touched his arm in silent gratitude.
The crowd had dispersed, although a few people stood about in knots, whispering. I ignored their stares as we passed.
I left Simon in the motorcar and went up the walk to the Harts' door. Someone had already begun to draw the drapes, as if trying to shut out the stares of neighbors.
Feeling every eye in Little Sefton pinned to my back, I knocked at the door, and after a time, an elderly maid opened it and told me that the family was not receiving today.
'I understand,' I began.
And then Mr. Hart was in the passage behind her, saying, 'It's all right, Sarah. Let her come in.'
He led me into the drawing room, the walls painted a pleasing yellow with white trim and a soft green in the drapes. They had been pulled, making the room seem dark and rather claustrophobic. As if he sensed my reaction, Mr. Hart went to a table and lit the lamp sitting there.
He appeared to have aged, his face still pale, lines etched more deeply than I remembered.
I said, 'Forgive me. I'm so sorry to intrude.'
'You defended him out there.'
'I don't believe he's guilty. Could you tell me what the police said, and what happened when they told Michael what they wanted to do?'
'I feel it's my fault,' he said, taking the chair across from mine. 'He'd asked me again if I would take him up to London. But I wasn't very keen on driving that far, and besides, this is our busiest time at the farm. I asked him why it was so important to go just then. He told me he needed to speak to Helen Calder. I don't know if you're aware of it, but she's related to Marjorie on her mother's side. He didn't say why, only that he wanted to see her in person, rather than telephone her. It was an arduous trip for him-the last time, after he'd gone there with you, he was exhausted for two days.'
In my mind's eye, I could still see Helen Calder lying there on her cot, pale and unresponsive after her surgery.
'I don't understand; if it was so important, why didn't he call on her when I drove him to London?'
Mr. Hart shook his head. 'Michael has always been impetuous. It might not have mattered then, you know. And with this wound, he seems to be unable to settle to anything. I know he's in great discomfort at times. I hear him pacing at night. The doctors think he's developing a tolerance to the sedatives he's been given, and it requires higher and higher doses to help now.'
I wondered what relief he'd be given in a prison infirmary or cell.
'Did he tell Inspector Herbert about wanting to see Mrs. Calder?'
'I'm afraid-in my ignorance, you see-that I told him. Michael was sleeping when they came, and his aunt went to rouse him. Sometimes that's difficult. Meanwhile, the police asked if he'd just returned from London, and I told the inspector that he had. I was asked why he'd gone to London, and I told them. I saw no reason not to, and I had no way of knowing why they were here.'
And that had been damning.
'Were you present when they questioned your nephew?'
'Oh, yes, I insisted on being present. We've always had him in our care, you see, and I could tell from Michael's face that something must be wrong.'
'Did he tell them he'd spoken to Mrs. Calder?'
'He told them he'd gone to her house, and apparently they already knew that. But she wasn't at home. He told the maid at the door that he would wait for a time. But after a while his shoulder was hurting badly, and he left.' Mr. Hart took a deep breath. 'Inspector Herbert told me Mrs. Calder is very seriously injured and hasn't regained consciousness after her surgery.'
'It's true. We can only hope that when she does, she'll remember who attacked her and why.'
But even as I said the words, I knew it was very unlikely that Mrs. Calder would remember anything after leaving her friend's house. Not after such loss of blood and the ensuing surgery. The mind has a way of blotting out what it doesn't wish to think about.
'I must apologize for asking this,' I said, 'but it's important. Had Michael been violent as a child? Angry, moody, sometimes acting rashly? Or has he acted this way only on his leaves from France?' If there was anything like that in his Army records, it would be used against him.
'No, no,' Mr. Hart said, alarmed. 'There's been nothing of the sort. He came to us while his parents were abroad. And as a boy, he was very much the way you see him now. Nor has the war changed him, although I've seen a darker side of him of late. This wound has tried his patience. He was never one to sit idle.'
Whatever Mr. Hart preferred to believe, war did change men. I'd seen it in India and in the wards of the wounded. It was just that some were better at hiding it than others. And the darker side he spoke of might be a sign that Michael could explode into violence in the right conditions.
If only Helen Calder had come to her senses before Inspector Herbert came down to Little Sefton.
I thanked Mr. Hart, and told him I'd let him know as soon as I heard anything about Helen Calder.
'Poor woman. I didn't know her well,' he said as he walked with me to the door. 'She and her mother didn't come to Little Sefton very often. And she was a little older than Marjorie.' With his hand on the latch, he turned to face me, and I could see the effort he was making to hold himself together. 'I can't quite come to grips with any of this. My wife is making herself ill with worry. If Michael isn't released soon, I hesitate to think what will become of us.'
I wished I could offer some comfort. I smiled and said, 'Early days, Mr. Hart. We'll face that bridge when we must cross it.'
He nodded, but the heart had gone out of him.
As I stepped out the door, I cast a glance toward the street, but the curious onlookers had gone about their business. There was only Simon, waiting for me in his motorcar. Mr. Hart quietly closed the door behind me, hoping not to disturb his wife.
Simon opened my door and as I settled myself in my seat, he reached out, and without speaking, held my hand until we had left Little Sefton far behind us.
When we arrived in Somerset, my mother was full of plans for a dinner party she was giving the next night, a chance for me to see and greet old friends. Her enthusiasm was jarring, in the mood I was in, and the Colonel Sahib gave me a quizzical look, one that said he sympathized but that I owed my mother the courtesy of entering into the event in the spirit she'd have wanted.
Simon, the coward, had vanished the instant the words dinner party were spoken, and there was no one left to spare me Mother's good intentions.
And so I was swept off to see what the kitchen could manage that was halfway edible, and there was no time to sit down and think through events. That, clearly, was everyone's intention.
I barely had time to wonder how Michael, for his sins, was faring, languishing in gaol. I hoped he was absolutely wretched.
My mother did ask, in passing, if I would wish to invite that handsome young lieutenant as well. I realized that she hadn't heard the latest turn of events. I didn't have the energy to explain them to her, and so I told her that I didn't think he would be available.
The Colonel Sahib, having spoken privately to Simon, wondered, as I walked into his study, if he should anticipate a passionate plea for his intervention if matters looked grim for my lieutenant.
'He's not my lieutenant. If he was anybody's lieutenant, he was Marjorie Evanson's. Besides, I'm sure Simon also told you it wasn't likely that Michael would be in custody for very long.'
'He did seem to think that Lieutenant Hart had acted rather foolishly, going in to London.'
'The worst part of it is,' I said, wandering from the window to take a chair across from his, 'the woman he was desperate enough to ask to drive him to London is no friend of Marjorie Evanson's. I think she was pleased to see Michael taken up.'
'Are you certain about that?'
I told him what Mrs. Eubanks, the cook, had had to say.
'Of course servant gossip can't always be relied on for truthfulness,' he pointed out. 'But when there's heavy smoke, there's often fire.'
