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.