An Impartial Witness bcm-2 Read online

  CHAPTER TWO

  I expected that the police would thank me for my information. And that would be the end of it. I wrote to Mrs. Hennessey, asking her to save the London papers, in the event there was any more news.

  What I was not prepared for was a summons through channels to speak to someone at the Yard, an Inspector Herbert. I was given leave to travel to London for that purpose and two days later I was sitting in a grim little office at Scotland Yard, having been escorted there by a constable with a limp and lines of pain in his face.

  After several minutes, a harried, balding man stepped into the room, introduced himself, asked me how my journey from France had been, and then lifted a sheet of paper from his desk and frowned at it. I recognized it.

  "The Evanson case. We've had precious little help from the public, sad to say. I was on the point of giving up hope when your letter came." He lifted his gaze to my face, the frown deepening.

  "You write that you recognized Mrs. Evanson from a photograph that her husband kept by his side. How long before encountering Mrs. Evanson at the railway station had you seen this photograph?"

  "A matter of hours? That morning I'd transported her husband and other patients to a clinic in Hampshire and turned them over to the staff there. It was a little past five o'clock when my train pulled into London-I wasn't required to return to France for another day."

  "Tell me again exactly what you saw."

  "As I left the train and was walking toward the exit, Mrs. Evanson was literally in my path, and it was obvious that she had broken down. Her shoulders were shaking with her sobs. Of course, at that point I couldn't see her face because she was turned toward the officer standing beside her. Just then she looked up, and I realized I knew who she was."

  "You also state in your letter that you recognized the cap badge but couldn't see the man's rank because of the trench coat he was wearing. But he was an officer in a Wiltshire regiment. Can you be quite certain about such details?"

  "My father was in the Army for most of his adult life," I replied. "I know how to judge what rank a man holds and what regiment he serves with."

  "And you are satisfied that he did take the train just as it was pulling away? He didn't pretend to board and then return to the platform?"

  "I saw him take his seat. He didn't look back toward Mrs. Evanson. That distressed her, and she watched the train until it was out of sight. I don't know how he could have managed leaving without being seen. She turned then and left in a rush. I couldn't tell which way she went after that. It was raining, I had to hand in my ticket, and I was carrying my valise."

  He nodded. "To be sure. And she was in great distress, you said."

  "Yes. That's what drew my attention to her in the first place."

  "What made her distress different from that of other women seeing off friends or loved ones?"

  I frowned. "I thought at the time that perhaps she'd had a premonition or a dream that he wouldn't be coming back. She wasn't putting on a brave front, you see, as so many women do. She appeared to be giving in to her feelings."

  "As you observed the two of them together-Mrs. Evanson and the officer-could you form an opinion of the relationship between them?"

  "She clung to him. He hardly looked at her or touched her."

  Inspector Herbert raised his eyebrows. "He didn't comfort her? Was he perhaps embarrassed by her behavior?"

  "I-that's one possible interpretation. But he stayed there with her, he didn't walk away until the train began to move." It occurred to me then that by standing with her until the last minute, he'd kept her from following him to his carriage.

  After a moment's thought, Inspector Herbert went on. "I am about to confide to you information that we haven't made public, Miss Crawford. And I hope you'll not repeat it. But I think it's necessary if we're to understand the facts you've placed before us. The coroner has informed us that Mrs. Evanson was nearly three months' pregnant. I must assume, from my exchange of letters with his commanding officer, that her husband, Lieutenant Evanson, couldn't have been the father of this child. By any chance, are you able to verify his medical history?"

  I tried not to show my shock. "I know from his medical records that Lieutenant Evanson has been in hospital in France for two months. Before that, his aircraft had been shot down over German lines and it was at least two weeks before he made his way back to British lines. He wasn't hurt in that crash, at least not seriously, although he was sent to hospital for observation because of a blow to the head. There was no concussion, and he was released to his unit. But a few weeks later he wasn't so lucky-his aircraft caught fire and he was fortunate to survive at all. It must be four months or more since he was in England. At the very least."

  I had heard one of the doctors say that Lieutenant Evanson had been returned to duty too soon, before the psychological effects of his first crash had worn off. But they were desperate for experienced pilots and he'd been eager to rejoin his flight.

  "As we'd thought. The Army has supplied the particulars, but not in such detail. To the next question. You only saw Mrs. Evanson and the officer together for a brief moment. Do you think that this man might be the father of her child?"

  I knew what he was asking: if not, did she have other lovers? I didn't want to believe that of her. But then I really knew nothing about her.

  I pictured her again in my mind's eye. If I'd been touched by her anguish, why hadn't he? How had he managed to remain indifferent? Could that mean she'd only just told him her news? There at the station, where they were surrounded by strangers? She might have lost her nerve earlier, or been afraid that he wouldn't allow her to come to see him off.

  I remembered a detail that I hadn't put in my letter. When he bent to kiss her on the cheek, she hadn't responded. She hadn't put her hand up to his face or turned to kiss him. It was as if he hadn't quite known how to walk away from her. And she had been numb, the perfunctory kiss a gesture on his part that she barely felt. That could mean he'd just made it clear that for him the affair was over. What if her distress was her bitter realization that he would do nothing to help her now, even if he knew about the child?

  I took a deep breath. "It would be easy to read into what I saw all sorts of explanations that very likely weren't there. At a guess, there was more estrangement between them than passion. That's why I felt at the time that she never expected to see him again."

  Inspector Herbert nodded. "I've drawn much the same conclusion. Still, there's always the possibility that he left the train at the next stop because he knew where to find her. I must keep an open mind there."

  "If he was rejoining his regiment, he might not have had the option of waiting for a later train."

  "Then we must find the man, if only to clarify that point. To be honest, we're no closer to discovering our murderer now than we were when our plea for information was published in the newspapers." Which I interpreted to mean that he was in some way disappointed in my evidence.

  "If you'd told me she was a suicide, I would have found that believable, given her state of mind. Or even if he'd been found dead instead of Mrs. Evanson. Not to suggest that she could have killed anyone. It's just that her death seems so-inexplicable."

  Inspector Herbert smiled. "You have been very helpful, Miss Crawford. Thank you for coming forward."

  I was being dismissed.

  I rose to take my leave.

  But at the door, I turned, my training reminding me. "Do you know-had she seen a doctor, to confirm her suspicion that she was pregnant?" She must have guessed by the third month.

  "We've had no luck there either. I sent my men out with photographs of Mrs. Evanson, in the event she had used a false name. They spoke to doctors and their staffs all across London, and to midwives as well as-er-less savory practitioners in the poorer neighborhoods of the city. So far it would appear that she hasn't been to anyone. We had hoped that the father was decent enough to accompany her and someone remembered him."

  Scotland Yar
d had been thorough.

  "Surely her family must have some idea who her friends were. There must have been someone she'd seen more of than was proper."

  "Neither her sister nor her sister-in-law had any inkling that there was someone. And the friends we've spoken to tell us the same thing," Inspector Herbert replied. "On the other hand, it's more than likely that when she was with this man, she'd avoid places where she might be recognized. Otherwise there could have been gossip, which might even reach her husband's ears in time." He paused. "You're a woman. Where would you look for help if you were in Mrs. Evanson's shoes?"

  "I can't imagine that I'd turn to the man's family. I'm sure they were kept in the dark as well. I'm not sure about friends either. I'd be afraid they would stand in judgment of me. I expect I'd go somewhere I wasn't known, and pose as a war widow. People might be more kind in such circumstances. I'd be frightened about doing anything until I'd told my lover. And perhaps even after I'd told him."

  "Frightened of him?" Inspector Herbert asked sharply.

  "Frightened for myself and what was to come. I couldn't count on him, could I? He might be married. And even if he were not, I couldn't be sure he'd stand by me and marry me when-if-my husband divorced me. I'd have to face everything alone-my family, my husband, my friends. There's nowhere else to turn, then. And there's the child to think about. I wish now I'd caught up with her outside the station. But that's hindsight, of course. She wouldn't have confided in her husband's nurse, would she?"

  "Quite. At least, thanks to you, we've discovered she was with someone later that day. That leaves only five or six more hours to account for. It had been ten, in the beginning. And in ten hours, she might have gone anywhere and still returned to London in time to be murdered. A needle in the proverbial haystack."

  I remembered Sister James's comment. "I don't like to suggest-but there are men who prey on women, and if she had nowhere to turn, literally, if she sat crying on a bench along the Thames, or walked in Green Park-"

  "We've had no problems of that sort-thank God-these past twelve months. But yes, we've taken that into account. Far-fetched, perhaps, but we haven't shut our eyes to the possibility. And her husband's family is pushing for an early conclusion. We have none to offer at present."

  I thanked him and left. The patient constable led me down the stairs and out to the street. He asked as I stepped out onto the pavement, "Shall I find a cab for you, Miss?"

  "I'd like to walk a bit first. Thank you, Constable."

  He smiled. "Safe journey home, Miss."

  Little did he know that I'd be in France in another four and twenty hours.

  I'd come nearly as far as Buckingham Palace, going over what I'd learned from Inspector Herbert. This meeting at Scotland Yard had been distressing. Both because of what I'd seen at the railway station and because I'd had Lieutenant Evanson in my care long enough to be concerned for him and his welfare. Yes, Marjorie Evanson had transgressed in the eyes of society. Sadly, such affairs were more common in the disruption of war. I'd heard patients worry about their wives when letters were slow in arriving, long silences that were never fully explained. They would ask me if I thought there was someone else, and always I'd tried to be reassuring, for fear of a relapse. And I'd had patients confess to me that they'd been unfaithful to wives or sweethearts, afraid to die with that on their conscience.

  "Sister, I have to tell someone…"

  But I couldn't judge Marjorie Evanson. I knew nothing about her, about what or who had tempted her, how she had come to do what she did. Whether it had anything to do with her death was something Scotland Yard must discover.

  I found myself looking at the watch pinned at my shoulder. There was time-just-to find a telephone and put in a call to my parents, to say hello. And then I could take the early train to Portsmouth and stop at Laurel House on my way there.

  I could see for myself how Lieutenant Evanson was faring, and it would help me put all this behind me. There was probably very little I could do for him, but perhaps a familiar face would cheer him, and we needn't mention his wife at all.

  I felt a little better as I turned to hail a cab.

  This was a lovely summer's day to be traveling, the roadsides and meadows rampant with wildflowers, villages quiet under the afternoon sun. A herd of sheep, recently shorn, ambled down a lane on their way back to pasture as we waited half an hour at a crossing to give a troop train priority. Lambs frolicked about the ewes, and robins were nesting in the hedgerow beyond. Birds had all but vanished in France, even the carrion crows.

  I was looking forward to seeing Lieutenant Evanson, but I was beginning to wonder what I was to say to him. I needn't explain precisely why I was in England. He would take it for granted that I'd brought other patients back. And I wouldn't speak of his wife unless he brought up her death. Least said, soonest mended, my mother had often warned me. There was no need to mention my encounter with Marjorie at the railway station either. And if there were other visitors, my stay could be brief. I'd know, after five minutes in his company, how he was coping.

  At Marlyn Station, I found a man who could carry me on to my destination. And he promised to wait, because I dared not miss the next train south to Portsmouth. I'd have to stay the night, and my orders didn't leave me that option.

  I had had other things on my mind the last time I was here, and it had been raining. Today as we came through the gates and up the drive, I could see that Laurel House was a handsome brick edifice in the Georgian style, with white stone trim and two broad half-moon steps leading up to the main doors. They stood open to the warm day, and I walked in, stopping at the small table that served as Reception.

  I didn't recognize the middle-aged woman sitting there.

  "Nursing Sister Crawford to see Lieutenant Evanson. He was my patient on his journey back to England, and I've stopped in to see him."

  She gave me a strange look. I suddenly felt like an interloper, with no business here.

  "Lieutenant Evanson?" I repeated.

  "Perhaps you ought to speak to Matron, first," the woman said finally.

  "Yes, that's fine," I answered. We walked down a passage between the graceful staircase and the doors to rooms that had once been fashionably decorated for social calls and parties and family evenings at home. Now they were bare wards for those who couldn't mount the stairs.

  Matron had established herself in what had been a small morning room, and I remembered the pale lavender walls and a white coffered ceiling. Filing boxes still occupied all the free space, and the breeze from the open windows stirred papers on the desk. Matron looked as harried as she had on my last visit.

  "Miss Crawford. How nice to see you again. Do sit down. May I offer you tea?"

  "Thank you, no. I must make the next train to Portsmouth. I've come to speak to Lieutenant Evanson."

  I realized suddenly that something was wrong. She had turned her head to look out the window as I was speaking, her gaze on the small gazebo in the garden. Then she turned back to me with an expression I instantly recognized.

  "I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you-we lost Lieutenant Evanson six days ago."

  I started to speak, but she held up her hand.

  "He'd been very depressed since the death of his wife. Despondent might be the better word. We did all we could. And then on Tuesday night, we found him in his bed, dead. Somehow he'd managed to purloin a scalpel, we don't know exactly where or how. And he'd cut his own throat. It was the only death he could manage with his bandaged hands. Even so, it couldn't have been easy. But he was determined, you see."

  I knew my face must be mirroring the expression on hers. Horror. Loss. Grief. And there was something more in her eyes, a sense of guilt, as if somehow she should have prevented his death. I sat there, stunned, and after a moment, she nodded, as if she understood what I was feeling.

  I managed to say the proper things even as my mind struggled to accept what had happened. It was inevitable, given how much he loved his wife.
What else was there to live for, without her, without a face or hands that resembled human features and fingers? And yet it was sad beyond words.

  Why hadn't Inspector Herbert told me? But then he couldn't have known I was coming here. Still-

  A brief silence fell. Then I asked the difficult question. "Who told him that his wife was dead?"

  "His sister came down. It had to be done, of course. We couldn't have kept it from him. He'd been asking for her, you see. But we thought-he seemed to take the news as well as could be expected. He just stared at the wall and said nothing. He was very quiet for the next week, although he asked on two occasions if the police had made any progress in their search for her killer. Afterward, we realized he was simply biding his time. We kept an eye on him, well aware of how much-how important she was to his recovery. As soon as he'd arrived at Laurel House, he'd asked one of the staff to write to his wife, to tell her that he was back in England and how much he looked forward to seeing her. When she didn't come, he wrote to his sister asking if Mrs. Evanson were ill. His sister had hoped to spare him the news until he was stronger, but that was not to be. Mrs. Melton had no choice but to tell her brother the truth."

  Even as he was dictating his first letter, it was too late. According to the police, Marjorie Evanson had left her house early to set out on the journey that would take her to the railway station and then to her death.

  "He did inquire of the doctor if it would be possible for him to attend the funeral service. I needn't tell you it was out of the question. We asked our chaplain, Mr. Davies, to sit with him that day, and offer what comfort he could. I spoke to Mr. Davies that evening as he was leaving, and he felt that Lieutenant Evanson seemed reconciled to his loss. I wasn't convinced, however, and kept an eye on the lieutenant anyway."

  So much for Mr. Davies's powers of observation. Still, he was undoubtedly the village priest, and had very little experience in suicide watches. There was something else to be considered. Lieutenant Evanson was trained as a pilot, taught to bury everything that might distract him from the intense concentration required to handle his aircraft and face a very aggressive enemy. He could well have concealed his intentions by drawing on that same training.