She answered me with a sigh, then said, 'Serena is my friend. And she will need me when the truth comes out. As it must, Bess. Don't you see, she's a victim too. She's already lost her brother. We can't leave her to the mercy of a man like that. What if she discovers he's a killer?'
I found a telephone and called my parents, first to tell them that I was in London now, and second to ask my father if there was any news from Simon.
My father said gently, 'Bess. My dear. I don't think Michael will wish to see you. You mustn't let yourself hope.'
'But how can we do anything for him if he won't answer questions? His aunt and uncle are grieving. He ought to think of the living as well as the dead.'
'Will it do if Simon or I go to see him?'
My heart plummeted. I wanted to see Michael, I wanted to see for myself how he was bearing up, and whether pleading guilty had weighed heavily on his conscience-or freed it. I wanted to see whether he had any use of his shoulder and arm, or if the case there was as hopeless as he'd been told. But how to explain this to my father-or for that matter, to Simon-without arousing their protective instincts, thinking to spare me added grief? If Michael was guilty, I could accept it. If he wasn't, it was a terrible waste of a man's life and reputation to die in the misplaced belief that he was sparing Marjorie.
I couldn't stand in judgment of her-but her affair had touched other lives, led to her murder, the death of her husband, the attack on Helen Calder. I saw no good reason to add another death to that list. Especially since it could mean that the real murderer went free.
I wasn't sure we would ever know what drove Marjorie Evanson into a love affair. The truth may have died with her. That was how it should be.
My father's voice came down the line.
'Bess? Are you still there?'
'Please, if he can be persuaded to see me, I still want to go. If he absolutely refuses, then Simon should go in my place. Michael knows him. I'll make a list of what I need to learn. It's important. Otherwise I wouldn't insist.'
'It would help if I knew-have you any information that could overturn the verdict? I'll speak to Inspector Herbert if you have.'
'I'm not sure. I'm leaving now-I'm going back to Little Sefton. There's something I must do there.'
'Not tonight, Bess. That's not wise. Wait until morning.'
'There aren't enough mornings left.' I tried not to let what I was feeling seep into my voice. Wailing would do no good. 'Please, will you speak to Simon?'
'I promise.'
That was enough for me.
'If you promise not to drive anywhere tonight.'
I was caught on the horns of a dilemma.
Finally I said, 'Yes, all right, I agree. I'll leave a list of the questions with Mrs. Hennessey tomorrow morning. Will that be all right?'
'As long as it isn't a letter. And if you have a personal message, let Simon give it orally. Prison officials are strict, Bess, and you don't want him to be turned away.'
'Yes, thank you. Good advice!'
I hung up and left the hotel, deciding to walk back to the apartment, to clear my head.
The exercise was good, the air cool and fresh, the streets for some reason nearly empty. Then I recalled that it was the dinner hour, and most people were at home, where they belonged.
As Mrs. Hennessey's house with its wartime flats came into view down the street, I thought how helpful Mary had been in putting what I'd learned into perspective. Despite her friendship with Serena. I'd been fortunate with my flatmates. Diana and Mary and the others had been good friends and the sort of women who made sharing a flat bearable. Mrs. Hennessey was dependable, caring, and willing to look in on us if we were ill. I felt safe here.
Opening the outer door, I saw her peering out her own door, and then she came to greet me.
'You look tired. Have you just come home from the Front?'
'I've been in Somerset,' I told her. But that wasn't altogether true.
She came closer, as if to see me better. 'You aren't grieving for that young man they just took up for murder?'
'No, not grieving. Just sad. I'm not sure he's guilty.'
'If a judge feels he is, then he is,' she said, nodding. 'They're nobody's fools, are judges.'
'No.' I didn't feel like arguing with her. But talking about Michael suddenly reminded me of Inspector Herbert. I turned around and started back through the door I'd just come in. 'If Mary comes down to ask for me, tell her I'll return shortly.'
I thought about driving, then decided to find a cab. But that wasted precious minutes, and I was almost on the edge of my seat as I reached Trafalgar Square. Scotland Yard was within walking distance now.
The constable guarding the door told me that he thought Inspector Herbert had already left for the day.
'It's very important. Could you ask to be sure?'
He must have heard those words-it's very important-a thousand times over, but he nodded and went away to find out where Inspector Herbert might be.
I felt I had waited an hour or more, but then the constable came back, and with him another man, a Sergeant Miller, who led me up the stairs and down the passage to Inspector Herbert's office. I thanked the sergeant, took a deep breath, and knocked lightly on the door.
Inspector Herbert's voice bade me enter. But as I walked through the door, his face changed. 'They said a young woman-no one gave me your name.'
'They weren't sure you were here. May I speak to you?'
'If it's about Michael Hart's execution, there's nothing I can do to prevent it.'
'I haven't come about that. But I'd like to know-were you in the courtroom when he pleaded guilty?'
He hesitated. 'Yes. I was,' he said finally.
'What did you think? What did you feel?'
'Surprise, like everyone else. I'd been told our case was sound, but that it wasn't a certainty. For one thing, Hart is a handsome man. He had some public sympathy. A male jury wouldn't be swayed by that, of course, but even jurors have wives and daughters. I was prepared for anything, to tell you the truth. But not for a guilty plea. I expected Hart to take his chances.'
'Do you know why he did it?'
'I have my suspicions. The prison surgeon's report, that Hart's arm is likely to be useless, was a factor, I'm sure. In fact, I was told he was put on a suicide watch after the doctor completed his examination.'
'Have you visited Michael in prison?'
Inspector Herbert, who had been speaking directly to me as I stood there before his desk, looked toward a filing cabinet against the left-hand wall. 'No. I saw no point in going there. I don't think he'd have cared for my sympathy.'
'The other reason for his plea was to spare Marjorie's memory and reputation. He wouldn't have wanted her name to be dragged through the court.'
'There's that,' he conceded.
'Can you arrange for me to see Lieutenant Hart?'
'I don't feel that's wise. Besides, he's asked to have visitors turned away. There was a list.' He fished around on his cluttered desk, and came up with a sheet of paper. Reading from it, he said, 'Victoria Garrison is at the top of the list. She's the sister of his first victim.'
I made no answer. Looking up, he said irritably, 'Do sit down, Miss Crawford. I don't bite.'
I sat down and waited.
'The next names on the list are his aunt and uncle. After theirs comes yours.'
I took a deep breath. I'd expected that, but it still hurt.
He set the list aside. 'For what it's worth, I believe he cared for you, Miss Crawford.'
'That's nowhere near the truth, Inspector, and you know it. He loved Marjorie Evanson. No one else. I believe he liked me, as I liked him. That was as far as it went.'
