Dr. Buckley was being sent back to England. He resisted going at first, and then relented finally, asking if I could escort him-'She doesn't fuss,' he had told the worried doctors who had examined him. At the same time I was informed that I was to be given leave, although I knew very well that in the rotation, I had weeks to go.
I never knew-although I had my suspicions-if my leave had to do with Dr. Buckley, or if Inspector Herbert had had some say in it. That was rather far-fetched, but stranger things, I'd learned in dealing with the Army, could happen. It was entirely possible that Simon Brandon had pulled some strings. Between them, he and my father knew everyone from General Haig to the lowliest subaltern down the line of command.
It was Simon who met my train as it came into London, and I'd sent no telegram.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Simon greeted me, took my satchel away from me, and walked with me to the motorcar that was waiting outside the station.
My father's motorcar, in fact.
Simon smiled. 'It's home for you, Miss Crawford. Orders from the Colonel-in-Chief.'
That was my mother. None of us disobeyed her when she issued a command.
I had delivered Dr. Buckley to a doctor waiting for him in the hospital in Portsmouth. Once he'd been settled and the papers I'd been carrying about his condition were handed over to Matron, who took charge of them and Dr. Buckley with quiet efficiency, I had been free to leave.
I was just as glad to be going home again. Standing at the rail of the ship bringing us into Portsmouth, I'd watched the smooth waters of The Solent and the irregular shape of the Isle of Wight rise out of the darkness like some fantastical place in dreams-quiet and peaceful. At the back of my mind, unbidden, were the sounds of that Spandau machine gun firing round after round. And then an officer of the Wiltshire Fusiliers came to stand beside me, looking out toward the busy harbor.
'I miss the lights,' he said without turning. 'I could pick out the villages by their lights as we came into port.'
They had been turned off to make the enemy blind. Portsmouth, across The Solent, was a major port and a tempting target for submarines.
I looked up at him, but it wasn't the face I'd hoped to see.
And that encounter had brought Marjorie Evanson back to mind. I still had her photograph.
Turning to Simon as we drove toward Somerset, I said, 'What did you learn about Lieutenant Fordham's death?'
'It's still under wraps. A police matter. How did you come to hear about his death? Your letter was brief.'
'I was worried about the censors. Scotland Yard wanted to know if he was the man I'd seen with Marjorie Evanson at the railway station, the day she died.'
'And was he?'
'No. I can't even be sure he knew Mrs. Evanson. He was just in the same regiment as the officer the Yard is looking for. To help with their inquiries, as they say. Scotland Yard might even have asked me just on the off chance it would connect the two cases. Apparently they haven't made much progress in finding her murderer.'
'That explains the fact that so little has come to light about Fordham's death. The Yard kept it out of the newspapers. Did you know that? But then Fordham was from a prominent family. I suspect they'd rather believe he was murdered than that he killed himself. He was a serving officer, recovering from wounds. Suicide smacks of not being able to face going back into the line.'
'Was there an inquest?'
'It was adjourned at the request of the police.'
'I did ask Inspector Herbert for the particulars, when I answered his letter. But he never replied. Where does the Fordham family live, do you know?'
'In Wiltshire. Leave it to the police, Bess.'
'I know. They have more resources, and all that.' I gave the matter some thought, then asked, 'Was Lieutenant Fordham married?'
'I don't know. Bess-'
He turned to look at me, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. And that was when I realized that he was not telling me everything. I know Simon Brandon as well as he knows me.
'There's something else. What is it, Simon?' He was concentrating on passing a small dogcart driven by a heavyset man asleep on the seat, the pony trotting purposefully toward its destination as if it had done this a thousand times before. I waited until we were safely past pony and cart. 'You might as well tell me.'
'There's nothing to tell.'
I smiled. 'Must I spend my entire leave making your life miserable, wheedling and pleading and issuing ultimatums?' His profile was like stone. 'I'll even cry.'
He laughed then. 'I haven't seen you cry in years.'
I let it go. We drove in silence for some time.
Finally, Simon said, 'All right. A fortnight before he died, Lieutenant Fordham was invited to a weekend party at Melton Hall.'
I stared at him. 'Melton Hall? But-' I stopped, then asked, 'And did he accept?'
'He refused the invitation.'
There could have been any number of reasons for refusing. But what had Serena Melton made of that?
'How on earth did you discover that?'
'Quite by chance. I was asking someone about Fordham, but she hadn't seen him for weeks. And then she added that, in fact, she'd just missed him. Apparently she'd attended a party where she'd been looking forward to seeing him-she had heard he was to be a fellow guest. But he never came. When she asked her hostess if he was all right, she was told that Fordham had pleaded another engagement. When she learned afterward that he'd died, she had wondered if his wounds were worse than she knew.'
'I was a guest there one weekend. Simon, he must have known Marjorie-that's the only reason he'd have been asked to the party.'
'That's why I didn't want to tell you. I knew you'd jump to conclusions.'
I let it drop. But the rest of the way home to Somerset my mind was busy.
Inspector Herbert had asked me if the face in the photograph was the man I'd seen in the railway station with Marjorie Evanson. And I'd replied that he wasn't.
Granted, a good deal ot time had passed since that night. But Inspector Herbert must have believed that I could still recognize him. Otherwise, why send the photograph?
If there was some evidence I didn't know about, why hadn't he said so? Something that pointed to Lieutenant Fordham, something to show that the man at the station had had nothing to do with Marjorie's death later that night. Yet he'd asked if they were one and the same.
Surely he wouldn't simply close the case now, whatever evidence he had uncovered, and never identify Marjorie Evanson's lover? Yes, Lieutenant Fordham had taken his own life, there could be no trial, the matter could be hushed up and the family's good name protected. But what about justice for Marjorie and her good name?
The silence, keeping the facts of the lieutenant's death out of the press, adjourning the inquest-it all made a certain sense whether I was comfortable with it or not.
After all, it was her murderer Scotland Yard wanted. It didn't matter about her private life if that private life had nothing to do with her death. Even if it had been responsible for her husband's suicide, the police could wash their hands of the case.
That seemed so unfair to Marjorie, so unfair to her husband, and to the families that grieved for them.
'You've been quiet. Are you all right?' Simon was asking as we came down the street and could see the house gates just ahead.
'A little tired, that's all.'
Thinking that I must be remembering what I'd left behind in France, he said, 'If you need to talk to
