was the one who stabbed her.”

“Who knew he was going to her house?”

“His aunt and uncle. Unless of course Victoria was suspicious and followed him.”

“Who would Victoria tell?” Mary asked. “If she saw him at the Calder house and was angry enough to do a mischief?”

“I—I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “Why would she tell anyone?”

“You said there was speculation that she’d been seeing someone in London. A man. What if he was the same man who killed Marjorie?”

“That makes no sense.”

“It would do, if she has made a practice of spoiling Marjorie’s chances.”

“But he wasn’t the one who got Marjorie pregnant.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“But I can. I told you, I spoke to Raymond Melton while I was in France. He was the man I saw with her at the railway station that evening. She was dead only a few hours later. And he was on his way to Portsmouth. He couldn’t possibly have killed her. We’re back where we began.”

“Didn’t you say he denied leaving that train?”

“Yes.”

“What if he’s telling the truth? What if he wasn’t her lover?”

“I saw the way Marjorie was clinging to him. In distress—despair.” I gave it some thought. “You’re saying that he was there at the station with her, and she’d told him the truth about her circumstances—but he wasn’t her lover.”

I’d dismissed that idea earlier.

I went on slowly, “But if she did indeed confide in him, and he wasn’t the man responsible for getting her pregnant, then he must have known who that man was. That’s why he was there.” I remembered the small flicker of satisfaction in Raymond Melton’s eyes when I confronted him in the ward. He had told me the literal truth—but not the whole truth. “And she contacted him because the other man refused to speak to her after the affair was over.”

“That happens,” Mary said. “All too often, in fact. Remember Nan Wilson, who was in love with that Frenchman who was here with the diplomatic corps? He was some sort of military attaché. And when he went back to France, and she found herself in trouble, he sent her letters back unopened, marked address unknown.”

I did remember.

It would explain so much. I’d wondered why Marjorie Evanson had let herself be seduced by Raymond Melton. After all, her own father had been the same sort of cold and uncaring man. I understood why he’d offered no comfort, kissed her cheek so perfunctorily. I remembered how he’d walked away without looking back—even if the love affair was over—to make certain she was all right. He had done his duty, he had listened to her pleas for help, told her he could do nothing about her situation, and calmly boarded his train.

It was such a calculated and callous act that I was stunned.

Who would Raymond Melton do such a service for?

The answer was simple.

His brother Jack.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“JACK MELTON.” I whispered the name aloud, as if by hearing it spoken, I confirmed it. And then I thought, Poor Serena.

How frantic she had been to put a name to the man who was responsible for Marjorie’s plight, and I’d heard her husband pretend to advise her as if it were his dearest wish as well that those weekend parties be successful. And all the time, the man she was after was within arm’s reach. He’d let her anger and her determination make her life a misery, and he’d even expressed his concern about her to me. Had she also secretly prayed that the man she was looking for wasn’t her own husband? It would explain so much about her, her shrillness, her rudeness, her frustration.

What had made her suspect him of having an affair?

Did she suspect him of murder as well as adultery? Surely not.

I remembered the day I’d encountered Jack Melton outside the Marlborough Hotel.

He had known that Michael Hart was in England the night that Marjorie Evanson was killed. But how could he have known? Unless she had told him herself.

How easy it would have been for Raymond Melton to find a telephone in Portsmouth on his way to the docks, and put in a call to his brother to say that the meeting with Marjorie hadn’t gone as well as expected. Or that she’d made threats. As a last resort, she could even have brought up Michael’s name.

He’s in London tonight. I’ll speak to him, and we’ll see how Jack feels then about not talking to me himself…

It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Still, conjecture wouldn’t stop Michael from hanging.

I said to Mary, “I’m so sorry—these are your friends!”

She answered me with a sigh, then said, “Serena is my friend. And she will need me when the truth comes out. As it must, Bess. Don’t you see, she’s a victim too. She’s already lost her brother. We can’t leave her to the mercy of a man like that. What if she discovers he’s a killer?”

I found a telephone and called my parents, first to tell them that I was in London now, and second to ask my father if there was any news from Simon.

My father said gently, “Bess. My dear. I don’t think Michael will wish to see you. You mustn’t let yourself hope.”

“But how can we do anything for him if he won’t answer questions? His aunt and uncle are grieving. He ought to think of the living as well as the dead.”

“Will it do if Simon or I go to see him?”

My heart plummeted. I wanted to see Michael, I wanted to see for myself how he was bearing up, and whether pleading guilty had weighed heavily on his conscience—or freed it. I wanted to see whether he had any use of his shoulder and arm, or if the case there was as hopeless as he’d been told. But how to explain this to my father—or for that matter, to Simon—without arousing their protective instincts, thinking to spare me added grief? If Michael was guilty, I could accept it. If he wasn’t, it was a terrible waste of a man’s life and reputation to die in the misplaced belief that he was sparing Marjorie.

I couldn’t stand in judgment of her—but her affair had touched other lives, led to her murder, the death of her husband, the attack on Helen Calder. I saw no good reason to add another death to that list. Especially since it could mean that the real murderer went free.

I wasn’t sure we would ever know what drove Marjorie Evanson into a love affair. The truth may have died with her. That was how it should be.

My father’s voice came down the line.

“Bess? Are you still there?”

“Please, if he can be persuaded to see me, I still want to go. If he absolutely refuses, then Simon should go in my place. Michael knows him. I’ll make a list of what I need to learn. It’s important. Otherwise I wouldn’t insist.”

“It would help if I knew—have you any information that could overturn the verdict? I’ll speak to Inspector Herbert if you have.”

“I’m not sure. I’m leaving now—I’m going back to Little Sefton. There’s something I must do there.”

“Not tonight, Bess. That’s not wise. Wait until morning.”

“There aren’t enough mornings left.” I tried not to let what I was feeling seep into my voice. Wailing would do no good. “Please, will you speak to Simon?”

“I promise.”

That was enough for me.

“If you promise not to drive anywhere tonight.”

I was caught on the horns of a dilemma.

Finally I said, “Yes, all right, I agree. I’ll leave a list of the questions with Mrs. Hennessey tomorrow morning. Will that be all right?”

“As long as it isn’t a letter. And if you have a personal message, let Simon give it orally. Prison officials are strict, Bess, and you don’t want him to be turned away.”

“Yes, thank you. Good advice!”

I hung up and left the hotel, deciding to walk back to the apartment, to clear my head.

The exercise was good, the air cool and fresh, the streets for some reason nearly empty. Then I recalled that it was the dinner hour, and most people were at home, where they belonged.

As Mrs. Hennessey’s house with its wartime flats came into view down the street, I thought how helpful Mary had been in putting what I’d learned into perspective. Despite her friendship with Serena. I’d been fortunate with my flatmates. Diana and Mary and the others had been good friends and the sort of women who made sharing a flat bearable. Mrs. Hennessey was dependable, caring, and willing to look in on us if we were ill. I felt safe here.

Opening the outer door, I saw her peering out her own door, and then she came to greet me.

“You look tired. Have you just come home from the Front?”

“I’ve been in Somerset,” I told her. But that wasn’t altogether true.

She came closer, as if to see me better. “You aren’t grieving for that young man they just took up for murder?”

“No, not grieving. Just sad. I’m not sure he’s guilty.”

“If a judge feels he is, then he is,” she said, nodding. “They’re nobody’s fools, are judges.”

“No.” I didn’t feel like arguing with her. But talking about Michael suddenly reminded me of Inspector Herbert. I turned around and started back through the door I’d just come in. “If Mary comes down to ask for me, tell her I’ll return shortly.”

I thought about driving, then decided to find a cab. But that wasted precious minutes, and I was almost on the edge of my seat as I reached Trafalgar Square. Scotland Yard was within walking distance now.

The constable guarding the door told me that he thought Inspector Herbert had already left for the day.

“It’s very important. Could you ask to be sure?”

He must have heard those words—it’s very important—a thousand times over, but he nodded and went away to find out where Inspector Herbert might be.

I felt I had waited an hour or more, but then the constable came back, and with him another man, a Sergeant Miller, who led me up the stairs and down the passage to Inspector Herbert’s office. I thanked the sergeant, took a deep breath, and knocked lightly on the door.

Inspector Herbert’s voice bade me enter. But as I walked through the door, his face changed. “They said a young woman—no one gave me your name.”

“They weren’t sure you were here. May I speak to you?”

“If it’s about Michael Hart’s execution, there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.”

“I haven’t come about that. But I’d like to know—were you in the courtroom when he pleaded guilty?”

He hesitated. “Yes. I was,” he said finally.

“What did you think? What did you feel?”

“Surprise, like everyone else. I’d been told our case was sound, but that it wasn’t a certainty. For one thing, Hart is a handsome man. He had some public sympathy. A male jury wouldn’t be swayed by that, of course, but even jurors have wives and daughters. I was prepared for anything, to tell you the truth. But not for a guilty plea. I expected Hart to take his chances.”

“Do you know why he did it?”

“I have my suspicions. The prison surgeon’s report, that Hart’s arm is likely to be useless, was a factor, I’m sure. In fact, I was told he was put on a suicide watch after the doctor completed his examination.”

“Have you visited Michael in prison?”

Inspector Herbert, who had been speaking directly to me as I stood there before his desk, looked toward a filing cabinet against the left-hand wall. “No. I saw no point in going there. I don’t think he’d have cared for my sympathy.”

“The other reason for his plea was to spare Marjorie’s memory and reputation. He wouldn’t have wanted her name to be dragged through the court.”

“There’s that,” he conceded.

“Can you arrange for me to see Lieutenant Hart?”

“I don’t feel that’s wise. Besides, he’s asked to have visitors turned away. There was a list.” He fished around on his cluttered desk, and came up with a sheet of paper. Reading from it, he said, “Victoria Garrison is at the top of the list. She’s the sister of his first victim.”

I made no answer. Looking up, he said irritably, “Do sit down, Miss Crawford. I don’t bite.”

I sat down and waited.

“The next names on the list are his aunt and uncle. After theirs comes yours.”

I took a deep breath. I’d expected that, but it still hurt.

He set the list aside. “For what it’s worth, I believe he cared for you, Miss Crawford.”

“That’s nowhere near the truth, Inspector, and you know it. He loved Marjorie Evanson. No one else. I believe he liked me, as I liked him. That was as far as it went.”

Caught in trying to be kind, Inspector Herbert was flustered. He set the list aside and turned to look out at the reflection of London’s lights against the low clouds that had been rolling in for the past hour or so. When he turned back, he was himself again.

“Miss Crawford, just what is it you want?”

“I want to tell you a story. You owe it to me to listen—I gave you considerable help in closing this inquiry.”

“I don’t have time—”

“I shan’t be long.” I wasn’t overawed by Scotland Yard. As a nurse I’d learned to deal with patients, their families, Matron—who could be far more intimidating than Inspector Herbert—impatient doctors, and officers of every rank. Still, I would need to be brief, on the mark, or I’d lose this one chance.

“For one thing, I spoke to Captain Melton in France. He’s in hospital there—or was, before I left. He admitted to being in the railway station with Mrs. Evanson, but wouldn’t admit that he was her lover. I’d thought he was. And for a time, so did you. In fact, you had decided not to pursue questioning him, as his statement was irrelevant to Mrs. Evanson’s murder. His alibi was the train to Portsmouth.”

He was wary now. “And that’s it?”

“He was very smug during our conversation. He finally told me that he had not left the train before Portsmouth. I realized later he could have telephoned someone before boarding his ship. Remember, I couldn’t understand why he left her there, without even seeing that she had a cup of tea in the canteen or someone to take her home. Why he was so distant.”

“Very callous of him, I agree. But get to the point, if you please.”

“That is my point. If he wasn’t the child’s father, why was he there that day? Because Melton knew the man who actually was her lover. And he had been sent there to deal with Marjorie, if he could. Somehow I wasn’t surprised—Raymond Melton was hardly the sort of man to attract someone like Marjorie Evanson. What’s more, I also realized he was too much like her father.”

“You’re concluding that we still don’t know the name of her lover. Does it matter?”

“If you had seduced a married woman and suspected she was carrying your child, how many people would you tell? And if you needed a friend to help by meeting a weeping woman in a very public place, where would you turn?”

Inspector Herbert hesitated. Then against his will he said, “I doubt I’d have told anyone. I’d have dealt with it myself.”

I smiled. “Because you’re an honorable man. You wouldn’t have enticed Marjorie Evanson into doing something that was going to ruin her life.” Then I asked, “Do you have a brother, Inspector Herbert? If you dared not be seen in a compromising situation because you were often in London and your face was known because you were at the Admiralty, would you have asked your brother to meet this nuisance of a woman for you? After all, he was passing through on the train and in the short stopover here, he could give her a message for you. And the message was, since the affair had been over for months now, you couldn’t be sure the child she was carrying was yours. And that you were sorry, but there it was.”

“I don’t have a brother.” He paused, watching me. “But Melton does.”

“Of course if your brother had agreed to do this for you, you’d want to know—before he sailed for France—whether he’d been successful in putting this distraught woman off. You’d ask him to find a telephone before he took ship.”

“Miss Crawford, you told me that you’d not come here to stop Hart’s execution.”

“I haven’t,” I said. “I thought perhaps you’d like to hear what went on after that conversation I witnessed at the railway station. I’ve tried to piece it together from actual facts. It isn’t all my imagination.”

“Yes, I understand. And it’s just as well to have this matter closed.” He cleared his throat.

“And there are telephones to be found in Portsmouth, are there not? It would be possible to put in a call. Perhaps only three words: I got nowhere. Then report to your transport in good time and arrive in France in good time.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Of course, allowing for the time to travel from London to Portsmouth—several hours—you’d probably await your brother’s call in London. Not at home. At the Marlborough Hotel, for instance. Or a quieter place where you weren’t readily recognized. There was always the possibility that it would take more than three words. That there was a problem that the brother couldn’t handle in your place.”

Inspector Herbert said nothing.

“You would have had to know where to find Marjorie, of course. And your brother would have been instructed—in the event something didn’t go as planned—to ask her to meet you at a time and place where you could deal with the unpleasant situation.” I paused. “‘I’ll have to call Jack when I reach Portsmouth. Meet him at nine o’clock at this park or that small restaurant where neither of you is known, or by the river, where you’d have a little privacy.’ And Marjorie would have walked for a while, to get her emotions under control, then hurried to make sure she wasn’t late at the designated place, just in case it was a trick of some kind. You might say you hadn’t seen her and left, or that you were early and couldn’t wait. Which meant she would have to see Michael afterward, when she knew for certain what she wanted to tell him. She would have met you and walked a little way with you, along the river, talking about what was to be done. She wouldn’t have been afraid. And so you could have stabbed her at any time. It was raining, there weren’t many people strolling by the river on such a night, and you’d take your chance when it was offered, whatever you had to promise in the meantime. It was too dark to see if she was dead, so for good measure you shoved her into the river. To drown.”

“A very neat reconstruction, Miss Crawford. I doubt that it’s more than that.”

“Yes, well, Jack Melton had a better reason for murdering Marjorie than Michael Hart had. What’s more, he gave himself away when I spoke to him outside the Marlborough Hotel weeks ago. I told you about that encounter, because I’d lost my temper and confessed to him I’d seen the man with Marjorie at the railway station. He lost his temper as well, accused me of blackmail and then told me that Michael Hart had been in London the night she was killed. If Jack Melton was spending a quiet evening at home, how would he know that? No one did. Except for the physician who treated Michael, and possibly Marjorie Evanson, if she knew about his eye. She might well have told Jack Melton what she was planning to do, a threat to hold over him, to make him keep his promise. She’d had time to think about it. Four hours at the very least.”

I’d finished. Before he could reply, I stood up and added, “My reconstruction is as valid as yours, I think. Who knows which is actually right? Probably only Jack Melton and Michael Hart. Although I think Jack’s wife is beginning to wonder. What will happen to her if she works it out as well? Thank you for your time, Inspector. I am sorry that I ever led you to Michael Hart, but that’s water over the dam, I’m afraid.”

As I reached the door, he said to me, “We would have found him in time.”

“Or would you have interviewed Raymond Melton, as I did, and seen that brief flicker of satisfaction when he told me he never left the train before Portsmouth? Of course he never left it. He needn’t have. Good-bye.”

And I closed the door before he could say anything else.

A constable was waiting to escort me to the street, and I stepped out into the night air, feeling it cool and fresh on my face, and found myself thinking that Michael would see the light of day for the last time when he went to the gallows.

One more day gone.

But not quite.

I went to see Helen Calder. To my surprise, she was at home. But I was informed that she wasn’t receiving visitors.

“Tell her that it’s Bess Crawford. Ask her if she’ll see me for just a few minutes.”

And she did.

I was taken back to the sitting room, which had been transformed with a bed and chair and the other accoutrements of a sickroom.

Mrs. Calder was already in bed, her hair brushed and hanging to her shoulders, wearing a very becoming nightgown in a pale lavender covered by a darker lavender shawl.

“Miss Crawford,” she said, and I could hear the wariness in her voice.

“I haven’t come to worry you,” I told her straightaway. “I’m here to ask how you are. I haven’t been back in England for very long or I’d have come sooner. Are you recovering on schedule?” For she seemed pale, her hands restless on the coverlet.

“The doctor says I’m quite recovered, but I don’t feel that I am. I seem so tired, and I don’t have the energy to go anywhere or do anything. This bed should have been taken down days ago, but I still find it difficult to climb the stairs.” There was the underlying complaining note of the invalid beneath the words.

“You look so well,” I said, asking silent forgiveness for the lie. “I was hoping for good news.”

“I haven’t slept well in some time. Not since—not for some time.”

I understood. Not since her words had sent Michael Hart to trial. I said, “Never mind, that will come in time. You’ve been very ill, you know. It isn’t surprising that you still feel a little uncomfortable.”

“It isn’t pain. I mean to say, I don’t hurt. I’m just dreadfully tired.”

And that was depression. Her feeling of guilt a burden she didn’t recognize.

“Do you want to talk about Michael?” I asked gently. “Perhaps you’ll feel better afterward.”

She began to cry. “I can’t help it. He was coming to see me—I expected him—and his was the name I spoke when that policeman found me in the garden.”

“You told the truth, you know. As far as you remembered it. There’s no guilt in that.”

“But he’s to hang, and how am I ever to forget that it was my words that sealed his fate? What if I haven’t remembered it properly, what if it’s confused because of my injuries, and I only remember next month or next year? When it’s too late?”

“He condemned himself.”

“He did it for Marjorie’s sake, I’ve no doubt of that. He would do. When things appeared to be so hopeless anyway, he could at least spare her.” She found a fresh handkerchief, but the tears hadn’t stopped. “I find it so hard to believe that he could have killed her. Not when he loved her so. If he were that sort of person, he’d have killed her before she could marry Meriwether. I lay awake trying to see the face of the person who attacked me. I try and try, and nothing comes. What am I to do when—after—Michael is dead, and I see that face clearly? And know beyond a shadow of any doubt that it wasn’t him?”

I felt pity for her. Her life would never be the same, through no fault of her own. And she was right, she would be forever haunted, whether the face came clearly to her or not. There would always be that uncertainty, and that burden of guilt.

I said, to change the subject, “Were they able to bring your husband home from France?”

“Oh, yes, he came. I was so grateful, I felt so safe when he was with me. But he had to go back, once I was out of danger. Compassionate leave, they called it. He was so angry, you know. He said if he could find the person who did this, he’d kill the man with his bare hands. And I think he would have done. I never told him about saying Michael’s name over and over again. Then he was gone and it was too late.”

“It was the only thing you could do.” I hesitated. “Tell me, did you ever see Marjorie with someone named Jack Melton? Or hear her mention him?”

“I know him, of course I do. He’s Serena’s husband. He was at the wedding.”

“But afterward. More recently, perhaps. Did Marjorie tell you that she’d run into him by chance?”

“I don’t think so.” She frowned, trying to remember. “But she probably wouldn’t have. He’s in London from time to time. He’s taken me to lunch once or twice, and I’m sure he’s taken Marjorie as well. You know how it is, London is so full of strangers these days. One walks down the street and feels as if one is in a foreign city. When one encounters a familiar face, it’s almost a relief.”

I tried to think of another way to bring up Jack Melton, without giving her more reasons for feeling terrible about Michael’s fate. But then I remembered Victoria, and switched the subject again. “Did Victoria come often to London to see Marjorie?”

“Oh, never. She was at the engagement party of course, and the wedding. That’s about the only time I remember seeing her at Marjorie’s house. And she never came here. She knew how I felt about her, the way she’d treated her mother.”

“I’m told she did come to London often, for several months in a row. And then she stopped coming. The Harts wondered if she was spying on Marjorie.”

“Spying on her? I can’t imagine why. Well, Marjorie did say that she had run into her while looking for a wedding present for a friend. That was in May, I think. But that was it, Marjorie was in a hurry and got out of the encounter as quickly as possible. She said Victoria wanted to know how Meriwether was, and seemed inclined to talk. But Marjorie wasn’t in the mood.”

And had Victoria’s curiosity been tweaked, and had she followed her sister to see where she was in such a hurry to go?

I wouldn’t put it past her.

“What is it that makes Victoria carry such a grudge? Was it just Michael? She seemed to have everything else she wanted—the house, Marjorie settled, out of sight and mind in London. What else was there to take away?”

“It’s the will. Not many people know. The Garrison house was left to Victoria, of course, but the estate was divided fairly evenly. Much to Victoria’s chagrin, let me tell you! There was a scene in the solicitor’s office. I’d gone with Marjorie as moral support, and I was very glad I had, although it was a dreadful time, I must say! And on top of that was the way the trust was constructed. I don’t understand all of it, but from what I gathered—what Marjorie gathered from the actual reading and told me—was distinctly odd. Neither daughter inherits anything outright.”

“He forgave Marjorie—or at the end, felt some doubt about what he’d been told by Victoria?”

“I’m not so sure. You see, while both girls could draw on the income from their share of the trust, the capital wouldn’t be distributed until both of them reached fifty. Past child-bearing age. At that time, the trust would be dissolved. However, if either daughter bore a child before that, and it was given its grandfather’s name, the house and the entire trust would go to it at age twenty-one. There would be nothing left for Marjorie and Victoria.”

I caught my breath. It was a cruel provision—it pitted sister against sister. And I had the fleeting thought that perhaps Victoria had inherited her father’s mean spirit. After all, he’d turned against his wife and his daughter, and in the end, he’d punished both daughters for that. As Victoria had tried to punish Marjorie.

But Marjorie was expecting a child. Unless Meriwether was willing to acknowledge it and give it his name, the child would be a Garrison—Marjorie’s maiden name.

What a revenge against her sister for all the grief that Marjorie had suffered!

It was almost shocking to contemplate what Victoria might do, given that knowledge. After all her scheming, she would have lost everything.

“Did anyone else know the contents of the will?” I asked.

“The servants were there for the reading; of course there was a small bequest to each of them. Then we were asked to leave. The final provision was read only to Victoria and Marjorie. As I mentioned, there was a terrific row, and none of us knew where to look. You could hear it, but not the words of course. Victoria screaming, and once, Marjorie laughing. If Mr. Blake hadn’t been there, they’d have been at each other’s throats. I expect Marjorie told her sister that as a married woman—the wedding was to be that October, you see—she might soon see Victoria evicted.”

“How long ago was this? When did Mr. Garrison die?”

“In the winter of 1914. Six months before the war began. Meriwether had already told Marjorie that he wanted to fly, that he wanted above all things to be a pilot. Marjorie told me later that Victoria had said, ‘If there’s a war, I hope he’s shot down and killed. It will serve you right.’”

Three years ago. The wounds would still be raw. And when Victoria had asked after Meriwether when the sisters met in May, it had not been a friendly overture—it had been a reminder that Marjorie hadn’t had her child, and that Meriwether was still at risk.

“But if that’s how the trust stood, why didn’t Victoria marry as soon as possible, and have a child of her own?”

“And lose her house and her substantial income to it? Besides, I think she wanted to marry Michael and throw that in Marjorie’s face. She might have taken the risk for him.”

“I could almost believe that it was Victoria who killed Marjorie. That perhaps Marjorie had gloated about the child she was carrying. It would make sense.”

“Oh, I’m sure Victoria isn’t a murderer.”

But it might explain as well why Helen Calder herself had been stabbed. If Marjorie had told her about the peculiar provision, and now she was about to tell Michael. Was that the question he was burning to ask Helen? It gave Victoria the perfect motive for murder.

Had I been wrong about Jack Melton? I hadn’t known about the will when I spoke to Inspector Herbert. And I couldn’t go back to Scotland Yard.

Helen Calder must have read the uncertainty in my face.

“You surely don’t believe that Victoria attacked Marjorie? Or me? No, she may be vicious and uncaring, but she’s no murderer. She’s my cousin.”

As if that prevented murder from happening in a family.

Helen Calder leaned back against her pillow. “You have successfully diverted me from thinking about Michael. That was very kind of you, Bess.”

I said, “Did you know that Victoria tried to persuade Meriwether not to marry Marjorie? He was furious with her. I thought she was just being a spoiler. But perhaps she had the will in mind.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. It was just the sort of thing she might do.”

The Harts had called Victoria evil, but I wondered if seeing all her schemes come to nothing, she must have been beside herself with fury. And perhaps helping to destroy Michael had been the last act of vengeance open to her, in addition to seeing her sister’s name dragged through the scandal sheets.

“I’m tired now. But I’m so glad you came to see me, Bess.”

“I’m glad too,” I told her, meaning it. “But remember, I’m a nurse, I know wounds. If you languish here, you’ll never recover. Get up and dress and go out for lunch somewhere. It will do you the greatest good. You’ll see.”

But she shook her head. “I couldn’t enjoy myself, knowing that Michael is counting the days down to his last. Perhaps—perhaps when it’s over, I’ll feel more like going out.”

There was nothing I could say that would change her mind. I held her hand for a moment, and then left.

My own mind was in turmoil. None of the questions I’d left for Simon had anything to do with Victoria, only with Jack Melton.

If Helen Calder believed she carried a burden of guilt, she had no idea of the depth and breadth of mine at this moment.

I found a cab and gave him the direction of Mrs. Hennessey’s house, then sat back in the anonymous darkness and told myself over and over again that I wouldn’t fail, that I wouldn’t be too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY

TO MY SURPRISE, when I reached Mrs. Hennessey’s house and the cabbie had been paid, it was Simon Brandon who held the door for me to step out.

“Have you been to see Michael?” Those were the first words out of my mouth.

“I’m doing my best to arrange it. Have you had any dinner? You look distressed.”

Standing there on the street looking up at him, I burst into tears.

He held me for a while, letting me cry into his lapels. Then he said briskly, “If you aren’t starving, I am.” He led me to his motorcar and put me inside. Coming around to the driver’s door, he went on, “Where would you like to go?”

“Nowhere. I’ve been crying.”

“So you have.”

He drove through London, through the City, and came out on the far side of the Tower, down toward the river.

It was hardly what anyone would call a restaurant, just a few tables and a counter where during the day workingmen might sit and eat their lunch. Except for one man who looked half asleep at a table by the window, the place was empty. We walked in and Simon nodded to the aproned man who stuck his head out of what must have been the kitchen. Seeing who had come in, he nodded, then disappeared.

We took the table in the far back corner, and I expected to find it dotted with crumbs and spots of grease from the diners before us. But it was spotlessly clean, though worn, and the man reappeared from the kitchen with a cloth for it and our silverware. He brought Simon an ale, and asked what I’d have.

Simon answered for me. “Tea,” he said.

The man disappeared again.

Intrigued, I said, “He knows you?”

“I’ve come here from time to time. He was a cook in the regiment. This was what he dreamed about, a small place of his own where there were never more than twenty people to serve at any one time.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “I can appreciate that.”

“He won’t remember you. We’ll leave it that way, shall we?”

Nodding, I said, “What do they serve?”

“Fish. It comes in fresh. He never says from where, but I would guess Essex. There are enough tiny coves and waterways there for a fleet of fishing vessels to hide if they even smell a German ship or U-boat. People have to eat. There’s precious little food as it is.”

“I thought all the channels were mined.”

“Those who saw to it were absentminded.”

We waited in silence until our plates were brought steaming on chargers and smelling heavenly of well-cooked fish, today’s bread, and a surprising array of vegetables.

We began to eat, and I realized just how hungry I was.

Halfway through the meal, I said, “Do you want to know—”

“Not here. Just eat your dinner and put it all out of your mind.”

I did as I was told, grateful actually for the respite.

When we’d finished and I’d drunk my tea, Simon got up to settle his account with the owner, and then we went out to the motorcar, driving back the way we’d come.

He found a place in a street above Trafalgar Square, and we left the motorcar there, walking down to the square and settling ourselves near the ugly lions. There was no one about, and even the traffic heading down The Mall was light.

“All right. I’m listening,” he said.

I began to talk, slowly at first, then with gathering assurance as he listened without interrupting. When I’d finished, he leaned back against the wall behind him, and considered me.

“You’ve hardly been in England three days, and already you’ve managed to confuse yourself and me.”

I laughed, as he’d intended. Then I said, “What am I to do, Simon? Will any of this help Michael?”

“We need to take what we know to his barrister. Name of Forbes. Find out if the man will listen to us at all. He was in an almighty fury when Hart did what he did.”

“I should think he might have been. He must have felt betrayed. And people like that don’t care to be ignored. It’s losing face in a sense.”

“I’ll try to get in to see Michael. If he’ll see me. But I think he might. You should keep your fingers crossed.”

“Shall I try to see Mr. Forbes?”

He considered me. “A pretty face might have better luck. But I think the evidence in both Victoria Garrison’s case and in Jack Melton’s as well has merit. On the surface they cast doubts, because they are as good as the evidence Herbert gave the Crown. Whether they would hold up if investigated is another matter.”

“Simon, there isn’t time for a lengthy and thorough investigation!” My voice had risen, and a passing constable turned, then walked our way.

“Everything all right, then, Miss?” he asked.

I smiled as best I could. “Sad news, that’s all. Thank you, Constable.”

He nodded and walked off. Simon watched him go then turned back to me.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bess. You’ve done wonders, no one could have done more. If only we’d known before the trial—but there was no way to know.”

“What you’re saying,” I retorted, “is that the chances are slim to none. And Michael will hang. Well, I won’t be satisfied with exonerating him after his death.”

“You have to face it. Your mother is worried about that. She wonders if you are—too fond of him.”

“I won’t die of a broken heart,” I told him. “But I will have a hard time forgetting.”

“You still must remember one thing, Bess. He may be guilty. There’s always that chance.”

“No,” I said resolutely. “He wouldn’t have killed Marjorie for the reason given. He loved her enough to let her live her life as she chose, even if it included marrying Meriwether Evanson and having an affair with a married man.”

He was silent for a time, his mind a long way away from me. And then he came back and said, “Well. It’s late. I’ve bespoken a bed at my club. Time to return you to the dragon.”

“Mrs. Hennessey isn’t a dragon, and you know it.”

He laughed and gave me a hand to rise. It was warm and comforting. Then we walked in companionable silence to where we’d left the motorcar.

I slept that night, mainly because I was very tired, emotionally drained, and had taught myself to snatch sleep where I could and when I could. That training stood me in good stead once more.

Mary was up making tea before I dragged myself out of bed and walked into the kitchen, drawing the sash of my robe around me.

“Anything new?” she asked casually. And when I didn’t say anything right away, she added, “I did glimpse Simon waiting for you last night.”

Nodding, I told her about seeing Inspector Herbert and then speaking to Helen Calder.

“It’s such a pity that she can’t remember anything really useful about her attack. It would make a difference.”

“We can’t count on it.”

“No. On the other hand, if you want my vote, I’ll plump for Victoria. She’s a nasty piece of work, anyway you look at her.”

“If Jack was Marjorie’s lover, he’s no better. He knew she was married, he knew whom she’d married. It was a malicious thing to do to his wife, never mind Marjorie.”

“I know Jack Melton,” Mary said. “I don’t know Victoria.”

“Be glad. I must go and speak to a Mr. Forbes today. He was Michael’s counsel.”

“Forbes?” She frowned. “I think I went out with his son a time or two. I don’t envy you. He has a reputation for eating prosecution witnesses alive.”

I laughed. “Know where I can find him?”

“Not a clue. I never met him.”

“I’ll try the Inns first.”

“Wear your uniform. It might get you in to see him.”

“Clever thinking.”

I went off to dress, wondering if Mr. Forbes might be in court today. I prayed he wasn’t.

As it happened, when I reached his chambers, not far from the Inns of Court, he was preparing to leave to interview a witness. I was taken down a narrow passage to a room nearly overflowing with briefs and law books, a ladder leaning against the tall shelves, an empty hearth surrounded by a Victorian mantelpiece that would have done justice to a French château, it was so massive, and a desk with nothing more on it than an inkwell, a tray of pens, a blotter, and a small statue of blind justice sitting on a Purbeck marble base.

Mr. Forbes regarded me with impatience, which was rather more daunting than lack of interest. He was a spare man with graying hair that would have suited an Oxford don, overly long and quite thick. The spectacles he wore hid sharp blue eyes that were unpleasantly piercing.

A feeling of unspecified guilt materialized from out of nowhere and swept over me.

When I told him my reason for coming, he said shortly, “Lieutenant Hart made his decision. He took the case in the direction he chose, not the one I was prepared to follow. He refused any appeal. Young Mr. Hart is a fool. I washed my hands of him.”

“Give me five minutes of your time, Mr. Forbes, and then tell me what advice you would give him now.”

“Young woman, I don’t know what reason you have to involve yourself in the affairs of a man condemned by his own words and sentenced to hang, but I suspect that if your parents knew you were here today, they would be appalled.”

“Colonel Crawford is well aware of what I am doing.” Well, not completely, but he knew how I felt about getting to the bottom of things. And I knew he’d back me up, then lecture me privately. “The question is a very simple one, Mr. Forbes. Do you believe that Lieutenant Hart is guilty, despite his chances of acquittal on all charges?” When he didn’t answer, I added, “Do you believe that Michael Hart deliberately set out to damage your reputation by changing his plea at the last minute? Or did he act out of despair and a misguided attempt to protect Marjorie Evanson’s good name?”

He stood up, looming over me, his mouth a long, thin line. And then he said, “I suggest you leave while I remember that you are young and in love.”

“I am not in love,” I told him, taking my courage in both hands and remembering that an attack is often the best line of defense. “I have certain facts to present to you. And you may well discover that they have some merit to them. But you won’t know if you don’t listen to them. It could be that Michael Hart hangs on the day allotted. I’ll be back in France by that time. But I should like to see his name cleared in the end. That’s probably all I can do for him. I believe he deserves that final redemption.”

I wasn’t sure where the words had come from. They were suddenly there on the tip of my tongue, and my emotions were already running high.

Mr. Forbes sat down again. “Very well.” He took out his pocket watch and set it on the table before him. “You have your five minutes, Miss Crawford. Proceed.”

I was certain he’d agreed because he thought that I would make a fool of myself, stumbling over emotional attempts to be clever. Then he could put me in my place and show me the door.

He had overlooked the fact that I was a nurse and accustomed to thinking clearly in a crisis.

I collected myself, as I had done in Inspector Herbert’s small office, and outlined, as I had done there, the case against Jack Melton. And then with equal brevity, I outlined the case against Victoria Garrison.

Mr. Forbes sat there listening with his eyes on the watch before him, nothing in his face indicating whether he was actually heeding me or simply marking time.

I finished and rose to go. I could see his watch—I still had thirty seconds of my five minutes.

“You would do better,” he said before I was out of my chair, “to have taken your facts to Scotland Yard.”

“I did present my arguments regarding Commander Melton to Inspector Herbert. Sadly, I didn’t know about Mr. Garrison’s will, or I would have told him about Victoria Garrison as well. Did you know that Mrs. Evanson’s solicitor couldn’t find her will? The staff told us that she was considering changing it. She had a child to protect, and she must not have been certain her husband would accept it. Perhaps she wanted something from its father too—a promise to recognize it, as the price of his own sins. After all, the Meltons have no children.”

Mr. Forbes said, “Miss Crawford. Casting doubt on the facts of the case will not help Lieutenant Hart. I remind you. He confessed. Of his own free will, in open court.”

“Then what would stop this execution?”

“If Mrs. Calder remembers the night she was stabbed and can tell the police who attacked her. Assuming, naturally, that it wasn’t Hart.”

It was so unfair.

“I’ve spoken to her. She’s been made ill by trying to remember. It’s a medical problem, not a parlor game. Is there no other recourse?”

“Of course. Give the police the murderer himself. Or herself.”

I thought he was playing with me now. That made me angry.

After a moment, he added, “I know Mr. Melton. I refuse to believe he’d kill someone, even in anger.”

“Then you should never have taken Michael Hart’s brief,” I retorted.

I’d failed. But Mr. Forbes’s remark most certainly reinforced the fact that Jack Melton, fearing damage to his own reputation, had sent his brother to meet Marjorie Evanson.

Mr. Forbes picked up his watch, restored it to his pocket, and made a fuss of settling the chain across his vest. I thought my words had stung, a little.

I rose and walked to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Forbes.”

My hand was on the knob when Mr. Forbes said, “You must also surmount the obstacle of Lieutenant Hart’s refusal to be helped.”

I turned to stare at him, accepting for the first time the fact that Michael would hang.

“Someone should have reminded him that while he’s being gallant and selfish, Marjorie Evanson’s murderer will live a long and happy life,” he added.

I quietly closed the door behind me. As I walked down the passage past the clerks’ rooms, I told myself that I’d done everything that was humanly possible. I could do no more.

Nevertheless, I refused to be reconciled to Michael’s fate.

As I stepped out into blindingly bright sunlight after the dim, paneled walls I’d just left, Mr. Forbes’s words echoed in my head.

Give the police the murderer himself. Or herself.

And that was going to be a challenge.

For a fleeting moment I wondered if Mr. Forbes had meant it to be.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I WALKED NEARLY a mile before I looked for a cab to take me back to the flat.

I needed the exercise to counteract the depression settling over me. But it did little to help. I reminded myself that men could be incredibly stubborn and unconscionably blind at times, and that also failed to bring me any consolation.

Would Simon Brandon have any better luck talking to Michael in his prison cell?

Simon could be very persuasive when he wished to be.

But chances were, Michael had already reconciled himself to dying. I’d seen soldiers do that—make peace with the knowledge that they would very likely not survive, so that survival didn’t enter into any decisions that they would have to make on the battlefield.

As the cab made its way around Buckingham Palace and the Royal Mews, turning toward Mrs. Hennessey’s house and the flat, I looked out at the afternoon sunlight slanting across London’s landmarks, and wondered what to do next. I felt at a loss, with no purpose.

How does one find a murderer in a matter of a few days?

In my careful reconstruction of the evidence against Jack Melton and Victoria Garrison, there had to be a flaw. But where?

I closed my eyes, reviewing everything I’d said.

And then I sat back in the cab, breathless for a moment.

Everything had fit to perfection. Except for one thing. How had Jack Melton known that Michael was intent on speaking to Mrs. Calder? Coincidence? Accident? If I knew the answer to that, I could eliminate him from my quest.

What had driven Jack Melton to murder a second time?

It wouldn’t do to appear at Melton Hall and ask questions. Serena would show me the door, if her husband didn’t.

I bit my lip, thinking. But my mind was a blank.

All right, then, save time and eliminate Victoria Garrison from the role as murderess.

We were just pulling up in front of Mrs. Hennessey’s door. I hastily returned to the present and got out, paying the driver as I did. Above my head, the late-afternoon sun was turning the windows of our flat to gold.

It was the only time beauty entered the sensible little flat designed to be a home for a few of the hundreds of people who had descended on London at the start of the war to work in one capacity or another.

I went inside and climbed the stairs. If only Michael would listen to Simon and decide to help at last in his own defense. Wishful thinking indeed. How many people facing the gallows suddenly proclaimed their innocence? No one would even listen. But at least I could find out what he knew.

I had begun to make myself a cup of tea. Now I set the tin back in the cupboard, put the cup and saucer on the shelf, caught up my coat, and went flying down the stairs.

It made no sense to sit here in London. I needed to talk to Victoria.

I stopped at Mrs. Hennessey’s door and knocked.

She didn’t answer, but as I was about to turn away, the door finally opened. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, she said, “Oh, Bess, dear. I was just doing a little ironing—”

I smiled. She never liked to be caught napping in the afternoon.

“I have to travel to Little Sefton, Mrs. Hennessey. That’s in Hampshire. The train leaves in half an hour. Sergeant-Major Brandon will be coming here looking for me. Will you tell him where I’ve gone? Tell him it’s important or I would have waited.”

“Of course, dear, I’ll listen for his knock. Should you be going on your own like this? You’d make so much better time driving with him, given the way the trains are these days.”

But I had no idea when I could expect him.

“I must hurry if I’m to find a cab. Please don’t forget, Mrs. Hennessey.”

“No, dear.”

And I was out the door, hurrying down the street to the corner by the bakery where I hoped to find a cab. Nothing. I all but ran to the next block, heads turning as I passed more sedate pedestrians.

Finally a cab saw my wave and slowed down just in front of me. “Waterloo Station, if you please,” I said, slamming the door even as I spoke.

It was the same train that Captain Melton had taken, and I nearly missed it. Crowded with soldiers, the corridor filled to capacity, and no seat to be had, I resigned myself to an uncomfortable journey. And then a young private noticed me. “Sister—” He shyly offered me his place in the first compartment.

Thanking him, I sat down, struggling to catch my breath. Scraps of conversation floated around me and over my head, but I paid no attention. I was hoping that Mrs. Hennessey wouldn’t fall asleep again and miss Simon’s knock at her door.

Settling myself at last, I watched the outer villages of London slip past and the sun begin to sink in the west, a great red ball of flame that cast long shadows over already misty landscapes. Lights were coming on in village houses facing east, and in the increasingly frequent farms. The weathervane on a church spire reflected the sun long after the churchyard below it lay in purple shadow.

Too beautiful an evening to be hunting a murderer.

The soldier on my left asked where I was going, and I smiled to myself. He was very young. I must have been two years his senior at the very least, but he was tall, broad shouldered, and about to do a man’s job. So I listened to his stories about growing up in the Fen country and how different it was from the scenery turning dark before our eyes.

And then Great Sefton was the next stop, and I turned to wish him well, wondering if one day I’d see him in a surgical theater, or if he would even survive his first weeks in the trenches.

The lamps were lit in the station as I stepped down from the train, and I went inside to ask the stationmaster if he could find someone to take me to Little Sefton.

“I’ll be glad to, Miss.” He finished the list he had been making, looked at his pocket watch and then the waiting-room clock. “If you’ll have a seat on that bench, I’ll find Sam.”

He came back a few minutes later with a girl of perhaps seventeen driving a dogcart. She smiled at me as I stepped out of the station.

“Here you are, Miss,” he said. “Sam will see you safe to Little Sefton.”

I thanked him and opened the gate of the cart, stepping in and taking my seat.

“Do you drive people to Little Sefton often?” I asked.

“Fairly often. My father kept a carriage for station use, but the horses were taken away. I’ve got only the pony left.”

We trotted out of Great Sefton, leaving behind a comfortable little town that had a pretty High Street and a handsome church set on a green up the hill from it. As the air cooled with sunset, a mist rose, turning the dark countryside a ghostly gray. The lanterns on either side of the cart seemed to encircle us in a soft, dancing light as the flames flickered. But if the mist worried Sam or her pony, neither showed any sign of it.

“Do you know Victoria Garrison?” I asked, to pass the time.

“Miss Garrison? Yes, she used to travel to London frequently, but that stopped after several months. She said she was bored with the company.”

“In London?”

“Oh, yes indeed. I couldn’t imagine being bored with London. I’d give much to go there myself. But my mum says she can’t do without me, and besides, London is a pitfall for the unwary.” She laughed as she said it. “I’m the youngest, and she holds on tight.”

“Yet she allows you to drive strangers in the dark.”

“It’s safe enough. Mr. Hale, the stationmaster, wouldn’t call me out if he didn’t think it was all right.”

Which sounded like a good enough plan. I could see she managed the pony with ease on the dark road, and knew the way so well she could see it in her head, every dip and twist, every turn, and how long the straight sections were. The pony too was at home out here in the dark. I wasn’t sure I would like driving back to Great Sefton alone—even though it couldn’t be more than three miles. But Sam seemed to like the night and the silence.

We came into Little Sefton on the far side of the village from the part of it I knew best, passing closed shops and even a small pub, light from its windows spilling out into the dark street, turning the mist to a murky orange. The shops thinned and houses took their place, and I caught a glimpse of the church through a tear in the mist.

“Where were you thinking of being put down?” Sam asked, slowing the pony from a trot to a walk.

Suddenly I didn’t feel comfortable walking up to Victoria Garrison’s door. I realized I should have waited for Simon. But it was already late, and by the time he reached Little Sefton, everyone could be in bed.

“Um. Do you know the Hart house?”

“Yes, indeed. I see him doing his banking in Great Sefton. He always has a kind word. I heard his nephew is to be hanged next week. Sad, that. I don’t ever remember having a murderer in this part of the county.”

“Sad, indeed,” I said.

She drew up in front of the house, but it appeared to be dark to me, as if the Harts were away or had retired early. “Wait here, will you, for a moment? I’m not sure anyone is at home.”

“Dark as the grave,” she agreed, and I stepped down.

I walked out of the cart’s comforting pool of misty lantern light and up to the door. I could feel the clinging mist, and shivered, glad of my coat. I found the knocker, lifted it, and let it fall. It sounded overloud in the night, but that was mostly my imagination. I could feel my nerves taut with what lay ahead.

When no one answered my summons, I tried again. Would anyone answer my knock at this hour? The Harts had grown reclusive—they wouldn’t care to be disturbed—and after all, they had no way of knowing who was at their door.

What to do now?

I lifted the knocker again and gave it a substantial blow against the brass footplate.

I was on the point of turning around and walking back to the cart when I saw a light quivering in the window on the other side of the door. Then the door was opened, the light from a lamp almost blinding me.

“Mr. Hart?” I asked, unable to see who was behind the light.

“Miss Crawford!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “What are you doing here at this hour? Is everything all right? Have you had news of Michael?”

“Could I come in and sit for a while? I want to go to Victoria Garrison’s house, but not just yet. Would you mind?”

“No, certainly not. I forget my manners. Do come in.” As I did, he saw Sam waiting in her cart. “Did you come by train?” he asked me, and when I nodded, he called out, “Thank you, Sam. I’ll drive Miss Crawford back to Great Sefton. Good night.”

She called a good night to him, and then lifted her reins. I heard her soft “Walk on” to the pony, and then I turned back to Mr. Hart.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you. Had you retired for the night?” I asked as he shut the door behind me.

“We’ve taken to sitting in the room at the back of the house.

People see no light and don’t come to call.”

It was a pity that their lives were so changed by what had happened. I thought to myself that if Michael could see and understand this tragedy, he might take a different view of his own actions. But he couldn’t think of anyone but Marjorie.

Mr. Hart led me back to the room where his wife was sitting. As the light preceded us down the passage, she called, “Who was it, dear?”

“Miss Crawford. She’s come to sit with us awhile.”

We had arrived at a sitting room where two other lamps were burning, and I saw Mrs. Hart get to her feet and stand there trembling. “It’s not tonight, is it?” she asked me, as if I had come to share their watch when Michael died.

“I’ve been in London today, Mrs. Hart. I spoke to several people there. I wanted to come and talk to you.”

She sank back into her chair, relief leaving her face pale, her eyes still haunted. “That’s so kind of you, my dear. We were just having tea. Would you like a cup?”

“Oh, yes, please, I would.”

Her husband disappeared and came back shortly with another cup and saucer. She poured a cup for me, and passed the dish of honey and the jug of milk.

The cup warmed my hands. I didn’t know whether it was the night chill or my own anxiety that made them feel cold. I said, “I wonder if you knew the provisions of Mr. Garrison’s will?”

“His will?” Mrs. Hart nodded. “I heard that the bulk of it was divided evenly between Marjorie and Victoria, although the house went to Victoria. Well, not too surprising, as Marjorie had a home of her own in London.”

“Nothing else?” I asked.

“The usual bequests to the servants, and to the church,” Mr. Hart answered this time.

“There was another provision.” And I told them about it.

“I can’t believe—” Mrs. Hart began, as shocked as I had been. “But then in the last year or so of his life, Mr. Garrison didn’t seem to be himself. I put that down to his illness, but perhaps it wasn’t. Spiteful, I call it. Small wonder Victoria never married, although I often wondered if she would have changed her mind if Michael had paid her the least attention.”

Mr. Hart said, “Michael told us you’d said that Marjorie was expecting a child.”

“It would have inherited—the will as I was told about it didn’t specify a child in or out of wedlock, only that it bear Mr. Garrison’s name. Which of course it would do, if Meriwether Evanson refused to acknowledge it.”

“Serves her right,” Mrs. Hart said shortly. “Victoria, I mean.”

Mr. Hart said, “Are you suggesting that Victoria killed Marjorie?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s possible. If she had any reason to believe Marjorie was pregnant, she would have reacted strongly. She stood to lose everything—her house, her income. She would have viewed it not as an unintended pregnancy but as Marjorie’s means of cheating her out of what she believed was rightfully hers. Just how far Victoria would have taken her fury is anyone’s guess.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her to have a spy in Marjorie’s house,” Mrs. Hart said. “It was the sort of thing she would do, since she wasn’t invited there unless there was no way to avoid it.”

Michael had told me he’d helped choose Marjorie’s servants, but that didn’t mean that one of them hadn’t been amenable to bribery for telling tales. I thought about that missing will Marjorie was on the point of changing. A spy would have been richly rewarded for passing on news that Marjorie was suffering from what appeared to be morning sickness and had begun to reconsider her own will.

“Do you really think that’s possible?” I asked, turning to Mr. Hart.

“Servants are as greedy as the rest of us,” he answered. “A few pounds added to their wages? It would have been tempting.”

“And you’ve come to Little Sefton to ask Victoria about this matter?” Mrs. Hart wanted to know. “My dear, why don’t you stay the night, and face this visit first thing in the morning? I’ll be happy to lend you whatever you need. The guest room is always ready, it will be no trouble at all.”

I believed her and was sorely tempted. But I would lose another day. And besides, Simon was coming to Little Sefton for me. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Hart, but if I’m wrong about Victoria, I must look elsewhere. It’s too late to call on the Meltons tonight, but I can be in Diddlestoke very early tomorrow.”

Mr. Hart was staring at me. “The other person was Serena Melton.”

I sat there, my cup halfway to my lips, and looked at him over the rim.

“What? The other person, you say?” I set my cup on the small table at my elbow. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t think to mention it. She came to Little Sefton to see Victoria. It was the day Michael went to the play. But Victoria wasn’t at home and apparently the maid and the cook had been given the afternoon off. She came here next to ask if Michael knew where Victoria had gone and how long it would be before she came back. She apologized. She didn’t know anyone else in Little Sefton to ask.”

“But—I didn’t think those two got on well together. Victoria and Serena.”

“They don’t. You see, there’s the matter of the house in London. The two of them haven’t agreed on what’s to become of it. Mrs. Melton feels that since Meriwether died after Marjorie, he inherits. Victoria’s contention is that the house had belonged to Marjorie’s aunt on her mother’s side, and therefore reverted to the Garrison family. I expect Mrs. Melton came about that. She did say something about papers.” He smiled. “We hear the gossip—and of course Michael knows a little about Marjorie’s affairs.”

I remembered something Michael had said about the house in London remaining fully staffed while the question of ownership was being resolved.

“I’d have thought they’d meet in London—neutral ground.”

“Apparently she hadn’t been able to reach Victoria, and as she was coming up from visiting a friend who lives south of us, she decided to stop by.”

“And you told her that Michael had gone to London with Victoria.” I couldn’t help the undercurrent of surprise in my voice. It was so unexpected.

“I saw no reason not to,” he said defensively.

Of course he wouldn’t have. While the Harts disliked Victoria, they would have told Serena the truth if asked, unaware of what might happen as a result of a few words.

“I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” I replied, not wanting to add to their distress. “But I’m glad you told me.”

“I hadn’t given it another thought,” he went on. “Until you mentioned the Meltons.” And that was probably true as well. The point of Serena’s visit had been to find Victoria, not to betray Michael.

“Did you tell Michael about Mrs. Melton stopping by?”

“I don’t believe I did. We’d retired long before he arrived home.”

“And Mrs. Calder—did you say anything about Michael going in search of her?”

“No, no. Mrs. Melton said she might catch them up before the curtain rose. She asked if they were having dinner before the play. I told her I thought not, as Michael wished to see a friend before dinner. At that point she said she thought she’d go directly home instead, that she was already rather tired.”

“I think you did mention Mrs. Calder,” Mrs. Hart said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Absolutely not. I just said a friend. I’d have remembered.”

“It doesn’t matter.” By the time Serena reached Melton Hall and told her husband, he couldn’t have reached London in time to kill anyone. Unless—unless of course he was in London already, and she telephoned him to tell him she had arrived safely, but had missed Victoria after all.

She wasn’t there. You won’t believe this, but she and Michael Hart are attending a play together. Marjorie must be turning in her grave. No, I don’t know what play—probably the one everyone is talking about…

Even so, even if such a conversation took place, it didn’t link Helen Calder, Michael Hart, and Jack Melton.

Nothing had changed. I looked at the clock on the table by the window. I couldn’t wait much longer. It would be too late to call on anyone.

I said, “I hadn’t realized the time. I must go.”

Mrs. Hart started to say something, then changed her mind.

Mr. Hart, rising, said, “I’ll go with you. Let me fetch a coat. And a light.” He paused to look out the window. “I don’t think that mist has lifted.”

“No, you mustn’t—” I began, then thought better of it. Caution, my mother often told me, was the best protection. He was gone only a few minutes, returning with a lightweight coat over his arm and a torch in his hand.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Mrs. Hart asked him, her eyes on me. “Not that I expect any trouble, but you never know, do you?”

We left her sitting there, and I wondered if she would go to a window and watch our progress, once the door was closed behind us.

I wrapped my arms around me against the damp, then realized that I was cold because of nervousness. Matching my pace to Mr. Hart’s, using the torch as my guide, I tried to get my bearings. The mist gave everything a strange softness, changing shapes, obscuring distances. I thought in passing that the mist would delay Simon. He wouldn’t care for that.

We walked in silence past other houses, shadowy forms with no details, their windows only a smudge of brightness. I heard laughter from one as a door opened and then closed, a brief rectangle that loomed and vanished. A dog barked, sudden and shrill, sending my heart into my throat. I thought we must be near the church on the other side of the road, but there was nothing to see. Three more houses, one with a cat sitting on a low stone wall, jumping down to twine around our legs as we came closer, before trotting back to wait for the summons to its dinner.

When we reached the walk to Victoria’s door, through gardens that were black shapes until the torchlight touched them, Mr. Hart stopped.

“Here you are,” he said, gesturing to a house I could barely perceive.

I said, “Will you wait here? She might speak more freely if I seem to be alone.” He was about to protest, but I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll stay within calling distance. I promise.”

He didn’t like it, but he stopped, flicking off his torch, and I went on up the walk. Nearer the door, white flower blossoms glowed in the darkness on either side of the flagstones, guiding me to the door where two stone urns held topiary trees.

I lifted the knocker, still uncertain about what I would say to Victoria when she opened the door.

But she didn’t.

I knocked again.

Nothing.

I called, “Victoria, I know you’re at home. It’s Elizabeth Crawford. Please let me in. It’s important.”

I thought she would ignore me, but she must have been near the door, because after a moment it swung open. She was standing there in the sudden glare of lamplight from the entrance hall, her face in shadow. I could feel her antipathy.

“I’ve told you. He’ll hang, and there’s nothing you can say to me that will move me to do anything about it.” Her voice was quite calm, unyielding.

“I want to ask you about Jack Melton.”

That caught her by surprise. She must have been expecting me to begin a passionate defense of Michael Hart instead.

“What about Jack Melton?” Her voice now was wary, but her face was still expressionless. I couldn’t read anything there or in her eyes.

“He was Marjorie’s lover. Did you know? We all thought it must have been his brother, Captain Melton. But it wasn’t. What we don’t know is how Jack Melton found out that Michael was on his way to London with you, the night Helen Calder was attacked. But Serena told him, didn’t she?” I was probing, to see where it led.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“She was here—Serena Melton—the day you drove up to London to see the play. She went to speak to Michael when you weren’t at home. But his uncle told her Michael had gone with you, so she drove on to Melton Hall. And she must have told her husband why she’d missed you.”

Victoria laughed. “You are desperate, aren’t you?”

“I don’t see how else it could have happened.”

It was almost as if Victoria couldn’t bear to let Serena take credit for something she hadn’t done. “Jack was in the theater that night. He was with several American naval officers. When I realized that, I hoped he would see me there with Michael. But Michael hadn’t come back. He was off somewhere nursing that shoulder of his.”

“But you told him Michael had come to the play with you?”

“Just before the curtain went up, Jack noticed the empty seat beside me and came over to speak to me. He thought I’d come alone, and he made some snide remark about that. It irritated me. And so I lied. I told Jack that I was expecting Michael to join me at any moment, but he was close to discovering the name of Marjorie’s lover from someone who knew her secret, and he must have lost track of the time. I said it to annoy Jack, and it did. He went back to his seat, and just as the lights went down, he made some excuse to the Americans and quietly left. He’d mentioned that they were sailing for New York the next day, so they weren’t likely to gossip about his absence, were they?”

“You sat there in the theater and let it happen? You must have guessed—just because Michael let you down, you made Jack angry enough to go looking for him? But Jack took you at your word, didn’t he? And instead of hunting for Michael, he must have gone directly to Helen Calder’s. She was the only ‘friend’ who was likely to know Marjorie’s secrets. And when she came home from her dinner party, he must surely have believed that she’d been out with Michael, telling him everything. Victoria, don’t you see that your malicious remarks nearly got Mrs. Calder killed? When Jack came up behind her, she even thought it was Michael, because she was expecting him. Dear God. None of this needed to have happened. None of it.” I felt sick.

“I went to see a play, and I saw it.” She was unrepentant, and I caught a glimpse of that child who had tried to rearrange her family to her liking. “And you still can’t prove which of them killed Marjorie, can you?” There was triumph in her voice.

She was right—she would most certainly lie in the witness box. But I said, “Surely—you deliberately taunted Jack about something you should have stayed out of. Victoria, if he killed Marjorie and attacked Helen Calder, what’s to stop him from killing you after Michael is hanged, just to be sure his last link with your sister is broken? You’ve put yourself at risk, don’t you see? You’re wagering your life that Michael is the murderer.”

“Jack told me Michael had killed her—that Michael was in London the night she died.”

“She didn’t ‘die,’ Victoria. She was stabbed, then thrown into the river to drown. That’s murder.”

“What if it was? She brought it on herself, didn’t she? If you want to know what I think, she wanted a child, she wanted to see me thrown out of this house. They hadn’t had any children, she and Meriwether, and it was very likely they wouldn’t. I think she looked elsewhere. Even if that affair cost her her marriage. There was always Michael, faithful Michael, in the wings. Or so she must have convinced herself.”

I wanted to tell her about Marjorie at the railway station. About the despair and the desolation. Instead, I asked, “How did you learn about Marjorie and Jack Melton? Did she tell you?” I couldn’t believe Marjorie had, even out of spite.

“I saw them together. Quite by accident. They didn’t see me, and I could tell by the way she stood there, hanging on his every word, that they were lovers. So I made it my business to take him away from her—”

She was peering past me, into the milky darkness. “Who’s out there?” she demanded. “Who did you bring with you?”

“It’s only Mr. Hart. Michael’s uncle. He very kindly walked me this far because of the mist. He has his torch with him, to guide me back.”

“I don’t want him here.”

“I promised—”

“I don’t care what you promised. Send him away!”

I turned and called to Mr. Hart. “It’s all right. Will you wait for me near the church? I won’t be long.”

“I’m not sure—” he began, unwilling to leave me here in the dark.

But I stopped him before he could say more. “Truly. It’s all right. Please?”

The torch flicked on, and after a moment it moved away, toward the church on the opposite side of the street. I doubted he could see me very well from there, but at least he could hear if I shouted for him.

“You’ve got your way,” I told Victoria. I should have turned and left then too, but there was more she could tell me, and for Michael’s sake I stayed.

“You tried to trick me,” she accused, angry now.

“No such thing. If I’d wanted a witness, I’d have brought him to the door with me. I doubt if he could have heard more than our voices.”

“I tried to warn Meriwether that Marjorie was just like our mother—not to be trusted. And I was right, she had an affair, didn’t she? I was proved right.”

“And Jack Melton turned his back on her when she got pregnant,” I retorted, defending Marjorie. “That was hardly something to be proud of.”

She studied my face. “You don’t understand, do you? I really didn’t like my sister. I felt nothing when she died but relief. She was going to win—why should I weep over her? Or that child?”

“But murder—”

“I tell you, it was as if it had happened to a stranger. Someone you read about in a newspaper, cluck your tongue over her death, and then turn the page.”

“Michael told me you believed he knew more about Marjorie’s death than he was telling you.”

“Jack said Marjorie had gone to see Michael that night before she was killed. I wanted to know if it was true.” She looked away, and I knew then that she hadn’t been sure whether to believe Jack Melton or not.

But in the end, she’d decided to sacrifice Michael Hart because it was her last chance to destroy everything that Marjorie had cared for. Jack Melton meant nothing to her, just a conquest. If Michael had shown any fondness for her, would she have protected him instead and thrown Jack to the wolves?

“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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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 know now how Jack Melton discovered that Michael Hart was in London to visit Mrs. Calder. He was at the theater, with several American visitors, and he saw Victoria Garrison in the audience. They talked. Victoria was angry that Michael hadn’t returned. She told lies concerning his whereabouts. Afterward Jack Melton made his excuses to his guests, and left the theater. Victoria continued to sit there, doing nothing to stop him. I believe he saw this as an opportunity to throw suspicion on Lieutenant Hart, just as he’d done before. That means he could have attacked Mrs. Calder. Mr. Forbes told me that if I could bring you evidence that showed someone else had stabbed her, you would consider reopening Michael Hart’s case. Well, I’ve done that. It’s up to the Yard to fill in the details. One more thing. I think you’ll discover that Jack Melton seduced Lieutenant Fordham’s sister, and Fordham swore he’d kill Jack Melton when he’d recovered from his wounds. Victoria Garrison has in her possession a .45-caliber revolver. Jack Melton gave it to her. I’d see if Melton had used it to murder Lieutenant Fordham. I wouldn’t be surprised if she shot at Michael as well. If you solve the Fordham case, you owe it to me to pursue Michael Hart’s innocence. It would be a tragedy to discover after his hanging that you were wrong. I found a bullet in the Hart gardens. If you look, you’ll find its mate there as well.”

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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

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.

“He’s got a knife—” I exclaimed, and then saw that it was in the hand pinned high against the wall, a long, wicked blade that wavered, then flew from open fingers as the intruder cried out. He was spun around as the knife slid across the floor, and the two struggling men went thudding into the outer door. I could just see the knife, and I dashed forward to pick it up, then moved out of the way. Just as I did, the sound of a fist hitting hard and landing squarely sent one of the combatants staggering back to collapse at the foot of the stairs, almost colliding with my bare feet.

The fight had been all the more deadly for being so silent, and not knowing who had won, I slid along the wall, groping for the entry light switch.

Simon Brandon turned swiftly toward me, blinking in the brightness of the light. I reached out to touch him, needing to be sure he was all right—there was blood on his cheekbone, just under his right eye. He said, “You should have stayed in your room. I wouldn’t have let him reach you.”

He put a hand on my shoulder—a comradely gesture I’d seen many times among soldiers—and then his fingers gripped hard before releasing me.

He gave his attention to the man who had fallen on his face by the stairs. After a moment, he turned him over with one foot, wary of a trick, and I knew as I saw his profile that it was Jack Melton. I looked at the vicious knife in my hand and shivered.

“He came to kill me.”

Simon, his voice brusque, said, “He had to. You asked too many questions. You might have overturned—”

Mrs. Hennessey was opening her door, her hair in a long gray plait down her back and a cast-iron frying pan in one hand, shouting, “I’ll have the police on the lot of you for breaking into my house—” And then her voice quavered to a stop.

She saw me standing there barefoot and in my nightgown, that wicked knife still gripped tightly in my hand, and then her gaze moved on to Simon, breathing hard by the door and examining bruised knuckles. I couldn’t think when I’d seen him so angry. She stopped at the sight of Jack Melton, still slumped where he’d fallen, showing no signs of regaining his senses.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hennessey,” I said quickly, trying to reassure her. “That man by the stairs broke into my flat. Simon stopped him before he could do any harm.”

“Men aren’t allowed upstairs,” she said primly, and I felt a rising bubble of nervous laughter—the reaction to what had just happened—and I quickly suppressed it.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hennessey,” I began. “I didn’t want him there, I assure you. He’s killed at least one person, and injured another rather badly. If you’ll hand me a coat or something, I’ll see if I can find a constable.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she told me. “Go upstairs at once and dress, you can’t be seen down here like that. I’ll find the constable.”

At a look from Simon, I did as I was told. It didn’t bother me going up those dark stairs to dress, knowing that Simon was there by the outer door and Jack Melton was beyond harming anyone for the moment. But I wondered how I was going to feel later, when the dark at the top of the stairs, once friendly and safe, loomed ahead of me and I couldn’t see what was in the shadows.

I dressed in record time, still buttoning my sleeves as I hurried down the steps again.

Simon had found some rope somewhere, probably from Mrs. Hennessey’s flat, and had tied Jack Melton’s wrists. He was busy now with the man’s ankles, and none too gently.

I said to Simon after a glance at Jack Melton, “What were you doing upstairs? You know it’s not permitted.”

“I told you, I didn’t like the idea of your staying in London. I left the motorcar round the corner and came back. Mrs. Hennessey was nowhere to be seen. So I waited in that dark corner you yourself were going to use. But we won’t tell her that, if you please. I was down here in the entry.”

Jack Melton was just beginning to stir, shaking his head to clear it, then coming to the conclusion that his hands were bound. He tried to stand up, saw his ankles were tied as well, and slumped back against the stairs. Raising his head, he glared at me. I was reminded then of his brother, any charm erased by cold anger.

“You were in my way at every turn,” he said through clenched teeth. I thought his jaw must ache—I hoped it did. Simon had hit him very hard.

The outer door opened, and Mrs. Hennessey was back with Constable Vernon, a burly man with a square face and large hands. I’d seen him often on the street, and he’d nodded in passing. He came into the hall now and looked to Simon for an explanation.

Simon introduced himself, pointed to me, and said, “This man tried to kill the young woman you see there. The knife he was carrying is there on the table. Mrs. Hennessey can swear that Sister Crawford is one of her lodgers. And I’m here in place of her father, Colonel Crawford, who is presently in Somerset.”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Hennessey said, nodding. “I know her family.”

“If you’ll go upstairs to my flat, you’ll see how he broke in. I was lucky to escape.” I shivered in spite of myself. “Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard knows this man,” I ended, pointing to Jack Melton. “He’ll confirm everything we’ve said.”

The constable nodded. “You can be sure we’ll notify him.”

No one had said anything about Michael Hart. But I was beginning to think we could at least hope. I felt almost giddy with relief.

After inspecting both locks, the constable took Jack Melton into custody, and the rest of us accompanied him to the nearest station where I told a sergeant my story, supported by Mrs. Hennessey and Simon. I realized that Mrs. Hennessey was the one they listened to most intently, their impartial witness. Little did they know.

Jack Melton said nothing, his head down, his shoulders stiff with suppressed anger, refusing to give his name.

Simon quietly supplied it, trying to keep me in the background. Then he added, “I suggest you send for Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard. He may have an interest in this man.”

“That will take some time,” the sergeant on night duty said, looking from Jack Melton back to Simon. He was a middle-aged man, face lined and hair graying.

“It doesn’t matter,” Simon answered him. “Just see to Mr. Melton, and we’ll be happy to wait.”

The sergeant turned to me. “Were you harmed, Miss? You say he came into your flat. Did he hurt you?”

“The flat was dark. I didn’t even know who was there—a man, a woman—but I saw the flash of what I thought was a knife. And so I ran, slamming the door while he was in one of the other bedrooms looking for me. He followed me but I was hidden, and I threw my hairbrush down the stairs so he’d think I’d gone that way.”

“Why did you believe you’d seen a knife?’

“I was afraid, I was alone in the flat, Mrs. Hennessey was on the ground floor, asleep. And I happened to know Helen Calder, who had nearly died from stab wounds after she was attacked. I didn’t want to be a victim too.”

He considered me for a moment. Then he summoned a constable and gave him quiet instructions. The man left, and we sat there on the hard wooden benches, waiting. There was a large-faced clock high on the wall. I watched the hands creep through the minutes, and then an hour. Simon got up and paced, Mrs. Hennessey nodded where she was, her head sinking to her chest, her breathing heavy. I tried to keep myself from yawning, partly from reaction, and partly from sheer fatigue. Another hour passed, and I realized as I gazed across the room to where Jack Melton sat on one of the benches along the far wall that his anger had faded, and he was busy thinking, a harshness in his face that made me look away.

He must have followed Michael Hart’s case. He must have known who Inspector Herbert was. He must have realized that he was in an almost untenable position. But he was a very intelligent man, and he was slowly coming to the conclusion that he would be able to talk his way out of this.

The question was, what would he say? And I thought I knew. He would claim that I had invited him to the flat—lured him there—in some foolish, desperate attempt to clear Michael’s name. Everyone knew how hard I’d fought for Michael. And he could swear Simon was a part of the plot.

His head came up and his eyes met mine. I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. I saw the slight smile, as if he’d already won.

We were into the third hour now, and suddenly the outer doors opened and Inspector Herbert walked in, followed by two other men. He nodded to the desk sergeant, glanced at Jack Melton, then turned to me.

“Miss Crawford,” he said.

I realized that he looked very tired. There were circles under his eyes, and lines about his mouth that hadn’t been there before.

I got to my feet. “Inspector.”

Turning to the sergeant, he said, “Is there a room where I could speak to Miss Crawford in private?”

“Just there, sir, second door. Inspector Knoles’s office.”

Inspector Herbert nodded, then waited for me to join him. Simon, who had been sitting next to Mrs. Hennessey, moved to follow us, but Inspector Herbert shook his head.

After the briefest hesitation, Simon sat down again. But I could tell he didn’t like it.

I followed Inspector Herbert to the door of the office, and he held it for me, then shut it behind me.

“You’ve been busy,” he said. “And stubborn.”

“I had to be sure you were hanging the right man.”

His smile was a grimace. “Why are you here with Jack Melton? It appears that he and Sergeant-Major Brandon have bruises on their faces and hands. Tell me why.”

I explained what had happened. “I sent for you,” I ended, “because you knew what it was I feared, and why. Otherwise what happened tonight seems inexplicable. But Jack Melton was in my flat, and he was armed, and I was there alone. I could have been badly hurt, like Helen Calder, or killed, like Marjorie Evanson. Tell me why this man was in my flat? I can’t think of any reason except the fact that I knew too much about what he’d done. I didn’t invite him there—Mrs. Hennessey can tell you I was in my nightgown when she came out of her flat to find Simon Brandon trying to stop Jack Melton from escaping.”

He had listened patiently, his eyes on my face.

“I was out concluding a case when you came to Scotland Yard tonight. I returned to find your message. I went to Little Sefton, to have a look at that revolver while I could. When did you see Miss Garrison?”

I explained about my visit yesterday—was it yesterday?—and speaking to the Harts before going to see Victoria. I touched on her threat.

“And you tell me she was alive and well when you left her?”

“Yes, of course. Sergeant-Major Brandon can confirm that. And the Harts, indirectly.” I felt the first surge of unease. “Why?”

“When I arrived in Little Sefton, I found the local constable, a man named Tilmer, in Miss Garrison’s house. The sound of a shot had been reported to him, and he was investigating it when he discovered her lying on the floor of her sitting room. There was a revolver by her hand, and on the desk, a sheet of paper and an uncapped pen. It appeared she was preparing to write a note, then stopped.”

“Victoria—Miss Garrison—is dead?” I hadn’t liked her. She’d been destructive and cold and willing to inflict hurt. But her death shocked me. “But I don’t understand—” I couldn’t imagine her taking her own life. There was too much hate in her. People killed themselves for all sorts of reasons, but not for hate.

“A Mrs. Whiting reported that a motorcar stopped in front of her house. Her dog barked, and she looked out. The car stayed there for half an hour, then left. She didn’t know the motorcar, she didn’t know where the driver went. But the shot was heard before the motorcar drove away. Any thoughts on that?”

“I don’t believe I’ve met Mrs. Whiting, but I must have heard her dog bark when I was walking by in the mist. There aren’t that many motorcars in Little Sefton. She’d know most of them.”

“Do you think that Miss Garrison was killed by Melton?”

“It’s possible. I think he was afraid her anger would lead her to say things she shouldn’t. He wants Michael to hang, you see. And the case closed.”

“But there’s nothing to indicate it wasn’t suicide.”

I shook my head. “She wouldn’t. I just know—”

“Hardly evidence to present in a courtroom.”

“I don’t know how Jack Melton got to my flat. There must be a motorcar somewhere.”

He looked at me and then excused himself, leaving me there in the cluttered little office. And then he was back, asking me again to go over what had happened in the flat. I told my story a second time.

Inspector Herbert thanked me, accompanied me to the reception area, and then asked for Mrs. Hennessey. For a moment she looked a little confused and frightened, then her back straightened and she marched ahead of him like a Christian on her way to meet the lions.

I didn’t look at or speak to Simon. After ten minutes, Mrs. Hennessey came back, chatting comfortably with Inspector Herbert about “her girls,” and he thanked her for her assistance.

Simon was the last to be taken away, and he was gone for a very long time. Jack Melton, restless and impatient, his hands no longer tied, took out his watch three times. And then Simon was back, his face inscrutable.

Finally it was Jack Melton’s turn.

I watched dawn creeping in the station windows, the lamps paling before the sun’s growing brightness. The dingy paint and the wooden benches seemed shabbier than before, the floorboards scuffed and worn. There was no money, no paint, no men to wield brushes, and all of us had realized slowly but surely that the cost of war was reflected in many small ways no one had ever imagined in the autumn of 1914 when it had all begun.

Inspector Herbert returned, nodded to Simon and Mrs. Hennessey, and then said to me, “Mr. Melton is for the moment helping us with our inquiries. I see no reason for you to stay any longer. You must be very tired.”

“I’d like to know,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “what’s to come of this matter. Whether Mr. Melton will be released—whether I will be in danger again.”

He said wearily, “It’s been a long night, Miss Crawford. But I think it is safe to say that you have little to fear from Mr. Melton in the future.”

“You’ll compare that knife with the wounds Mrs. Evanson and Mrs. Calder suffered?”

“I think I know how to handle this inquiry.”

“Do you—did he kill Victoria? I’m leaving for France—please, won’t you tell me?”

“I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” he said. “My advice to you is to go home and go to bed, and leave this matter in our hands.”

I stood there, trying to find the words to ask him if this would have any bearing on Michael Hart’s case.

But he turned away, shook hands with Simon, thanked Mrs. Hennessey again, and walked back to the door of the small room where he’d interviewed us, shutting it firmly behind him. Was Jack still there, waiting? Or had they taken him away, out another door, where we couldn’t see?

I looked at Simon, but he shook his head, and I followed Mrs. Hennessey out the door toward Simon’s motorcar.

We drove in silence back to the house, and then Mrs. Hennessey said, “I don’t know when I’ve been so tired. Bess, dear, do you think you could make a cup of tea for all of us? It would help me rest.”

I wanted nothing more than my own bed, but we went into her small flat and I made tea while Simon found bread, sliced and buttered it, and added a small bottle of preserves to the tray. Mrs. Hennessey, her face lined with weariness, sat and watched us. I wondered if she was afraid, just now, to be alone, in spite of the daylight sifting through her lace curtains.

Pretending to eat, I managed to swallow a little of the bread with a bit of marmalade preserve perched on one corner, and I drank my tea. Surprisingly, it did make me feel much better.

Mrs. Hennessey wanted to know why that man, as she called Jack Melton, should wish to break into her house and attempt to murder one of her nursing sisters.

Simon said circumspectly, “It has to do with one of Bess’s patients. I shouldn’t worry about it. Melton is likely to find himself in far more trouble than he expected.”

“But you were here, I didn’t understand how you could have been here. I have quite strict rules, you see.”

Simon’s glance met mine. “I followed him into the house.”

That made perfect sense to her. She nodded, and addressed her food with an appetite, finishing her tea, then turning to Simon once more, asking him if he should care to rest on her settee before going back to Somerset.

He promised her again that all would be well, and I washed up, tucked Mrs. Hennessey into her bed, and shut the door behind me when I had finished.

Simon was waiting on the stairs, sitting there as I’d seen him sit so many times in India, able to sleep without lying down or losing touch with his surroundings. I myself had learned to do much the same in the field, catching what little rest I could when I could.

He looked up as I shut the door of Mrs. Hennessey’s flat.

“I asked him what this would mean for Michael Hart’s situation. He said that at the moment he could see no connection.”

I didn’t need to ask who Simon meant. Inspector Herbert. “Did he tell you that Victoria had shot herself? I don’t believe it for an instant! Oddly enough, I’d warned her about Jack. And surely there is some way to see if this was the same knife that killed Marjorie. It’s out of the ordinary, he had a collection of American weapons. The postmortem—”

“Perhaps it would be wise to see that Mr. Forbes is told that Melton is in custody and why.”

“He wasn’t interested before,” I said.

“Because it was only your word, without proof or the sanction of an arrest. Try again.”

That made sense even to my tired mind.

“I’ll write it now,” I said, pushing away any thought of my pillow. “And I’ll deliver it personally.”

“No. Let me deliver it. His clerk won’t turn me away.”

“And then, Simon, I want to go home.”

I heard the plaintive note in my voice, in spite of every effort to suppress it.

“Give me four hours. Then we’ll see to the letter before leaving London,” he promised.

I looked over my shoulder. “If he’s released—if he can talk his way out of this night’s work—will Mrs. Hennessey be safe? I have a feeling he’s cleaning house.”

“She’s not important to him. You are. That’s why it’s best for you to leave London and let Inspector Herbert sort this out.”

I went up the stairs, righted the chair that I’d left overturned, braced my door, and sat down at the table that served as a writing desk.

Two tries and a lot of thought later, I’d finished what I felt was a fair representation of the night’s events.

By that time it was half past nine. I got myself together, went lightly down the stairs so as not to rouse Mrs. Hennessey, and went to find a cab. I was lucky on the third try, and I gave the driver Helen Calder’s address.

The maid answered, and I apologized for calling so early but begged to see Mrs. Calder on urgent business.

After a wait of some minutes, I was taken to Helen Calder’s bedroom. She was awake and lying on a chaise longue with a coverlet over her knees. She was dressed, this time, and not in her bed, but her face was still wan, without spirit.

She greeted me warmly, looked again at my face, and said with concern, “Bess, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so weary.”

“It’s been a long night, Helen. Is there any way you can be sure who was waiting for you when you were stabbed?”

“I’ve tried, my dear. Heaven knows I’ve spent hours trying to remember.”

Which was sometimes the wrong way to go about it, but that was neither here nor there.

“Jack Melton tried to kill me last night. And it’s possible he murdered Victoria, though the police at the moment aren’t certain whether it was suicide or murder.”

Her eyes were wide with alarm. “Are you all right?” She looked me over, as if expecting to find bandages bulging beneath my coat or my skirt.

“I was lucky. I got away. But it could have ended very differently. The police have Jack Melton in custody, and are talking to him.” I hoped I was right, and he was still there at the police station. “I don’t think you have anything to fear from him, but a word of warning. If he’s given bail, turn Jack Melton and his wife from your door, if they come here. Just to be safe.”

She said, “Are you suggesting that it was Mr. Melton who attacked me? Not Michael Hart?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. Yes, I believe it’s possible. Whether it’s right or not, I don’t know. I hope the police are looking at the possibility that the knife he had with him when he attacked me could have been used to kill Marjorie and wound you. But that may not match after all. I’m just suggesting prudence.”