the back of my throat and belied the smoothness of the first swallow.
Simon smiled and took my glass from me before I'd finished it, setting it on the table. 'It's late. I'll see you home.'
'I can find my own way.'
'I'm sure you can. But I shouldn't care to face the Colonel tomorrow if I allowed you to walk that mile alone.' He drained his own glass and set it down.
'Who killed her, Simon, if Michael didn't?'
'I don't know. Who had the most to lose?'
I stepped through the door he was holding for me and out into the night. 'Raymond Melton? He had a career in the Army, a wife. He could have lost both if the affair had come to light. As it surely must have done.'
'But he was on that transport ship.'
We walked down the path side by side and turned into the lane.
'Victoria? She was jealous of her sister from childhood.'
'Why then? Why wait until that moment?'
'Because with the child of her affair, she would have had to come home to Little Sefton and back into Victoria's life?'
'Possible, of course. On the other hand, Victoria might well have relished her sister's fall from grace.'
'There's that. Serena, then, for what Marjorie was about to do to Meriwether.'
'That's far more likely. Except that Serena told her brother the truth about Marjorie, after she was dead.'
'I think that was her own pain speaking. She hated Marjorie and wanted her brother to hate his wife too.' I sighed. 'A tangle, isn't it?'
'Which brings us full circle, back to Michael.'
We walked on in silence, shoulder to shoulder. As Simon lifted the latch on the door to my parents' house, he said, 'I'll go to London tomorrow.'
'And I'm going to Little Sefton. I want to speak to Michael's aunt and uncle. After that, I must go to London and look in on Helen Calder. She must be feeling rather awful after her testimony sent Michael to trial.'
Simon said good night, and waited outside as I shut and locked the house door. I stood in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs and watched him out of sight. Then I turned toward the stairs, intending to go straight to my room.
My heart leapt into my throat. There was someone on the stairs, standing there in silence, watching me.
All at once I recognized the shape of my father.
He must have known somehow that I had gone to see Simon.
He said only, 'Is everything all right?'
'Yes. Simon is going to London tomorrow. I'm going to Little Sefton myself. And then to London. There isn't much time…'
'For what it's worth, my dear, I don't believe he killed Marjorie Evanson.'
My father knew men. He'd fought with them, led them, listened to them, disciplined them. Little escaped his notice, and he was a good judge of character.
I went up the stairs to him and hugged him.
'Thank you for telling me that,' I said.
'You smell of whiskey. Brush your teeth before your mother comes to kiss you good night.'
I promised, and we went up the remaining stairs to bed.
Between my own fatigue and the whiskey, I slept soundly.
I wondered if that was what Simon had intended.
The next morning I said good-bye to my parents and set out for Little Sefton.
It was well into September now. I'd first taken this road in early June, with high hopes that I could in some fashion bring to light a name that would lead the police to Marjorie's killer. Now I drove with a sense of desperation goading me.
A fortnight today. That's all the time I had. And even if I found new evidence, the courts would have to be persuaded to hear it and act upon it.
The urgent order of business, however, was mending my fences with Alicia.
The first person I saw was the rector, who greeted me warmly and asked if I'd been in France again.
I told him I had, and then said, 'Still, I heard about the trial. It must have been terribly trying for Michael's aunt and uncle.'
He shook his head. 'I've offered them what comfort I could. And I've written to Michael, to ask if I could serve him in the days to come.'
'How has he answered?'
'Sadly, with silence.' He looked up at the weathervane on the church tower as if it could point him in the right direction. 'I've never counseled a man facing the gallows. I've prayed to find the right words, when the time comes.'
'I'm sure you will do,' I replied. 'Do you think I could speak to Mr. and Mrs. Hart? I know Michael pleaded guilty, but I also believe I know why he did. If I'm right, then it may be that he's innocent of murder.'
The rector stared at me. 'You mustn't raise false hope,' he warned. 'It would be very unkind. They have been in seclusion, I don't believe it would be wise.'
'Which is worse for them, thinking Michael is a murderer or watching him die knowing he's innocent? I've wrestled with that question for hours. I think I'd find comfort in knowing the truth. In knowing that my own flesh and blood is dying for what he believes in, not because he has done something appalling.'
But he remained steadfast in his belief that I would do more harm than good.
I left the subject there, and asked instead, 'How has Victoria Garrison taken this news?'
The rector said, 'Walk with me to the rectory, won't you?' I nodded, and as we crossed the churchyard, he went on. 'Victoria Garrison troubles me. She was eager to give her evidence. And when proceedings were halted almost before they had properly begun, she was beside herself with anger. I was there that first day myself, I felt it was my duty, you know. If young Hart looked out at the crowded courtroom, I thought it might be steadying to find a familiar face. Victoria was waiting with the other witnesses, and when the trial ended abruptly, a bailiff must have gone to tell them that they were free to leave. And so we ran into each other on the stairs, and I was shocked. I had expected distress, disbelief, even. But her face was flushed with fury. I asked if she was all right, but she turned on me and said, 'I've been cheated!' in such a savage tone that I stepped back, and she hastened out the door and into the street. I've been at a loss ever since to understand.'
I thought I did understand. Victoria had wanted her pound of flesh, to hear in open court a discussion of the sins of her sister. I couldn't imagine that Michael's fate moved her-she had been eager to see him taken into custody.
I had wondered before if a woman could have stabbed both victims. It was possible. But was it likely?
Given Victoria's hatred of Marjorie, it could have happened. But how did Victoria know about the love affair before her sister's death? Or about the child? Surely Marjorie hadn't confided in her. And so Victoria couldn't have killed her.
There was the problem. If Marjorie had been living her life quietly in London, Victoria had no reason to be aware of her situation.
The rector, suspecting my inner struggles, invited me to have lunch with him. 'My excellent cook always makes more than enough sandwiches for one person,' he ended. 'It will be no imposition.'
And so I did. There was a plate full of sandwiches, with a dish of summer apples stewed in honey. 'We've been keeping bees,' the rector told me. 'Have you tried honey in your tea?' There were also small potatoes baked in milk and grated cheese.
We talked about the village, and I confessed that I'd come to mend fences with Alicia.
He smiled. 'She was saying on Sunday last that she wished it had never happened. I think if you go to her door, she will be glad to see you.'
I wasn't as certain. But I promised I would try.
