There is a small lake on the Fordham property. At one end a bridge crosses to an island just large enough for a stone table and benches. Summer picnics and that sort of thing. As far as we can determine, he walked out onto that bridge one evening and shot himself. He went over the low parapet into the water, but he was already dead. The weapon went with him, and we haven't found it yet. The water is rather deep just there and quite murky.'
'Was it really a suicide?' I asked.
'We believe now that it must have been. But we can't be sure. No note, you see, and his family can't think of a reason for him to take his own life. He didn't use his service revolver. That was still in the armoire with his uniform. He was wearing trousers and a white shirt when he died. His family is adamant that he wasn't grieving over Mrs. Evanson. They refuse even to consider suicide.'
'Which leaves murder? Or was his wound severe enough to drive him to do something drastic?'
'A stomach wound,' he said. 'Very unpleasant, I'm told.' He reached for a folder, pulling it in front of him but not opening it. A sign that our visit had ended.
We exchanged polite farewells.
Dismissal as well, telling me that the Yard no longer required my efforts.
He rose as I did, reached across the desk to shake hands with Simon Brandon, and came around to accompany us to the door, where a constable was waiting to see us out of the Yard.
Simon had nothing to say until we had reached his motorcar, and then he turned to me before he opened my door.
'It was really very clever of you to discover who the officer with Marjorie Evanson was.'
'It was more a matter of seeing what was before me. And of course making Alicia's acquaintance in the first place. She wouldn't have thought to show those photographs to an inspector from the Yard. I don't think her husband knows Raymond Melton, by the way. Alicia did recognize the other two men. He probably just happened to be with one of the other men at that crossroads.' I smiled, remembering. 'I like Alicia. She's been busy matchmaking, you know. She suspects there's a growing attachment between Michael Hart and me. There was, of course-a murder.'
Simon laughed in spite of himself. 'You're impossible,' he said, opening my door.
And then he was suddenly quite serious, one hand on my arm to make certain I was paying attention. 'But mark me, Miss Elizabeth Alexandra Victoria Crawford, you will heed the advice of Inspector Herbert and leave the death of Mrs. Evanson to the proper authorities to solve. You're in enough danger in France; I don't wish to spend every leave pulling you out of trouble before it comes to your mother's ears!'
He invariably brooked no nonsense when he used my full name.
I wisely said nothing.
When he got behind the wheel, he added for good measure, 'And that includes the suicide of the unfortunate Captain Fordham.'
I was actually thinking about his death and wondering if the weapon would ever turn up, deep end of that lake or not.
As if he'd read my mind, which I was sometimes convinced he could do, Simon turned to me and said, 'Bess.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I spent the afternoon in Mrs. Hennessey's apartments ironing the uniforms I'd soon be packing to take back to France. It was cooler there, and getting the collars and cuffs stiff enough was always hard work. I had had to do one set over again.
Mrs. Hennessey was having tea with one of her friends. I was grateful for the use of her iron, and having to concentrate on what I was doing kept my mind from dwelling on Marjorie Evanson and Captain Fordham.
Simon had gone to his club, refusing to leave London without me.
'If I do, you'll just get up to mischief of some sort,' he'd told me.
'You aren't showing up in the Marlborough Hotel, to sit across the room and scowl at poor Captain Truscott, are you?' I'd demanded before shutting the door behind me. 'The poor man's hands shake badly enough as it is.'
'Captain Truscott appears to be a decent enough sort. No, I'll wait here on the street to make certain he brings you home at a reasonable hour. Mrs. Hennessey may even ask me in for tea.'
I slammed the door in his face, and heard him laughing all the way back to the motorcar.
Ironing cuffs and aprons isn't a soothing activity. By the time I was dressed and waiting for Captain Truscott to call, I was not in the mood for dinner and was beginning to wonder why on earth I'd been so eager to see him again.
He arrived on the dot, and Mrs. Hennessey, bless her, climbed the stairs to our flat and told me he was waiting.
He smiled as I came down, saying, 'It was good to see you again. I'm looking forward to dinner.'
Frederick Truscott turned out to be a very nice dinner partner. It made up for the Marlborough's very indifferent menu. We had a number of friends in common, and that kept conversation rolling comfortably all the way to the hotel. 'I've borrowed Terrence Hornsby's motor,' he told me. 'And so, like Cinderella, I must have you at home before the stroke of twelve. He's driving to Wales tonight to visit his family.'
'I haven't seen him in ages! How is he?'
'Bullet clipped his ear. Still looks rather raw there, but he's glad it wasn't his head. He says he needed it, although some of his friends are in serious debate over that.'
Which sounded just like Terrence. I laughed.
While we were on the subject of absent friends, I said quite casually, 'I only discovered today that Jack Melton's brother is a serving officer. A captain in the Wiltshire Fusiliers. I don't think Jack mentioned him when we were at Melton Hall.'
'Someone told me they were estranged, though not why. I've never met him.'
'He's married, I think?'
'I couldn't say.'
We swapped other names, and then, against my better judgment I asked, 'Did you know Captain Fordham?'
His face lost its humor. 'Sadly I did. A loss there. He was a good officer.'
'Was he by any chance acquainted with Marjorie Evanson?'
'Strange you should mention that. The police asked his family about a connection when they came to inquire into his death. Apparently he did know her.'
'How well?'
'I've no idea, really. Marjorie was good company. I was fond of her myself.' Changing the subject, he asked, 'When do you go back to France?'
'In another five days.'
'Bad luck. I leave the day after tomorrow. Said my good-byes at home and came up to London to put that parting behind me. Easier that way. Where is your family?'
'Somerset. I haven't spent as much time with them as I'd promised.'
'Was that your elder brother in the motorcar with you?'
'Good heavens, no. That's Simon Brandon. He was my father's sergeant-major at the end of his career.'
A light dawned behind his eyes. 'You're not Colonel Richard Crawford's daughter, are you?' When I nodded, guessing what was coming, Captain Truscott said, 'My God. He was a fine officer. We've a man in the Fusiliers who served under him. He knows more about planning battles than half the general staff.'
I could agree with that. There had been complaints that the generals were fighting the wars of the past. My father and Simon often refought the battle of the Somme over cigars, and it always put them in a rotten mood.
We discussed my father for a bit, and then suddenly, we'd finished our pudding, drunk our tea in the comfortable lounge, and it was time to go.
I said, as we walked through Reception and out of the hotel, 'Can you think of any good reason for Captain
