'He was in France at the time.'
'Michael told me Victoria believes there's something he knows about the murder-she keeps demanding that he tell her.'
'I've seen her corner him in the street and even in the churchyard. That explains why he's taken to avoiding her. What does she think? That perhaps Marjorie wrote something to Michael? She didn't know what was about to happen to her. That doesn't make sense.'
I hadn't considered letters. When I didn't answer straightaway, she turned to look at me.
'It was robbery, wasn't it? Marjorie's murder.'
'I don't think her purse has ever been found.'
We had reached Alicia's house, and as she lifted the latch, she said, 'Michael has asked me at least twice to drive him to London. He feels that he could learn something that the police missed or overlooked. It seems so unlikely, and I'm not comfortable driving Gareth's motorcar. I told him so. He's bound to ask you. I think he feels helpless, and needs to be doing something. Even if it's a wild goose chase.'
I didn't tell her he already had asked me. Twice. 'I'm not going to London,' I said. 'I'm returning to Somerset.' But I was still thinking about letters.
'He can be very persuasive,' she said doubtfully. 'You don't know how close I came to giving in, even against my better judgment.'
'And I'm used to the blandishments of wounded men,' I answered. 'He won't sway me.'
When I walked through the door in Somerset with Michael Hart in tow, it was worth any price to see my mother's eyes widen as I introduced him. She was in the sitting room writing letters to her circle of correspondents, and rose to meet us as I said, 'Mother, may I present Lieutenant Michael Hart. He's on his way to London tomorrow, and I offered to give him a lift since he can't drive himself.'
'This is a pleasant surprise,' my mother said, recovering her manners in an instant. 'Will you be staying with us, Lieutenant Hart?'
'I've already taken a room at The Four Doves,' he told her, smiling.
'Indeed,' said the Colonel Sahib, coming into the room behind us, to be introduced in his turn.
'Do sit down,' my mother said hastily, and rang for tea.
CHAPTER NINE
Michael was of course invited to dine with us, and my father swept him off to the stables to see a new foal.
I went up to my room, changing my clothes quickly, and found my mother waiting for me as I came down again.
'Simon is coming to dine as well,' she informed me.
'How cozy,' I replied.
My father and Michael came in at that moment. He said, 'I met Michael's father once in Delhi. He was there as part of a commission on its way to Burma.'
The earlier frost in the air had warmed almost to cordiality. We had drinks in the drawing room and talked about the progress of the war and the garden party at Little Sefton. We were just moving on to changes that the war had brought to London when Simon Brandon came in, greeted me, and shook hands with Michael. As he took his chair on the other side of my mother, Simon passed me an envelope.
'This came for you earlier today.'
I thanked him and shoved it into a pocket until I could read it.
But as we were going in to dinner, Simon, falling back to walk beside me, said, in a low voice, 'That came by special messenger from Scotland Yard. I met him in the drive earlier as I was coming to borrow your mother for half an hour.'
I let him go ahead of me, turned to one side, and tore open the envelope.
There was just a brief message inside. And another photograph. Did you by chance see this man at the railway station on the day in question? He's wanted for the killing of three women in Oxford. They were apparently accosted on the street, then followed home. The previous victims were shopgirls. He escaped the police and may have traveled to London. It's possible he saw Mrs. Evanson, just as you did. Inspector Herbert.
Dismayed, I read the message again. Was it possible they'd found Marjorie Evanson's murderer?
I turned quickly to look into the face of a man I was sure I'd never seen before. It was an older photograph, and I recognized the background: the gates of one of the colleges in Oxford.
He appeared to be of medium height, neither fat nor lean, with a long face that was too ordinary to draw attention. He had what looked to be light brown hair and dark eyes, and a mouth that was too small. He could have been a shop clerk or a lorry driver or the man sitting across the way in an omnibus.
I stared at the photograph for a moment, searching my memory. And then I went to the telephone and put in a call to London and Scotland Yard.
Inspector Herbert was not available, but I left a message for him, telling him that I hadn't seen the man in the photograph.
But as I went in to dinner, I thought how easily he could come up behind someone on a rainy street, and not even turn a head.
Everyone was waiting for me in the dining room, and I apologized for the delay without explaining why it was necessary.
As Michael and my parents carried the burden of conversation, I was silent, thinking about the dead shopgirls and whether Marjorie Evanson, blindly walking out of the station into the rain, might have attracted the notice of someone like the man in the photograph. It could have happened that way. He could have followed her.
But there were a good four or five hours between the time Marjorie Evanson was at the railway station and the time she'd died. Inspector Herbert had said as much himself. Was he clutching at straws?
I'd have liked to ask Michael what he thought, but it would be difficult to explain a communication from Scotland Yard without confessing how I'd been drawn into the case.
I happened to look up as the chutney was passed to me, and I met Simon Brandon's dark eyes, watching me speculatively.
And it was Simon who volunteered to drive Michael back to The Four Doves.
When they had gone, my mother said to me, 'My dear, do you know what you're doing?'
'I'm only taking Michael to London to speak to the staff at Marjorie Evanson's house. He wants to hear about that morning before she left the house. Or if something was worrying her.'
'But surely the police-?'
I shook my head. 'Of course they must have done. But consider. If the police came here, would Lois or Timmy or anyone else who worked for us tell them things they believed we might not want the police to know? For whatever reason?'
'I'd expect them to tell the truth.'
'And they probably would, if you were innocent and the truth would help. But if you were guilty of some indiscretion, and they knew that if they told the police it would ruin your reputation, what then?'
She was fair. She was always fair. 'And so Michael Hart hopes they will confide in him. Charming he may be, but their first loyalty will still be to their mistress, don't you think?'
'He's healing. He needs to focus all his energy on that. And instead I think Marjorie Evanson's death is weighing heavily on his mind. If he learns nothing of importance, he'll still be satisfied that he did all he could for her. And if he does discover something, then he can take it to the police.'
'That would be the wisest move. Was he in love with her, do you think? That would explain his resolve.'
'He was in France when she was killed and wasn't eligible for compassionate leave-she wasn't his wife or mother.'
'Yes, I see what you mean. This is the least he can do for her.'
My mother usually did see. I kissed her good night then and went into the passage toward the stairs.
Simon Brandon was waiting for me in the shadows by the door. He took my arm, opened the door, and led
