friends easily.
And so it was that Dorothea Mitchell-now Dorothea Worth-was engaged to find someone in her own vast acquaintance who could provide an introduction into Little Sefton for me. It didn't take her very long.
Mrs. Worth knew someone in Gloucester who had a friend in St. Albans whose younger sister happened to live in Little Sefton, Hampshire.
It was that simple.
Armed with a letter from my mother, I drove myself to Little Sefton-a good four-hour journey-and presented myself at the door of one Alicia Dalton.
I'd expected someone of my mother's age, but the woman who answered my knock was only about ten years older than I was. She was fair, with blue eyes, and her smile was warm.
'Miss Crawford? How nice to meet you. Do come in.'
The house was stone, with lovely windows and colorful flower beds that ran down the short drive to the gates. Inside it was cool, with high ceilings and paneling in the hall, stairs running up to one side and a passage to other rooms on the left.
'I've been looking forward to your visit ever since my sister wrote to me. She didn't tell me why you were so interested in Little Sefton, but I was delighted to have your company even if only for a short while. My husband just went back to France, and I've been fighting tears and melancholy for two days.'
'I'm interested in Marjorie Evanson,' I told her truthfully. 'I knew her husband-he was one of my patients after his last crash-and her death has been on my mind as well as his. I thought perhaps it would help if I came here and tried to put the past to rest.'
That wasn't the whole truth. But it would do as a start.
'I knew Marjorie, of course. Not well-she was a rather private person, even as a child. But do come in, you'll want to settle yourself in your room, and then we can sit in the garden and talk.' As she led the way upstairs, she said over her shoulder, 'You're in luck, actually. We're having a garden party to raise money for children whose fathers have been killed. I'll take you around and introduce you to people.'
She chattered all the way to my room, which was down the passage to the left, and when she opened the door, I smiled.
The room was large and airy, with windows looking out across the gardens toward the church that stood on a slight rise to the north, the rooftops of cottages clustered around it. The coverlet on the bed was a soft yellow, with flowers embroidered in a circle in the center, and the window curtains were cream with pale green ties.
'How lovely!' I said.
'I'm glad you like it. It's Gareth's sister's room. She's in London awaiting the birth of her first child. It's a nervous time, and she wanted to be near her doctors. I'll leave you to freshen up. Come down the stairs, go to the second door on your left, and I'll have tea waiting.'
I thanked her, changed out of my traveling clothes and into a dress that was more comfortable in the afternoon heat, then went down to find Alicia.
She was in a small room with delicate French furnishings, a very feminine room with walls painted a soft rose and trimmed in cream.
We were soon on first-name terms, and I discovered that she was a fund of information about Marjorie.
'She has a sister, you know. Victoria. Marjorie was always in her shadow, a quiet girl who never fussed about anything, tried hard to please, and was never in trouble of any kind.'
'Marjorie is younger than Victoria?'
'Oh, no, Victoria was several years younger, but you'd never guess it, really. She was domineering from childhood, always wanting her own way, always making certain that no one forgot her. I thought her quite bossy, and said as much to Marjorie one day when we were twelve. She gave me her quiet little smile, and said, 'Yes, it's simpler to give in than to fight. There's peace at home when Victoria is happy.' I told her that was arrant foolishness, that Victoria needed to learn her manners and her place. But her father doted on her, you see-Victoria, I mean-and he thought her behavior was a mark of strong character. In truth, she was quite spoiled.'
'And Marjorie always let her have her way?'
'At least while she was living at home. But when Marjorie went away to school, and then to live with her aunt in London, on her next visit here she surprised us all by telling Victoria she was a bully. Publicly.'
I laughed. 'And what did Victoria have to say about that?'
'She left in a huff, vowing never to darken the door of any house where Marjorie might be invited. But it must have given her pause, because Marjorie and she were on better terms for a time.'
'Does this aunt still live in London?'
'She died just after Marjorie and Meriwether were married. There's a distant cousin, Helen Calder, but no other family that I know of.'
I found myself wondering how Serena Melton, Lieutenant Evanson's sister, and Victoria, Marjorie's sister, had got on. Like oil and water, very likely. They were both strong-willed women.
'Did the family approve of Marjorie's marriage to Meriwether Evanson?'
Alicia refilled my cup as she answered.
'It was a very good match. I think Mr. Garrison was pleased. Victoria wasn't. All the same, she was soon enjoying being the only child in the bosom of her family, and until her father's death, she showed no interest in leaving home. The Garrison house was left to her.'
'Did you know Lieutenant Evanson well?'
'I stayed with Marjorie and Meriwether in London for two weeks in the autumn of 1915. I'd seen Gareth off to the France and I needed cheering up.'
'How did they get on?'
'It was a love match, you know. They were quite happy. I think Marjorie had hoped that she might have a child before very long, but it never happened. Probably for the best, with both parents dead now.'
It was a very practical point of view. But I thought perhaps Alicia was convincing herself that it was just as well she had no children yet.
If Victoria and Marjorie hadn't got on, I'd probably come here on a wild-goose chase. Still, sudden death could change attitudes, smooth over rifts.
As if she'd read my thoughts, Alicia said, 'I couldn't believe it when I heard that Marjorie was murdered. I've never known anyone who was murdered. It was rather frightening. I couldn't help but wonder how it had happened. I mean, no one walks up to you and says, 'Hallo, I've just decided to kill you.' It's hard to comprehend.' She shivered.
I said, 'I expect there must have been a reason. Love. Hate. Fear. Greed. Passion. Some strong emotion that got out of hand.'
'They did say that her purse was missing. It doesn't bear thinking of-killed for a few pounds. And then Meriwether dying so soon afterward. I saw Serena Melton at her brother's funeral, and she was in such distress. I heard her say to the rector, 'It's not fair, you know, for me to lose Merry on her account.' Meaning Marjorie. I thought it was a terrible thing to say. But they were close, Serena and her brother. I remember Marjorie telling me once that their parents had died at a very young age, and the two of them had depended on each other for support. Their guardian was not particularly good at dealing with distraught children, and left them to their own devices. A roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, food on their table and he felt his duty was more than satisfactorily done.'
It explained Serena's feelings for her brother. Serena and Meriwether had been thrown together in a time of grief, when there was quite simply no one else to comfort them. It was a powerful tie.
I also understood why Marjorie might not have turned to her own sister, in her distress. Then where had she gone?
'What about Marjorie's mother? How did she feel about her daughters?'
'She's dead.' Alicia's answer was short.
Marjorie had been utterly alone. No wonder she had been crying as if her heart were broken.
If anyone had a reason for suicide, she did. And yet she'd been murdered.
The garden party the next day was held at the rectory, and according to Alicia, it was a pale shadow of former days, when food was plentiful and two-thirds of the male population wasn't away fighting a war.
