man hunter, a tiger that had killed fourteen villagers before my father brought it down. 'More important, I'd like to know if he lied to me. And if he did, what else had he lied about? Conversely, if it was Victoria's lie, it could have other implications. There's a big difference between being shot at and shooting one's self.' I turned to look at my father. 'I also have to wonder why Victoria agreed to drive him into London-and I'd give much to know what they talked about on the way. I do know he didn't tell her who he expected to see while there.'
'It would be wiser, don't you think, to leave the entire matter in the capable hands of Inspector Herbert?'
'I have done. It doesn't stop me from wondering, or from weighing up what I know or suspect.'
'And you'd be content to see Victoria Garrison as a murderess.'
'It's entirely possible that she could have killed her sister, and tried to make it appear that it was a random act of violence on the part of someone nameless and faceless in London.'
'That's a damning comment.'
'Yes, but Victoria is so filled with something-hate, envy, jealousy-a wanting-that she might have seen her chance and taken it before she'd even considered what she was doing.'
'Women don't usually carry a large knife in their purses.'
Which was an excellent point. I smiled. 'You've just shot down my best argument for Victoria as a murderess.'
'I'm not saying it couldn't be done, only that she would have had to plan carefully.' He considered me. 'I'll be just as happy to see you back in France, if you want to know the truth. Out of reach. You ask too many questions-if the police are wrong about Michael, then you will need to be cautious.'
'Being shot at by Germans is preferable to being stabbed by Englishmen?'
'Absolutely. Just don't tell your mother I said that.' He paused. 'If you must go back to London before you leave, do take Simon with you.'
I promised, and felt the eyes of the Bengal tiger follow me from the room.
My distant grandmother, who had followed her officer husband to Brussels in June 1815, and helped nurse the wounded brought in from Waterloo, was not certain until well into the next evening whether her husband was among the living or the dead. Reports had come in placing him in the heat of the battle, and various accounts had listed him as dead, severely wounded, or missing. But she had held to her faith in his ability to survive, and her words to him as he finally walked into the house they had taken in Brussels had been, 'My dear, I'm so sorry, there seems to be nothing for your dinner.'
My mother, dealing with the ravages of this war's shortages, still managed to put a decent meal on the table, and I was reminded of Mary's remark that a country house fared better in trying times.
It was Simon's night to join us, and we were finishing our soup when he said, 'You'll never guess who I ran into as I was coming out of my meeting today.'
I thought he was talking to my father, then looked up to realize that he was speaking to me.
I named several retired officers we'd known in other campaigns, and he shook his head each time.
'I give up. Tell me.'
'Jack Melton.'
I stared at him. 'You didn't mention his brother, did you?' I wouldn't have put it past Simon to have engineered the meeting for the sole purpose of finding out what I would like to know about Raymond Melton.
'I did ask how his brother was. It was the decent thing to do,' he said, smug as a cat with a mouthful of canary feathers.
'Well, then?'
'He's presently near Ypres. You might keep that in mind when you go back to France next week.'
'Little good that will do me. I've no idea where I'll be sent next. What else did you learn?' I asked.
'That Melton wasn't particularly at ease talking about his brother. His answers were short, as if it wasn't a subject he was comfortable with.' Simon Brandon had dealt with men all his adult life-soldiers, prisoners, angry villagers. Men in trouble, afraid, lying, angry, vindictive. He could read them without effort because it had become second nature. I knew he could read me as well, and oddly enough, it was one of the things that made me trust him.
I set aside my soup spoon. 'When I learned that the man was his brother, I found myself wondering if what I'd said to Jack Melton outside the Marlborough Hotel in London might not have put him on to Raymond as the man I'd mentioned. I didn't describe him of course. But Jack was rather short with me as well. Almost rude, in fact. Still, he must not have said anything to his wife-she'd have brought it up when she came to Somerset to see me.'
'Very likely not,' my father put in. 'On the other hand, by the very nature of his work in cryptology, Melton isn't likely to be talkative. He can't afford to be, given what he reads every day in dispatches and intercepts. After a while, secretiveness must become a way of life.'
'It's more likely that he prefers to steer Serena away from suspecting his brother was the man with Marjorie. She's angry enough to cause trouble. And that wouldn't go down well with his superiors either.' I'd had a taste of how angry she could be, and how hurtful. 'But it's rather two-faced of him, isn't it? Protecting the man who seduced his brother-in-law's wife.'
'I expect,' my mother said, surprising us all, 'Mr. Melton feels that since Marjorie Evanson is dead, and her child with her, there's no point in ruining his brother's marriage, career, or life. It's finished. And so he can simply put it behind him.'
It was a very perceptive remark.
'And now,' she went on, 'perhaps we can dispense with murder as a subject for dinner conversation.'
Not five minutes later, I was summoned to the telephone. I almost failed to recognize the voice at the other end.
'This is Matron speaking-'
I thought she meant Matron at Laurel House, and was about to greet her warmly when the voice continued, '-at St. Martin's Hospital in London.'
'Yes, Matron. This is Sister Crawford.'
'I thought perhaps you'd want to know that Mrs. Calder is out of danger and has been removed from the surgical ward to the women's ward. We have kept her heavily sedated, to keep her quiet. But that's been reduced, and I expect her to regain consciousness in a few hours.'
'I should like very much to be there,' I said. 'Will I be permitted to see her?'
'I see no reason why not. Unless Scotland Yard objects.'
'I'll be there,' I promised. 'And if she awakens before I arrive, will you tell her that I'm on my way?'
'I'll be happy to,' she said, and rang off.
I hurried back to the dining room. 'I must go to London tonight-as soon as may be.'
Simon was already pushing his chair back. 'I'll drive.'
My mother said to me, 'I suggest you finish your meal first, my dear. Ten minutes shouldn't matter, not with Simon at the wheel.'
And so we finished our dinner in almost indecent haste, and then I was rushing upstairs to change and fetch my coat.
I was tense on the drive to London. The hours crept by, and Simon said little, his concentration on the road intense.
It was late when we walked through the doors of the hospital and asked for Matron.
She greeted me, and with a warning not to tire her patient, she turned me over to a young nursing sister. Simon was asked to remain outside. He touched my arm and said quietly, 'I'll wait in the motorcar.'
I nodded, grateful, and then I was shown to a bed near the middle of the ward. A small lamp burned above the bed, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. I could hear the quiet breathing of other patients, and one moaned softly.
Helen Calder's eyes were closed, and she appeared to be sleeping as well as I took the chair by her bedside. She must have heard the slight rustle of my skirts, for she stirred a little and bit her lip as if in pain.
I said in a low voice that I hoped would carry only to her ears, 'Helen? Do you remember me? It's Bess Crawford.'
She opened her eyes, focusing them with some difficulty at first. And then she said faintly, 'Oh yes. Of
