I STOOD THERE rooted to the spot, not sure what to say or do for all of several seconds.

And then I was striding across the street and brushing past Victoria Garrison, who was standing in the middle of it, a gloating expression on her face.

She said, as I passed her, in a voice pitched for my ears only, “He’s going to the hangman, and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it.”

I ignored her. She wasn’t the only person watching as Lieutenant Hart was being taken into custody. Alicia was there, looking stricken, and others I recognized from the church fete.

I caught up with Inspector Herbert as he came through the Harts’ gate. He started with surprise when he saw me, then glowered.

“What are you doing in Little Sefton, Miss Crawford?”

“Visiting friends,” I snapped, “and it’s just as well I’m here to tell you you’re making a mistake.”

“Mrs. Calder isn’t completely out of danger and they are keeping her sedated. But the doctors and the nursing sisters have told me that as she rouses a little, she repeats the name Michael over and over again. When she does, she’s restless, and they believe she’s afraid in whatever limbo she’s in. A deeply rooted residual fear from her attack that she can’t face.”

It made sense, of course, but I wasn’t ready to give up so easily.

“Nonsense,” I said briskly. “That’s merely one interpretation. I’ve sat beside men who were hardly more than boys, as they recover from surgery. They call for their mothers—or if they’re married, sometimes for their wives. Am I to believe that these soldiers feel their mothers are responsible for their wounds?”

“It’s not the same,” he began.

“How can you be so certain? I’ve never once heard them cry out the name of a German soldier or the Kaiser.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” But I could see he was weakening.

By this time Michael and his escort had caught up with us. He said sharply, “Elizabeth. Stay out of this.”

“Oh, do hush,” I retorted, barely glancing at him. Turning again to Inspector Herbert, I asked, “What other evidence do you have that Lieutenant Hart is guilty of murder?”

“He was in London the night that Marjorie Evanson died. And again last night.”

I turned to Michael, surprise in my face. “But that’s impossible!”

He had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry—”

“We found the marks. He dragged her. He’s strong enough to do that one-handed. He gripped the collars of her clothing and dragged her into those shrubs. We found the bits of grass and earth on the heels of her shoes.”

I swallowed hard. “And no one saw him? It was a summer’s evening, and no one was looking out a window on Hamilton Place, to see a man loitering or to see him with Mrs. Calder, or in the square?”

“No one. I had men canvassing the street at eight o’clock this morning.”

“How did he get to London? He required permission from his doctors before I could take him there.”

“If you’ll step out of the way, Miss Crawford, we’ll finish our business here and take Lieutenant Hart to London.”

Behind them I could see Michael’s aunt in the door, her face white, her hand to her mouth. Next to her stood her husband, his face pale with shock.

I turned to Michael. “Who took you to London? Whose motorcar did you use?”

“My own,” he said harshly. “Victoria agreed to drive me.”

I stepped back, then. “Where was she when you were supposed to be killing Mrs. Calder?”

“Ask her. I left her at the theater. She wanted to see The Man Who Vanished.”

I whirled on Inspector Herbert. “Have you verified that?”

“I spoke to Miss Garrison earlier. She paid for her ticket, handed it in, and took her seat. That much is certain. She was waiting outside the theater when Lieutenant Hart was to return for her. I have three witnesses to that.”

A voice behind me said, “Let it go, Bess.”

It was Simon. I didn’t know he had already come back for me. I said, “But—”

And he repeated, “Let it go.”

I took a deep breath and moved out of Inspector Herbert’s path. He went directly to the motorcar he had waiting, and Michael passed me without a glance, taking his place in the vehicle as ordered. One of the constables was driving, and he slowly moved through the spectators cluttering the street; I felt like bursting into tears.

Not from frustration but from anger. Helpless, furious anger. At Inspector Herbert, at Victoria Garrison, and at Michael Hart as well.

I let Simon guide me to where he’d left his motorcar and got in without a word.

“I’m sorry, Bess,” he said as he stepped in beside me. “Truly.”

“He’s not guilty. Inspector Herbert will come to his senses and realize that for himself.”

“Very likely.” Looking over my shoulder, I could see Alicia. Her expression was pity vying with doubt.

“You don’t mean that. You’re just trying to make me feel better,” I added, as the village disappeared behind us.

“I’m not, my dear girl. I’m agreeing with you.”

I glanced at him, and saw that he was telling me the truth.

“I thought you didn’t care for the handsome lieutenant,” he said after a time. “You certainly put up a brave defense on his behalf.”

“I respect the fact that a Scotland Yard inspector has a great deal more experience in these matters than I have, but he’s been floundering from the start, Simon. There could be any number of reasons why Mrs. Calder is saying Michael’s name over and over again. Inspector Herbert should have waited until she could speak before taking any action. What’s more, it could be that Victoria is lying.”

But I knew she wasn’t. The police had already looked into that too.

Then where had Michael gone, when he left her at the theater?

Simon glanced at me. “If he’s innocent, Bess, Inspector Herbert will have to let him go. You needn’t worry.”

I closed my eyes, trying to read Michael’s face as the policemen had brought him out. I could see it still, and what I read there was anger, not innocence. He hadn’t protested, I had. And I could feel my cheeks burn with the memory.

Not because I was ashamed of my defense of him. But because I knew that Inspector Herbert would see it very differently. Like everyone else who had been a witness to that scene, to him it would point to my feelings for Michael, rather than any objectivity on my part.

And then I knew what I had to do. There might not be another chance. “Please—Simon—I must go back. It’s important,” I told him urgently.

He slowed, but said, “It’s not wise, Bess.”

It took several minutes to convince him, but in the end he reluctantly turned back toward Little Sefton. I touched his arm in silent gratitude.

The crowd had dispersed, although a few people stood about in knots, whispering. I ignored their stares as we passed.

I left Simon in the motorcar and went up the walk to the Harts’ door. Someone had already begun to draw the drapes, as if trying to shut out the stares of neighbors.

Feeling every eye in Little Sefton pinned to my back, I knocked at the door, and after a time, an elderly maid opened it and told me that the family was not receiving today.

“I understand,” I began.

And then Mr. Hart was in the passage behind her, saying, “It’s all right, Sarah. Let her come in.”

He led me into the drawing room, the walls painted a pleasing yellow with white trim and a soft green in the drapes. They had been pulled, making the room seem dark and rather claustrophobic. As if he sensed my reaction, Mr. Hart went to a table and lit the lamp sitting there.

He appeared to have aged, his face still pale, lines etched more deeply than I remembered.

I said, “Forgive me. I’m so sorry to intrude.”

“You defended him out there.”

“I don’t believe he’s guilty. Could you tell me what the police said, and what happened when they told Michael what they wanted to do?”

“I feel it’s my fault,” he said, taking the chair across from mine. “He’d asked me again if I would take him up to London. But I wasn’t very keen on driving that far, and besides, this is our busiest time at the farm. I asked him why it was so important to go just then. He told me he needed to speak to Helen Calder. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but she’s related to Marjorie on her mother’s side. He didn’t say why, only that he wanted to see her in person, rather than telephone her. It was an arduous trip for him—the last time, after he’d gone there with you, he was exhausted for two days.”

In my mind’s eye, I could still see Helen Calder lying there on her cot, pale and unresponsive after her surgery.

“I don’t understand; if it was so important, why didn’t he call on her when I drove him to London?”

Mr. Hart shook his head. “Michael has always been impetuous. It might not have mattered then, you know. And with this wound, he seems to be unable to settle to anything. I know he’s in great discomfort at times. I hear him pacing at night. The doctors think he’s developing a tolerance to the sedatives he’s been given, and it requires higher and higher doses to help now.”

I wondered what relief he’d be given in a prison infirmary or cell.

“Did he tell Inspector Herbert about wanting to see Mrs. Calder?”

“I’m afraid—in my ignorance, you see—that I told him. Michael was sleeping when they came, and his aunt went to rouse him. Sometimes that’s difficult. Meanwhile, the police asked if he’d just returned from London, and I told the inspector that he had. I was asked why he’d gone to London, and I told them. I saw no reason not to, and I had no way of knowing why they were here.”

And that had been damning.

“Were you present when they questioned your nephew?”

“Oh, yes, I insisted on being present. We’ve always had him in our care, you see, and I could tell from Michael’s face that something must be wrong.”

“Did he tell them he’d spoken to Mrs. Calder?”

“He told them he’d gone to her house, and apparently they already knew that. But she wasn’t at home. He told the maid at the door that he would wait for a time. But after a while his shoulder was hurting badly, and he left.” Mr. Hart took a deep breath. “Inspector Herbert told me Mrs. Calder is very seriously injured and hasn’t regained consciousness after her surgery.”

“It’s true. We can only hope that when she does, she’ll remember who attacked her and why.”

But even as I said the words, I knew it was very unlikely that Mrs. Calder would remember anything after leaving her friend’s house. Not after such loss of blood and the ensuing surgery. The mind has a way of blotting out what it doesn’t wish to think about.

“I must apologize for asking this,” I said, “but it’s important. Had Michael been violent as a child? Angry, moody, sometimes acting rashly? Or has he acted this way only on his leaves from France?” If there was anything like that in his Army records, it would be used against him.

“No, no,” Mr. Hart said, alarmed. “There’s been nothing of the sort. He came to us while his parents were abroad. And as a boy, he was very much the way you see him now. Nor has the war changed him, although I’ve seen a darker side of him of late. This wound has tried his patience. He was never one to sit idle.”

Whatever Mr. Hart preferred to believe, war did change men. I’d seen it in India and in the wards of the wounded. It was just that some were better at hiding it than others. And the darker side he spoke of might be a sign that Michael could explode into violence in the right conditions.

If only Helen Calder had come to her senses before Inspector Herbert came down to Little Sefton.

I thanked Mr. Hart, and told him I’d let him know as soon as I heard anything about Helen Calder.

“Poor woman. I didn’t know her well,” he said as he walked with me to the door. “She and her mother didn’t come to Little Sefton very often. And she was a little older than Marjorie.” With his hand on the latch, he turned to face me, and I could see the effort he was making to hold himself together. “I can’t quite come to grips with any of this. My wife is making herself ill with worry. If Michael isn’t released soon, I hesitate to think what will become of us.”

I wished I could offer some comfort. I smiled and said, “Early days, Mr. Hart. We’ll face that bridge when we must cross it.”

He nodded, but the heart had gone out of him.

As I stepped out the door, I cast a glance toward the street, but the curious onlookers had gone about their business. There was only Simon, waiting for me in his motorcar. Mr. Hart quietly closed the door behind me, hoping not to disturb his wife.

Simon opened my door and as I settled myself in my seat, he reached out, and without speaking, held my hand until we had left Little Sefton far behind us.

 

When we arrived in Somerset, my mother was full of plans for a dinner party she was giving the next night, a chance for me to see and greet old friends. Her enthusiasm was jarring, in the mood I was in, and the Colonel Sahib gave me a quizzical look, one that said he sympathized but that I owed my mother the courtesy of entering into the event in the spirit she’d have wanted.

Simon, the coward, had vanished the instant the words dinner party were spoken, and there was no one left to spare me Mother’s good intentions.

And so I was swept off to see what the kitchen could manage that was halfway edible, and there was no time to sit down and think through events. That, clearly, was everyone’s intention.

I barely had time to wonder how Michael, for his sins, was faring, languishing in gaol. I hoped he was absolutely wretched.

My mother did ask, in passing, if I would wish to invite that handsome young lieutenant as well. I realized that she hadn’t heard the latest turn of events. I didn’t have the energy to explain them to her, and so I told her that I didn’t think he would be available.

The Colonel Sahib, having spoken privately to Simon, wondered, as I walked into his study, if he should anticipate a passionate plea for his intervention if matters looked grim for my lieutenant.

“He’s not my lieutenant. If he was anybody’s lieutenant, he was Marjorie Evanson’s. Besides, I’m sure Simon also told you it wasn’t likely that Michael would be in custody for very long.”

“He did seem to think that Lieutenant Hart had acted rather foolishly, going in to London.”

“The worst part of it is,” I said, wandering from the window to take a chair across from his, “the woman he was desperate enough to ask to drive him to London is no friend of Marjorie Evanson’s. I think she was pleased to see Michael taken up.”

“Are you certain about that?”

I told him what Mrs. Eubanks, the cook, had had to say.

“Of course servant gossip can’t always be relied on for truthfulness,” he pointed out. “But when there’s heavy smoke, there’s often fire.”

“I think she told the truth as she sees it,” I agreed. “She didn’t like Victoria, and so she was ready to lay all the blame at her door. But everyone—Alicia, the rector, Michael himself—had also told me that there was no love lost between the sisters. Marjorie left home as soon as she could after her mother died, and her father did nothing to stop her from going. The wonder is, he didn’t think of disinheriting her, once Mrs. Garrison was dead.”

“And that may well be Victoria Garrison’s problem. In spite of all she’d done to make him believe the first daughter wasn’t his, in the end he had doubts.”

I looked at him. “You are clever,” I said. “It would explain so much.”

After a moment, I went on. “Granted, I haven’t known these people for very long. But I was drawn into their lives because I was a witness to what happened. If the police had found Mrs. Evanson’s killer straightaway, that would have been the end of it.”

“Not every murder inquiry leads to someone being taken into custody, much less tried and convicted. God forbid that Mrs. Calder should die, but if she does, and there is no explanation of why she had called the lieutenant’s name in extremis, a shadow will hang over him for the rest of his life. It might be better to have a trial and clear him of any culpability.”

“What if he’s convicted?”

“There’s that risk as well.” My father paused. “Who would you suggest as the murderer the police are looking for?”

I shook my head, feeling tired suddenly. “I don’t know.”

“Then you can understand Inspector Herbert’s dilemma.”

I smiled against my will. “I would very much like it to be Victoria.”

My father laughed. “From what Simon tells me, this Inspector Herbert is no fool.”

“He tells you that because Inspector Herbert advised me to stay out of the Yard’s affairs.”

“Good advice.”

 

For what was left of the afternoon, I helped my mother plan her dinner, shaking out the best table linens, stored away in lavender, and helping with the polishing of the silver and then I washed glasses and dried them carefully. She and I worked side by side in contented silence or chatted about whatever I needed for my return France.

And all the while my mind was busy with what the Colonel Sahib had asked me: Who had killed Marjorie Evanson?

I was no closer to an answer by the end of the day.

The menu, given all the shortages of food, presented a problem. Sighing, my mother said, “Do you suppose we could ask our guests to bring their own chickens?”

I laughed.

Then, changing the subject as she so easily could when one least expected it, she added, “You may as well tell me what is going on. It will save me from having to cajole your father.”

I was saved—quite literally—by Nell appearing in the doorway.

“Miss Elizabeth,” she said, “there’s a message for you. The boot boy, Sammy, from The Four Doves, just brought it round.”

I took the folded sheet she held out to me, and opened it.

A hasty scrawl read:

I’ve just been told. Is it true? Please, will you come and talk to me? It was signed Serena Melton.

I refolded it and turned to my mother. “We might not need those chickens after all.”

As I left the room she answered, “I hadn’t had my heart set on them, you know.”

I drove to The Four Doves, wondering all the way there if Serena Melton had somehow discovered Scotland Yard’s interest in her brother-in-law, Raymond. I didn’t see how she could have found that out—or my role in identifying him. Her husband, Jack, was important in the cryptology section, but that gave him no influence with the police or even the Home Office. But then news sometimes had a way of leaking out. Someone else could have heard and then called him. I’d already confessed to him that I’d seen the man.

The doors to the inn were standing wide, allowing late sunlight to pour through into the small reception area, gilding the polished wood of the floors. The woman behind the desk greeted me warmly as I came in. Gray-haired and gray-eyed, she could pose for one of the original doves. But she had taken her son’s place running the little inn when he went off to war, and had managed to keep it up despite the lack of nearly everything from paint to food.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cox,” I said. “I’ve just received a message from a visitor. Is she still here?”

“Yes, I put her in the small parlor. She was reluctant to come to the house. Heaven knows why.”

I knew why. The last time we’d met, Serena had called me a liar.

I thanked Mrs. Cox and started for the parlor. “Shall I bring you tea? We don’t have any biscuits today, I’m afraid.”

I knew she needed the business, and agreed that that would be nice. But I doubted Serena Melton would stay long enough to drink it.

She was standing when I walked into the little parlor, as if she had been pacing the floor while waiting to see if I would come to her or not.

“Miss Crawford,” she said as soon as she saw me. “Bess.”

“Hello, Serena.” We hesitated, decided not to shake hands, and I sat down.

It took her a moment to rally herself, and then she said, “I hope you’ve forgiven me for the things I said when we parted at the railway station. I was under considerable strain, and it seemed then that everyone was set against me. I felt an obligation to find out who the man was in Marjorie’s life—I owe that to my brother—but it has been a very difficult task I’ve set myself, and I have no experience to guide me.”

It was a long preamble. I was beginning to feel a little ill at ease.

“I can appreciate your determination, Serena. But I think the police are better at getting to the truth.”

“But they haven’t. In all this time. Until now. I’m told you were there. And I need to know if I can believe—if it’s true, is it the same man who seduced her?”

“I—really don’t know, Serena. I’m as much in the dark as you.”

“But you were there,” she pressed. “You must know something. I don’t fault you for not telling me, not after the way I behaved earlier. Still, for Meriwether’s sake, if not mine, perhaps you’ll tell me what you know.”

Thinking she might be more willing to reveal her sources now, when she wanted something from me, than after I’d answered her questions, I said, “First, I’d like to ask you how you knew that I was present.”

The door opened and Mrs. Cox came in with the tea tray. Smiling, she set it down on the table next to me, and then quietly withdrew.

Busying myself with the pot and the cups, I asked Serena how she preferred her tea, all the while wondering how much I could safely tell her about that night in the rain when I’d seen Marjorie Evanson.

I nearly dropped the cup I was about to hand her when she said, “Victoria Garrison telephoned me. She felt I ought to know. I can’t think why—she and I had words over where her sister was to be interred. To be honest, under the circumstances, I didn’t want Marjorie lying next to Meriwether and Victoria didn’t want Marjorie to be returned to Little Sefton. Even when Merry was alive, I didn’t see Victoria very often, and I could tell she and Marjorie never got on. I wasn’t sure whether she was gloating or intended to be kind when she telephoned me.”

Oh dear, I thought, rapidly reassessing what it was she must be wanting me to tell her. I’d come all too close to revealing more than I should, because it was on my mind and not hers.

“Do you mean when Michael was taken into custody?”

“Yes, yes. The police had come to arrest him for the attack on Mrs. Calder, as well as Marjorie’s murder. Is it true? Did he do those things? I’d suspected he and Marjorie were close, even before she married my brother. But if he killed her, was he also her lover? I must know. Michael always struck me as someone who used his charm for his own advantage. I never could tell when he was serious or not. But he’s been in France, or so I’d thought, and it never occurred to me to look in his direction until now.”

“I think the police have probably made a mistake,” I said. “I don’t know Michael all that well, you see. I was there, yes, but I couldn’t quite understand why the police feel he killed Marjorie. He admits he was in London at the time—”

“So I have heard,” she interrupted eagerly. “He was there, he had the opportunity. I’d persuaded Jack to find out who was in England around that time, but I never even thought about Michael.”

“But he was here to have his eye treated—and he’s recovering from other wounds now. It’s hard to believe he could have managed either attack. Physically, I mean.”

“You don’t know what men are capable of when they put their minds to it,” she informed me darkly. “You aren’t married, you don’t know how determined they can be.”

“No, you don’t understand, he ran a terrible risk, medically. If his eye had hemorrhaged, he could have lost his sight. And now he was likely to do serious damage to his shoulder. After all the surgeries and the pain he’s had to endure, I don’t see him taking that chance. It could mean losing his arm. And he realizes that. It would be foolish.”

“It might seem foolish to you,” she told me, “but we can’t know what was in his mind.”

“If he was her lover—and I’m not convinced of that—why should he then wish to kill her?” And I asked myself, why was she weeping copiously on Raymond Melton’s shoulder, if it was Michael who had got her pregnant? Unless Michael, not knowing he would be in London, had asked a friend to act for him.

“She might have told him it was over, that Meriwether was coming home and she wanted to go back to him. Jealousy is a powerful emotion. Sometimes people who are as handsome as Michael can’t accept rejection. They’re used to being adored.”

She had worked it all out in her mind. Just as Inspector Herbert had done.

“Yes, of course that’s possible,” I argued. “But then why should he want to harm Mrs. Calder?”

“Perhaps she just found out he was in London then, and Marjorie had already told her about a man she was seeing. Helen Calder realized what that must mean, and she could have told Michael what she intended to do, giving him the opportunity to do the right thing and turn himself in. I don’t know Helen Calder well, but she is very conventional, isn’t she? Or maybe she herself really didn’t want to get involved with the police.”

Mrs. Calder was rather conventional. It would explain why Michael urgently wanted to go up to London. Could Serena be right? But why had he told his uncle he was intending to see Mrs. Calder? Why not claim he needed to visit a doctor? Why did he take a knife with him?

When I hesitated, Serena said, “He couldn’t be sure, could he? That she wouldn’t go to the police herself? It’s possible he only wanted to persuade her she was wrong.”

“Serena, you’ve made a very strong case. But it’s mostly conjecture. There’s no way of knowing how true it really is.”

Her face hardened. “Victoria told me you’d argued with the police inspector. And you’re standing up for Michael now.” She set her teacup aside. “She told me too that you were in love with Michael Hart. All I wanted to know is, was Victoria right? Can I believe her, that the police actually took him into custody, that he’s not just helping them with their inquiries? Marjorie didn’t trust her sister. Can I?”

I let out my breath in a sign of frustration. “In the first place, I’m not in love with Lieutenant Hart. I’ve told you, I hardly know him. In the second, it’s true he was taken into custody, and that I was present. And yes, I did argue with the inspector. I thought his case a very poor one. Medically I didn’t see how Michael Hart could have attacked those two women. But Inspector Herbert is convinced that it was possible. And finally, Victoria Garrison is a troublemaker. The only reason I can think of for her to telephone you and tell you about Michael is to stir up your grief all over again. She settled her score with you. Don’t you see?”

Standing, she said, “I shouldn’t have come. I just want to see the end of this business, so that my brother can finally rest in peace.”

I felt like telling her that her brother might have found that peace if she herself hadn’t told him the whole truth about his wife. It had been unnecessarily hurtful. The only reason I could think of for her not to shield him was her own jealousy. That she was both shocked and gloating that Marjorie had fallen so far from grace. And now it was Serena who needed to find some peace.

I said, “Serena. I can understand that you want to see Marjorie’s murderer caught—”

“He got around you just as he got around Marjorie, didn’t he? You can’t see beyond that, but I can. I can see him clearly.”

She marched to the door, self-righteous indignation in every stride.

I waited until she had reached it, then asked, “Serena. Someone shot at Lieutenant Hart earlier this week. Whoever it was missed him both times. Was it you?” That stopped her cold.

I added, “There was a weapon missing from your husband’s gun cabinet. A revolver, at a guess.”

“You are grasping at straws, aren’t you? Jack carries a weapon when he’s in London. For self-protection, because of the work he does. I’d hardly call that ‘missing.’”

And she was gone.

I could hear the outer door of The Four Doves shutting with what might be called some force.

Setting the cups back on the tea tray, I went to thank Mrs. Cox and settle the account for our tea.

She said, “Your visitor was crying when she left. Is everything all right?”

Surprised, I answered, “She hoped for good news.”

Mrs. Cox nodded. “We could all use a little of that.”

I just wished Helen Calder would regain consciousness and tell us what she remembered. Good news—or bad—but better than this limbo.

The dinner party went exceedingly well, our cook outdoing herself with the chickens and even with a lovely French tart for the sweet. I couldn’t help but wonder where she had found the sugar for the glaze.

Most of all I enjoyed the guests, many of them friends of my parents, a few of them friends of mine. Diana was in London and arrived in high spirits, flirting with Simon, although Mary had told me it was likely she would be engaged by the autumn. Another of my flatmates, Elayne, was a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in weeks and we had much to catch up on. She too was expecting a proposal, she said, and I was happy for her.

Even Melinda Crawford had traveled all the way from Kent. She and my father were distantly related, and both her husband and her father had served in India in their time. As she leaned on Simon’s arm as we went in to dinner, she said, “When this wicked war is finished, I want to go back to India. I’ve unfinished business there. Will you take me?” Overhearing that, I made a promise to myself that I would go with them.

Throughout that dinner, I enjoyed watching my mother’s face. She loved entertaining, did it well, and was a clever hostess. I smiled at her down the table, and won a smile in return.

My leave was nearly up. I felt a twinge of regret, knowing how much this time meant to my parents.