'Serena Melton. Do you know her very well?'
'Not well at all. We met at the wedding, and at a party or two in London after that. I didn't like her very much. Mainly because she didn't seem to care for Marjorie. Merry was all right. And Jack, Serena's husband.'
'Who could have been Marjorie's lover? Someone she knew? A stranger she happened to meet on a train or in a restaurant or at a party?'
'I don't know. I told you, she changed. Her letters changed. Yes, all right, I was in France, and it's difficult writing very personal things that the censors will read before the person at the other end does. But I hadn't thought-I don't know what I thought,' he ended. 'It's hard knowing your husband could be shot down any day he flies. I thought that might have put strains on Marjorie's marriage. That she was afraid to love him too much.'
We drove in silence for a time.
Then Michael said, easing his injured shoulder, 'She was in love with Meriwether. A blind man could have seen that. I don't know what could have gone wrong.'
'He crashed twice. He was badly burned the second time. It must have been frightful to realize that the man you knew and married was so disfigured that you might not even recognize him. She could have turned to someone for sympathy and his kindness made her vulnerable. She had only to sleep with him once. She needn't have loved him. Or he her.'
'In some way that's worse.' Michael Hart turned to look at me. 'You seem to know what she was feeling. How such things happen.'
'It's not surprising,' I told him. 'I've dealt with soldiers of every rank. I've written their letters home, and I've read them their letters from home. Marjorie wasn't alone in her fall from grace.' Three years of war had had other costs besides the long lists of dead and wounded. 'I think it's time you told me the truth. Were you in love with Marjorie Garrison?'
He wiped his good hand over his face, as if to conceal the agony there. 'God help me. I was.'
We said nothing more for the rest of the journey.
We were coming into London when Michael roused himself and said, 'I haven't been very good company, have I?'
'I was thinking. Marjorie's house was also her husband's home. You've been assuming that the staff would speak freely to you. But what if they won't? Out of loyalty to him as well as to her?'
'I've considered that too. But it was Marjorie in trouble-Marjorie who was murdered. I don't think Victoria came here to question the staff. I don't know that she cared enough; she would have left that to the police. As for Serena, she sent her husband to box up Meriwether's belongings. She never even told them Merry died. She left that to the family solicitor.'
'How did you know this?'
'I telephoned the house as soon as I came to stay with my aunt and uncle. I wanted to know about Marjorie's things. What was to happen to them.'
I suddenly remembered Alicia's remark about letters.
'Why is the house still open, if both Marjorie and her husband are dead?'
'I can't answer that. But I rather think Victoria and Serena are squabbling over it. And until that is settled, it's being run as if Evanson and his wife are expected to return.'
'Fully staffed?' I was surprised.
'As fully as any house can be staffed today. They're paid to the end of the quarter, anyway.'
'But if Marjorie died first, and then Lieutenant Evanson died, I don't understand the problem. If she willed everything to him, then all their property was his to dispose of, and so Serena must now be the owner of the house.'
'It's not that simple. Marjorie inherited the house, you see. It was in her mother's family, and her mother's sister-her aunt-lived there until her death. Marjorie could have wished it to stay in the family.'
Weaving through traffic, I said, 'It takes time to settle affairs. But I understand now why you were so intent on coming here.'
London was crowded, men in uniform looking for places to stay, families coming to see loved ones off to France or hoping to meet them on leave, everyone demanding a room and no rooms to be had. But Michael found one. He walked into the Marlborough, not far from Claridge's, and came out again in a quarter of an hour, saying, 'A room for four nights. I doubt I'll be here that long, but a bird in hand is wisest.'
I wondered how he managed it. But I had no intention of asking.
Hesitating, unsure how to put my question, I said, 'Can you cope with one arm strapped to your body?'
'Well enough. It's awkward as hell, but I can do up buttons on my own, comb my hair, shave, and even brush my teeth. What I can't do are laces. But they'll send someone up. I'm not the worst case they've come across.'
I nodded, told him to be ready the next morning at nine, and left him and his suitcase to the tender mercies of the ancient doorman.
CHAPTER TEN
When I reached the flat, Diana and Mary were there, eager for news. Then Diana was off to make her train in time, and Mary said, 'You're braver than I am, Bess, to do what you're doing for a woman you don't know. It will be ages before you have another leave like this. Don't waste it chasing shadows.'
But I did know Marjorie, in a sense. That was the problem. I'd watched her photograph give her husband hope. And then I'd seen her in person, unaware of why she was crying or who the man was, but a witness to such wretchedness that she couldn't hold back her tears even in this very public place. And whatever she had done, she hadn't deserved to be stabbed and thrown into the river to drown, unconscious and unable to help herself. I could still see her rush away into that sea of umbrellas, and if I'd had any idea what lay ahead, I'd have found her somehow and brought her back to the flat with me. I don't know how I could have solved the problems she was facing, but I'd have tried.
That was hindsight. And I couldn't dwell on it. Yet in a way I was.
I met Michael Hart at nine o'clock the next morning, as promised. He was waiting for me on the steps of the hotel when I drove up, and he directed me to the Evanson house in Madison Street.
It was tall, three stories with two steps up to a pair of Ionic columns supporting the portico roof. Curved railings to either side graced the steps, and above the porch was a balcony with a white balustrade.
I lifted the knocker, wrapped with black crepe, and let it fall, smiling at Michael Hart to cover the trepidation we both suddenly felt.
No one answered the summons. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flick of a drapery as someone peeked out. It was quickly pulled to again. After a moment a middle-aged woman in the black dress of a housekeeper opened the door, apologizing profusely to Michael.
'Mr. Michael. I'm so sorry, sir! Truly I am. But we've been besieged by newspaper people and curiosity seekers. There was a woman here a fortnight past swearing she could find the murderer for us if she could come into the house and touch something belonging to the dead. That was the last straw. I shut the door in her face, and we decided that we wouldn't open it again to anyone.'
She was ushering us into the small square hall, and then into a drawing room decorated in pale green and cream, urging us to be seated.
'How are you, sir? We heard about that shoulder. You must have been in great pain. I don't see how you can bear it, even now.'
I saw Michael's mouth twist in the beginning of a grimace, and then he smiled and said, 'I try not to think about it, Mrs. White. This is Sister Crawford, my nurse. She agreed to accompany me to London. I'm not yet well enough to travel on my own.'
Mrs. White made polite noises in my direction, clearly relieved that I represented nothing more than Michael's nurse.
'I understand, Mr. Michael, truly I do. My grandson just came home with half his foot shot off. He can't bear
