delayed. And he would go to the gallows before Christmas.
A thought came to mind. Inspector Herbert had been in no hurry to send for Captain Raymond Melton, because he believed that my encounter with Marjorie in the railway station had sufficiently explained his role in her life: lover, rejecting her, unwilling to believe the child she was carrying was his-but in no way connecting him to her murder. His alibi was about as sound as one could be.
But what if I could break it?
I had two hours before I was scheduled to return to duty.
I set about searching for Raymond Melton.
My father had commanded a regiment. There were soldiers from that regiment scattered across France, combined with other units, making up the armies in the field.
I only had to find one or two of its present officers, and the rest would be easy.
It was three days before someone from my father's regiment was brought in to our station, and he was walking wounded, his arm laid open by machine-gun fire. I asked the sister who was already cutting away his sleeve if I could attend to the young lieutenant.
He smiled as I came over to him, and I think he believed I must be flirting with him when I asked his name.
'Timothy Alston,' he said. 'And yours, Sister?'
I told him, and added, 'I expect you might know of my father. Colonel Crawford.'
'My God, yes,' he answered, giving me a very different sort of look. And then he winced as I began to clean his wound. 'How is he?'
'Fighting this war from London, much to his chagrin.'
'They still tell stories about his time in India, you know,' he went on. 'I never had the pleasure of serving under him. I joined after he retired, but I'd have been proud to be one of his men.'
'He would be very pleased to hear that,' I told Lieutenant Alston truthfully. 'He misses his command.'
'There was the tiger hunt that nearly killed a maharajah. Has he ever told you about that? The beast leapt right into the blind, directly in the face of the maharajah, and no one could move. The maharajah was certain to be clawed to death. And then your father swung a rifle and gave the tiger an almighty whack on the side of his head- there was no room to shoot, too dangerous, but the tiger turned, looked at your father, and everyone in the blind thought he was going to attack. Then the tiger wheeled about and leapt out of the blind, disappearing into the high grass before anyone could bring a gun to bear. They say he came back to that blind, you know, the day your father marched away, and stood there, head down, mourning the loss of a brave man.'
I'd heard the story from others, and those who told me, his bearers among them, swore it was true. But I said only, 'I expect the tiger was still looking for the maharajah.'
Lieutenant Alston laughed. As I was binding the wound, I asked casually, 'By the bye, have you run into a Captain Melton in the Wiltshire Fusiliers? I've been trying to find him. I was at his brother's birthday party.'
'Melton? Name doesn't ring a bell. But I'll put the word out, if you like. One of us is bound to come across him.'
I thanked him, turned him over to the doctor for suturing, told him to keep the bandaging clean for at least three days, and then he was gone, back to the fighting.
I wondered if he'd remember my request. But ten days later, I received a message from Lieutenant Alston. He told me that Captain Melton had been seen not three miles away, where he was in rotation from the Front.
This time, with Matron's blessing and the excuse of needing medical supplies, I commandeered an ambulance and went to find the Fusiliers.
They were well behind the lines, men stretched out on cots, even on the ground, or smoking and pacing, writing letters, shaving, reading-anything to put the war behind them for a few precious hours. The rows of tents gleamed in the morning sun, and I felt at home as I walked down between them. The guns were loud here, our own and the Germans', and the sharp chatter of a Vickers could be heard faintly in the distance. But tired men ignored everything but the pursuit of peace for as long as possible.
I smiled and asked for Captain Melton. The young officer who had risen to greet me looked around him and then said, 'I expect he's still in hospital, Sister.'
Alarmed, I asked, 'Is it serious?'
'Um, I'd rather not say.'
Which usually meant dysentery. I thanked him, returned to the ambulance, and found my way to the rear hospital where more serious casualties were taken.
The first sister I met as I walked through the door was young and flushed with excitement.
'Rumor says the Prince of Wales is coming here to speak to the wounded,' she exclaimed. 'Everything is at sixes and sevens.'
I gave her a list of the supplies I needed, then asked if there was a Captain Melton in the officers' ward.
She pointed the way, then rushed off to finish my errand before the Prince arrived.
She was right that the hospital was at sixes and sevens. Another sister told me that the Prince was coming to pin a medal on someone. Victoria Cross, she thought. Someone else said that the Prince was coming to see one of his former equerries who was just out of surgery for life-threatening wounds.
Threading my way to the busy ward, I went down the row of cots and looked at each patient, hoping to find Captain Melton without drawing more attention than necessary to my visit. A few patients were heavily bandaged, and I asked quietly, 'Captain Melton?' only to receive a shake of the head in return.
I nearly missed him. He was at the far end, a weak and exhausted man who had lost several stone of his original weight. His skin was gray, and his eyes sunken. But a second glance confirmed that this was indeed the man I recalled from the railway station.
I went to sit beside him, and after a moment I spoke his name softly, to see if he slept or was awake.
He turned his face toward me, and his eyes when he opened them were those of a dead man, no life at all in their depths, as if he had given up all hope.
Severe dysentery could kill. But I thought, he's weak, not dying.
When I said nothing, he spoke in a thread of a voice. 'Whatever you gave me seems to be working. Thank you, Sister.'
He was so far from the cold, heartless man who wouldn't comfort the distressed woman clinging to his arm that I felt a wave of compassion and was torn about bringing up the past. But this might be my only chance. When- if-he recovered, he might be sent anywhere, and the next big push might be his last.
Steeling myself against softer feelings, I said, 'My name doesn't matter, Captain Melton. But I happened to be at Waterloo Station when you were saying good-bye to Marjorie Evanson, just before you sailed for France.' I gave him the date and the time, told him that it was raining hard, a summer rain that made it impossible for me to find Marjorie again as she was leaving.
He listened, his face changing to a coldness that made him seem more familiar to me than the wasted man lying on the cot as I'd approached.
'What of it?' he demanded.
'The police asked me questions about her and about you. I didn't know your name then, I found it much later when I saw some photographs taken by the husband of a friend.' I hoped I could still consider Alicia a friend. 'I had met your brother Jack only a few weeks before I saw that photograph. And so I know who you are.'
'You've got the wrong man,' he said, turning away from me. 'Please leave.'
'It isn't a mistake. I knew Marjorie by sight and I have a good memory for faces. I also recognized your cap badge. You don't look like your brother, I would never have guessed who you were. But cameras don't lie. You were with Marjorie that night.'
He said nothing, keeping his face resolutely turned toward the far wall.
'She was three months' pregnant. Did she tell you that?'
No response, though I saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. It struck me that he was angry, not ashamed.
'She was murdered that same evening. Were you lovers? If you were, perhaps you can tell me who Marjorie Evanson would turn to in her distress, after you got on that train and left her to cope alone.' I was guessing at some of what I was saying. 'Please, if you know anyone she might have seen after your train left, it would help the police enormously and might even lead to finding her killer.'
'He's been found.' The three words were clipped, and I was right about the anger.
