someone…' He left the rest unfinished.
I thanked him, and then I was being welcomed with open arms. There was no fatted calf, there not being one handy for this occasion or any other, but I was safe and at home.
It wasn't until after dinner that I found a moment to put through a call to Scotland Yard. I only wanted to be reassured, told that I was wrong about Lieutenant Fordham.
A constable at the other end identified himself and asked how he could help me. I asked for Inspector Herbert.
'Your name, please?'
I gave it.
'I'm sorry, Miss Crawford. Inspector Herbert isn't in at present.'
'When do you expect him to return?' I asked.
'I can't say, Miss.'
'Tonight? Tomorrow?'
'I can't say, Miss.'
I waited for him to ask if there was a message. But there was only silence.
I thanked him and put up the receiver.
Then I went to find my mother.
For someone who had spent most of her married life following my father around the world, she seemed to know half of England.
My father always explained that without any difficulty. 'In the first place,' he'd told me soon after we'd returned to Britain, 'she needs to know anyone of importance, with an eye to providing you with a suitable husband.'
Shocked, I'd blurted, 'I'll find my own husband, thank you!'
'I'm sure you'll try,' he'd replied doubtfully. 'In the second place, if you've never noticed it for yourself, your mother has a winning way. People flock to her, wanting to be her friend. I've never understood it, to tell you the truth. But I've found that fact helpful more times than I've chosen to tell her.'
Laughing, I'd answered, 'Come to think of it, you're right.'
'And lastly, who will people think of the instant they suspect trouble is stalking them? Complete strangers, mind you, but they'll turn up on our doorstep seeking an audience with your mother for her advice.'
I could clearly remember asking my mother when I was a child in India why there were always people at our door, natives and Europeans alike. She'd answered, 'I never know, my dear. I think the wind blows my name to them.'
And for days, I'd watched and listened, hoping to hear her name in the wind for myself.
At the moment, knowing half of England was going to come in handy.
My father had gone out to walk-a habit left over from his days in the Army-and my mother was reading in the small sitting room she used most often.
She looked up. 'There you are. I thought there was something on your mind. I sensed it at dinner.' Drawing up another chair, she said, 'Is it France?'
'Not France. Do you think, Mother, you could arrange an introduction to someone who lives in or near Little Sefton, in Hampshire?'
'And what, pray, is in Little Sefton that takes you away just as you've walked in the door?' my suspicious mother wanted to know.
'It's where Marjorie Evanson grew up.'
She repeated the name, then said, 'Isn't she the woman who was found murdered in London not so very long ago?' She picked up her knitting.
'In fact, yes. I knew her husband. He died of a broken heart after she was found dead. He had a long recovery ahead of him. Severe burns. I expect he had nothing to live for after that. He was devoted to her.'
'One of your wounded? I see. Meddling again, are you?'
I tried a smile, to see if it would help. 'Not so much meddling as trying to understand why the police haven't made more progress. Or if they have, why they've kept it quiet. Most of us live in London peacefully. We aren't murdered in our beds or on the streets, and tossed into the river.'
'I should hope not,' my mother said, not losing a stitch. 'Your father has gone to great lengths to enlist Mrs. Hennessey in his campaign to see you safe.'
I had to laugh. Still, I answered her, 'I can take care of myself.'
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I had a flash of memory, of the German pilot firing his machine gun and the bullets tearing up the earth toward me.
'I'm quite sure Marjorie Evanson felt exactly the same,' she reminded me.
'Yes,' I began, ready to argue the point, then thought better of it. 'The truth is, I have a photograph of her.' I went on to explain how I had come into possession of it. 'I'm not sure-given the circumstances-that Marjorie Evanson's family will want it any more than Serena Melton did. I thought perhaps I should find out before I sent it.'
'And quite right,' my mother nodded. 'Tell me more about this man you saw at the station. Why do you think he's never come forward?'
'I have no way of knowing whether he has or not. I rather think not. But something happened recently that made me believe the police are looking in the wrong direction.'
'Perhaps he has a good reason for not contacting the police. That's to say, if he knows they're looking for him. Either he's married, or he's in a position that would make an affair with a married woman bad for his reputation.'
Depend on my mother to reach the heart of the matter.
'It doesn't speak well for him, I agree.'
'Are the police quite sure he had nothing to do with Mrs. Evanson's death?' She turned the heel of the stocking she was knitting. Then she looked up at me.
'They felt it was possible, but not likely. I don't see how he could have managed it. Once they find him, they'll know whether he met his ship on time or not.'
'Has it occurred to you, my dear, that if you're the only person who can identify this man, it might put you in some danger? Especially if he killed Mrs. Evanson. And even if he didn't.'
'I don't think it's very likely that he even knows I exist.'
'I wouldn't be too sure about that. If you saw him, how can you be so certain he didn't see you standing there staring at the two of them?'
'He didn't look my way. He was staring straight ahead.'
'But you were looking at Mrs. Evanson.'
A point well taken.
I said, 'All the more reason to rid myself of this photograph as soon as may be. And put the Evansons out of my mind.'
But I wasn't sure I could do that. And so I added, to ease some of the worry I could read in my mother's eyes, 'He could be dead, of course. For all we know.'
'Don't make excuses for him. And Scotland Yard can find him without your help.'
'The thing is, they have no name, no photograph, only my description.' I sighed. 'It's been long enough now. I have a feeling Mrs. Evanson's murder will never be solved. And I find that abominable. He was my patient-her husband-and that makes it personal.'
'Yes, you always did have an extraordinary sense of fair play. For better or for worse. Well, perhaps it would be wisest if I helped you, and made certain you don't come to grief.'
She sat there, staring into space, thinking. I said nothing, almost afraid that if I spoke, she might change her mind.
Finally she said, 'Do you remember Dorothea Mitchell?'
'She was a school chum of yours.'
'We've kept in touch all these years, and I've met her in London a time or two for lunch. I'll have a word with her.'
I was reminded of what my father had said in his second point about my mother, that she won and kept
