me out into the warm summer night. The sun had not yet set, and the distant horizon was a lovely illusive opal that turned the tops of the trees to a soft gold. A jackdaw, sitting in the top of the nearest tree, was singing to it, his breast a shimmering black like wet paint.
I walked a little way down the drive, knowing what was coming, listening to the crunch of stones under my shoes.
Finally he said, 'How well do you know this man?'
'I don't. But he's trying to find out what happened to his childhood friend. And to do that, he wants to go to London. You can see for yourself he can't drive. I promised-since I was going to London anyway-that I'd take him.' When he said nothing, I added, 'I didn't suggest that he stay here. Nor did he.'
'Were you going to London anyway?'
'I-in the long run. Simon, I saw the man with Marjorie Evanson the night she was killed. He got on the train and left her there. Now the Yard thinks she might have been the victim of a man who fled Oxford after three women were killed there. They were interested in Lieutenant Fordham before him. The Yard doesn't seem to be making any progress at all, and the only person who might answer their questions about where she intended to go after leaving the station is either dead or refusing to come forward. If Michael Hart can learn anything useful, it's all to the good. If he doesn't, he's done no harm.'
'I understand why you feel you have a responsibility to this woman-' he began.
'I saw how desperate she was that night. Where did she turn? Perhaps she trusted the wrong person.' I reached into my pocket and pulled out the message from Scotland Yard. 'You see, Inspector Herbert has been using what I know to help him sort through suspects. I'm not involved, not officially. But he can send me a photograph and ask me a question.'
He was staring up at the jackdaw. 'This isn't the first time the Yard has asked you for information. How many photographs have you looked at for them?'
'Only these two.'
'Stay out of it, Bess. You know what nearly happened the last time you got yourself involved in the troubles of another family. Leave this one alone.'
'It's Michael Hart who is involved at the moment.'
He turned to look at me. 'There's something you ought to know. The Colonel has already spoken to me. And I have my own suspicions. Michael Hart may not be what he seems.'
'What do you mean? Did you know him before this?'
'I've never seen him before. But I wouldn't be surprised if he's become addicted to the medicines his doctors have been giving him to control his pain. When I took him back to the inn just now, his hands were shaking and his mouth was dry. You're a nurse. Be more observant. And think what it is you may be getting yourself into.'
'I'm not getting myself into anything,' I told him, furious at the lecture. 'I don't intend to marry Michael Hart. I'm only driving him to London. Besides, fatigue and pain could cause the same symptoms.'
Simon grinned. 'Indeed. Good night, Bess.'
And he walked away down the drive, leaving me there to look after him, torn between calling him back to tell him what I thought of his interference in my life and letting him go.
As I turned toward the house, I remembered what Mrs. Hart had said about Michael Hart, that he had refused sedation and was fighting his own way through the pain.
But had my father been suspicious, or had Simon simply brought him into the conversation to back up his own views?
I walked in the door, shut it, and continued down the passage to the study, where my father was sitting with a book open in his lap.
'Good night,' I said. 'I hope to get an early start tomorrow.'
'Be safe, Bess,' he said, but he didn't smile as he usually did when wishing me a safe journey.
I said, 'Thank you for being kind to Michael Hart. I remember when I broke my arm last year, how frustrating it was for me, being dependent and helpless.'
'He's strikingly handsome,' my father said, finally smiling. 'But I wouldn't introduce him to any of your flatmates. He's being ridden by his own devils.'
'Drugs?' I asked baldly.
'I don't know what his devils are. He's very amusing, he answers questions openly and apparently truthfully, and he doesn't trade on his charm. But there's something behind the bonhomie that gives him no peace. It isn't your place to put that right.'
'As I told Simon,' I said, 'I'm just driving him to London, not marrying him.'
'See that you remember that,' he said, and turned his attention to his book. 'Good night, Bess.'
I took my dismissal with the best grace I could muster, and went up to pack.
Snapping my valise closed, I found myself wondering if I had completely trusted Michael Hart. Even before Simon had made his remarks.
On the whole, I thought I did. I couldn't have said why. Except that he hadn't turned the full force of his charm on my mother.
The next morning I retrieved Michael Hart from The Four Doves and drove both of us to London.
He asked me where The Four Doves Hotel had got its name. For the sign showed only four gray doves.
'The house that once stood there was the pilgrimage guesthouse of a convent that had already fallen into ruin by the time of Henry VIII. The last of the nuns-four of them-were very old and had come to live in the guesthouse because there was nowhere else for them to go. But they still kept it open for travelers, in the care of a man they trusted. When Henry's men stopped there on their way to burn out the abbot of Glastonbury, they remembered that the house had once belonged to a convent, and they asked the manservant if there were any nuns still there. He told the soldiers that the only females he knew of were four doves in the ancient dovecote in the garden. Henry's men decided they would have the doves for their dinner. The servant was in great distress, because the dovecote had been empty for years, and that was where he'd hidden the nuns. He went out there, sick with fright, and told the nuns what he'd done. They said, 'But didn't you know? There are four doves here, roosting for the night.' And when the manservant lifted his lantern, he saw that they were right. He served Henry's men their dinner, and sent them on their way. And ever after, there were always four doves in the cote and the elderly nuns lived out their lives in peace.'
Michael was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'It's too bad life doesn't have such happy endings.'
I replied, 'Here is what I know about Marjorie Evanson. She had a sister, but often there was no love lost between the two of them. Her parents are dead, but Victoria was her father's favorite, and he appeared to spoil her. Marjorie went away to school and never really came back to Little Sefton. She married Meriwether Evanson, and her father seemed to make no objection to the match. While Lieutenant Evanson was in France, Marjorie must have taken a lover, because she was pregnant when she died-' I could have bitten my tongue.
'I didn't know that,' he said, his voice strained. 'Is it true?'
'Yes. It was discovered in the postmortem. It wasn't made public.'
'That would explain why Meriwether killed himself, wouldn't it? He'd known he wasn't the father.' He thought about that for a moment. 'And does anyone know who this man might be?' He still hadn't got full control of his voice.
'He's a mystery. The police asked anyone who had seen Marjorie the day of her death to come forward. And he never has.'
'Now I understand why Serena Melton asked that the funeral for her brother be private. And why he and Marjorie weren't buried together. Neither Victoria nor I were invited to the service, but she went anyway. And the Meltons didn't attend the service for Marjorie. That caused talk, I can tell you. But most people accepted the fact that they were still in mourning.' He cleared his throat, angry with himself.
'I didn't know.' It seemed vengeful to me.
'You couldn't have known. I'd thought it was because Marjorie was murdered. As if that had been her fault.'
'Murder doesn't happen in nice families,' I quoted.
He said something under his breath, the words whipped away by the wind as we drove east toward London. I had a suspicion he was swearing.
