At the flat, Mary was washing up the last of the dishes. I went to my room, murmuring something about letters to finish, and instead sat by the window thinking about what Jack Melton had just said about Lieutenant Hart.
Truth? Or lies?
But why should he lie?
I'd seen the fleeting expression in his eyes when he recognized Michael Hart at the top of the hotel's steps. Antipathy, certainly. Anger as well. But was the anger directed at Michael or what Jack and I'd been discussing?
Impossible to know the answer. Still, I'd made a mistake talking to him about Marjorie. But I'd heard his attempts to rein in Serena's vehement emotions, and I'd believed we might discuss Marjorie Evanson's last hours and look for something, anything, that could lead us to the truth.
I remember my mother telling me as a child, 'Bess, my dear, you can't always expect others to see things as clearly as you do.' I didn't always remember that lesson.
I'd failed to take into account that the man was also a husband.
But I'd learned something in the encounter with Jack Melton. Marjorie must have met that train with high hopes that she could share the burden she was carrying. And she walked out of the railway station knowing that there was no help in that direction, whether the officer she'd met was her lover or someone she thought she could trust.
What's more, her husband had just returned to England, and she must have felt the pressure of time catching up with her. She might not have known the exact date, but she would have known from Meriwether's letters that it would be soon.
And if she was three months' pregnant, it would be increasingly difficult to hide the fact. Something had to be done. Was she considering ridding herself of the child? Finding a place for it with another family? But that would mean leaving her husband for six months while she hid herself away somewhere. And it would very likely destroy her marriage. Did she expect the father of her child to marry her if she were divorced by her own husband? Did she love him at all?
Impossible to know. But that rejection as the train pulled out most certainly sharpened her need to find help somewhere.
But if she had known that Michael was in London…
I caught up my hat and purse and with barely a word of explanation to Mary, went down to my motorcar.
Marjorie's housekeeper wasn't happy to see me again. It struck me that she thought I was meddling, behind Michael's back. 'We've told Lieutenant Hart all we could,' she began.
'Yes, of course you did,' I answered quickly, before she could shut the door in my face. 'He forgot to ask if you could give him the names of one or two of her closest friends? I've come alone because he needed to rest.'
'Is he in terrible pain?' she asked sympathetically. 'There were new lines in his face. I don't remember them being there before. He was never one to take life seriously, always a smile.' She stood aside and I stepped into the entrance.
'He tries not to be dependent on drugs.' It was what his aunt had told me.
'That's good to hear. There was a footman once when I was a girl. He was addicted to opium. Mr. Benson-he was the owner of the house where I was maid-locked the poor man in his room for a week, to cure him. I never heard such screams and cries, begging to die one minute and cursing us all in the next breath. We thought surely he'd die.'
'It must have been terrifying.'
She took a deep breath, as if shoving the footman back into the past where he belonged. I wondered if she'd had a fondness for him once.
'Names, you said. At a guess, her two closest friends were Mrs. Calder and Mrs. Brighton. Mrs. Brighton lives one street over, at Number 7. I've returned a book Mrs. Evanson borrowed, that's how I know. Perhaps she can tell you how to find Mrs. Calder.'
Calder. I knew that name. A distant cousin. Was this the same woman?
'And the ladies who attended the group meetings for wives and widows? Were they close to Mrs. Evanson?'
'They came and went, you see, there was no time to make real friendships.'
I could understand that. 'Thank you,' I told her. 'This is a beginning.'
I left my motorcar where it was and walked the distance.
But there was black crepe on the door of Number 7, encircling the knocker. The folds were still crisp and new.
I hesitated and then lifted the knocker anyway, and a red-eyed maid came to the door. She said immediately, 'Mrs. Brighton isn't receiving. If you care to leave your card?'
'I'm so very sorry to intrude,' I said, and prepared to turn away. Then I asked, 'I've just come to London from Somerset. I was to meet Mrs. Calder here-I didn't know-' I gestured to the black crepe. 'She must have tried to reach me and I missed her message. Do you know how I could find her? I'm afraid I left my diary in the hotel.'
A shot in the dark. But it found its mark.
'She called only this morning,' the maid said, and gave me what I wanted before she quietly shut the door again.
I drove to Hamilton Place, and found the house I was looking for at the corner of its tiny square.
As I got out, I stood to one side as a nurse wheeled a wounded man along the pavement. He was in a chair, his eyes bandaged, one arm in a sling, a leg missing. I smiled at the sister, and then went up to knock at the door.
Mrs. Calder was in. I was shown into a small sitting room, and she rose to meet me, a query in her glance.
She was a tall woman, rail thin, with fair hair and blue eyes. I introduced myself as a friend of the Evanson family, and she frowned.
'Indeed? I don't recall meeting you at Marjorie's,' she said, suspicion in her tone.
'I'm not surprised,' I said easily. 'I've been out of the country.' Her eyes dropped to my uniform. 'I was one of Lieutenant Evanson's nurses.'
'You know he's dead.'
'Sadly, yes. Matron told me on my last visit to Laurel House.'
'What brings you to see me?'
'I was in Little Sefton only a few days ago. I understood from Alicia Dalton that you're related to Marjorie Evanson.'
She was still wary. I searched for a way to convince her I meant no harm.
'It seems to me that very little progress has been made in finding out who killed Mrs. Evanson. And it matters to me, because her husband died when he shouldn't have. Not medically. He'd passed the crisis. He was counting on seeing his wife as soon as possible. Someone took that away from him. I don't want her murderer to escape justice.'
'But why come to me? You should be speaking to Victoria Garrison, Marjorie's sister.'
If it was a test, I was ready for it.
'With respect, I don't believe I should. We had words in Little Sefton. She thought Serena Melton had sent me there to spy.'
'And were you?'
'No.'
Helen Calder sighed. 'There's no love lost between them. A pity, but there you are. Even tragedy failed to bring them together.'
'There's more. I have reason to believe that Marjorie had met someone, perhaps six months ago. It's possible I've seen this man. I don't know his name, but she met him at Waterloo Station the night she died. I happened to be coming up from Laurel House, and it was sheer coincidence that our paths crossed.'
