'You do have an unusual range of friends, Bess,' she retorted. 'I hope you're saying he's innocent?'
'God knows. The evidence against him was strong, but the feeling was, he could very well be acquitted. He had a very good barrister-Mr. Forbes for the defense-who was certainly sanguine about his chances. And then to everyone's amazement and shock, he changed his plea to guilty in the first minutes of the trial.'
'Ah. I remember now. He's extraordinarily handsome. I saw his photograph in some broadsheet or other.'
'No doubt. They thought it was going to be a notorious, scandalous trial, and instead he disappointed everyone.'
Mary brought the tea to the table, and set out the cups. 'Drink this, and then tell me everything from the beginning.'
'You know a part of it-'
'Doesn't matter. Start at the start. I won't be able to see any solution if I don't know it all.'
I didn't like telling Mary all about the Garrisons and the Harts and the Meltons. She knew Serena, after all. But Mary is the soul of discretion, and what I said to her would be treated like the confidence it was.
The afternoon had faded into early dusk by the time I'd finished, and the teapot was empty, the biscuits she'd found in the cupboard, hard and stale as they were, had been finished as well. There's something about eating a sweet that raises the spirits.
I sat back, tired by the tale and tired from the emotions of the day and the long drive. 'Well. There you have it.'
She picked up the cups and the teapot to do the washing up, and it was while she was working that she said, 'I hesitate to tell you this, Bess, but you're right. The evidence is very strong against your Lieutenant Hart.'
'He isn't mine,' I said testily, 'although everyone is busy insisting that he is.'
'All the same.'
'Yes, I know. But there's just enough doubt…' My voice trailed away. Then I said, 'But why do I have this sense of failure? I'm a fairly good judge of character, Mary. How could I be so wrong about the man?'
'I expect the reason is that you don't believe strongly in his motive. That he killed Marjorie Evanson because she was seeing someone else. But he knew her husband, and it seems to me that a decent man wouldn't kill a married woman because she'd been dithering with someone else instead of him. He was more likely to lecture her on her behavior and make certain that the man was out of her life altogether. Simon would have done that, wouldn't he? If you stood in Marjorie's shoes? Well, you aren't married of course, but you know what I mean.'
It was typically convoluted-Mary was good at convoluting-but she was also very sensible and practical. It was what made her an excellent nurse.
'I do see.' I was already feeling better. 'And even if he went to Helen Calder's house, I can't understand why he would have a reason to kill her. But that's the problem, she can remember that he was coming, but not why, or if he was the one who stabbed her.'
'Who knew he was going to her house?'
'His aunt and uncle. Unless of course Victoria was suspicious and followed him.'
'Who would Victoria tell?' Mary asked. 'If she saw him at the Calder house and was angry enough to do a mischief?'
'I-I'm not sure,' I said slowly. 'Why would she tell anyone?'
'You said there was speculation that she'd been seeing someone in London. A man. What if he was the same man who killed Marjorie?'
'That makes no sense.'
'It would do, if she has made a practice of spoiling Marjorie's chances.'
'But he wasn't the one who got Marjorie pregnant.'
'You can't be sure of that.'
'But I can. I told you, I spoke to Raymond Melton while I was in France. He was the man I saw with her at the railway station that evening. She was dead only a few hours later. And he was on his way to Portsmouth. He couldn't possibly have killed her. We're back where we began.'
'Didn't you say he denied leaving that train?'
'Yes.'
'What if he's telling the truth? What if he wasn't her lover?'
'I saw the way Marjorie was clinging to him. In distress-despair.' I gave it some thought. 'You're saying that he was there at the station with her, and she'd told him the truth about her circumstances-but he wasn't her lover.'
I'd dismissed that idea earlier.
I went on slowly, 'But if she did indeed confide in him, and he wasn't the man responsible for getting her pregnant, then he must have known who that man was. That's why he was there.' I remembered the small flicker of satisfaction in Raymond Melton's eyes when I confronted him in the ward. He had told me the literal truth-but not the whole truth. 'And she contacted him because the other man refused to speak to her after the affair was over.'
'That happens,' Mary said. 'All too often, in fact. Remember Nan Wilson, who was in love with that Frenchman who was here with the diplomatic corps? He was some sort of military attache. And when he went back to France, and she found herself in trouble, he sent her letters back unopened, marked address unknown.'
I did remember.
It would explain so much. I'd wondered why Marjorie Evanson had let herself be seduced by Raymond Melton. After all, her own father had been the same sort of cold and uncaring man. I understood why he'd offered no comfort, kissed her cheek so perfunctorily. I remembered how he'd walked away without looking back-even if the love affair was over-to make certain she was all right. He had done his duty, he had listened to her pleas for help, told her he could do nothing about her situation, and calmly boarded his train.
It was such a calculated and callous act that I was stunned.
Who would Raymond Melton do such a service for?
The answer was simple.
His brother Jack.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
'Jack Melton.' I whispered the name aloud, as if by hearing it spoken, I confirmed it. And then I thought, Poor Serena.
How frantic she had been to put a name to the man who was responsible for Marjorie's plight, and I'd heard her husband pretend to advise her as if it were his dearest wish as well that those weekend parties be successful. And all the time, the man she was after was within arm's reach. He'd let her anger and her determination make her life a misery, and he'd even expressed his concern about her to me. Had she also secretly prayed that the man she was looking for wasn't her own husband? It would explain so much about her, her shrillness, her rudeness, her frustration.
What had made her suspect him of having an affair?
Did she suspect him of murder as well as adultery? Surely not.
I remembered the day I'd encountered Jack Melton outside the Marlborough Hotel.
He had known that Michael Hart was in England the night that Marjorie Evanson was killed. But how could he have known? Unless she had told him herself.
How easy it would have been for Raymond Melton to find a telephone in Portsmouth on his way to the docks, and put in a call to his brother to say that the meeting with Marjorie hadn't gone as well as expected. Or that she'd made threats. As a last resort, she could even have brought up Michael's name.
He's in London tonight. I'll speak to him, and we'll see how Jack feels then about not talking to me himself…
It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Still, conjecture wouldn't stop Michael from hanging.
I said to Mary, 'I'm so sorry-these are your friends!'
