restless on the coverlet.
'The doctor says I'm quite recovered, but I don't feel that I am. I seem so tired, and I don't have the energy to go anywhere or do anything. This bed should have been taken down days ago, but I still find it difficult to climb the stairs.' There was the underlying complaining note of the invalid beneath the words.
'You look so well,' I said, asking silent forgiveness for the lie. 'I was hoping for good news.'
'I haven't slept well in some time. Not since-not for some time.'
I understood. Not since her words had sent Michael Hart to trial. I said, 'Never mind, that will come in time. You've been very ill, you know. It isn't surprising that you still feel a little uncomfortable.'
'It isn't pain. I mean to say, I don't hurt. I'm just dreadfully tired.'
And that was depression. Her feeling of guilt a burden she didn't recognize.
'Do you want to talk about Michael?' I asked gently. 'Perhaps you'll feel better afterward.'
She began to cry. 'I can't help it. He was coming to see me-I expected him-and his was the name I spoke when that policeman found me in the garden.'
'You told the truth, you know. As far as you remembered it. There's no guilt in that.'
'But he's to hang, and how am I ever to forget that it was my words that sealed his fate? What if I haven't remembered it properly, what if it's confused because of my injuries, and I only remember next month or next year? When it's too late?'
'He condemned himself.'
'He did it for Marjorie's sake, I've no doubt of that. He would do. When things appeared to be so hopeless anyway, he could at least spare her.' She found a fresh handkerchief, but the tears hadn't stopped. 'I find it so hard to believe that he could have killed her. Not when he loved her so. If he were that sort of person, he'd have killed her before she could marry Meriwether. I lay awake trying to see the face of the person who attacked me. I try and try, and nothing comes. What am I to do when-after-Michael is dead, and I see that face clearly? And know beyond a shadow of any doubt that it wasn't him?'
I felt pity for her. Her life would never be the same, through no fault of her own. And she was right, she would be forever haunted, whether the face came clearly to her or not. There would always be that uncertainty, and that burden of guilt.
I said, to change the subject, 'Were they able to bring your husband home from France?'
'Oh, yes, he came. I was so grateful, I felt so safe when he was with me. But he had to go back, once I was out of danger. Compassionate leave, they called it. He was so angry, you know. He said if he could find the person who did this, he'd kill the man with his bare hands. And I think he would have done. I never told him about saying Michael's name over and over again. Then he was gone and it was too late.'
'It was the only thing you could do.' I hesitated. 'Tell me, did you ever see Marjorie with someone named Jack Melton? Or hear her mention him?'
'I know him, of course I do. He's Serena's husband. He was at the wedding.'
'But afterward. More recently, perhaps. Did Marjorie tell you that she'd run into him by chance?'
'I don't think so.' She frowned, trying to remember. 'But she probably wouldn't have. He's in London from time to time. He's taken me to lunch once or twice, and I'm sure he's taken Marjorie as well. You know how it is, London is so full of strangers these days. One walks down the street and feels as if one is in a foreign city. When one encounters a familiar face, it's almost a relief.'
I tried to think of another way to bring up Jack Melton, without giving her more reasons for feeling terrible about Michael's fate. But then I remembered Victoria, and switched the subject again. 'Did Victoria come often to London to see Marjorie?'
'Oh, never. She was at the engagement party of course, and the wedding. That's about the only time I remember seeing her at Marjorie's house. And she never came here. She knew how I felt about her, the way she'd treated her mother.'
'I'm told she did come to London often, for several months in a row. And then she stopped coming. The Harts wondered if she was spying on Marjorie.'
'Spying on her? I can't imagine why. Well, Marjorie did say that she had run into her while looking for a wedding present for a friend. That was in May, I think. But that was it, Marjorie was in a hurry and got out of the encounter as quickly as possible. She said Victoria wanted to know how Meriwether was, and seemed inclined to talk. But Marjorie wasn't in the mood.'
And had Victoria's curiosity been tweaked, and had she followed her sister to see where she was in such a hurry to go?
I wouldn't put it past her.
'What is it that makes Victoria carry such a grudge? Was it just Michael? She seemed to have everything else she wanted-the house, Marjorie settled, out of sight and mind in London. What else was there to take away?'
'It's the will. Not many people know. The Garrison house was left to Victoria, of course, but the estate was divided fairly evenly. Much to Victoria's chagrin, let me tell you! There was a scene in the solicitor's office. I'd gone with Marjorie as moral support, and I was very glad I had, although it was a dreadful time, I must say! And on top of that was the way the trust was constructed. I don't understand all of it, but from what I gathered-what Marjorie gathered from the actual reading and told me-was distinctly odd. Neither daughter inherits anything outright.'
'He forgave Marjorie-or at the end, felt some doubt about what he'd been told by Victoria?'
'I'm not so sure. You see, while both girls could draw on the income from their share of the trust, the capital wouldn't be distributed until both of them reached fifty. Past child-bearing age. At that time, the trust would be dissolved. However, if either daughter bore a child before that, and it was given its grandfather's name, the house and the entire trust would go to it at age twenty-one. There would be nothing left for Marjorie and Victoria.'
I caught my breath. It was a cruel provision-it pitted sister against sister. And I had the fleeting thought that perhaps Victoria had inherited her father's mean spirit. After all, he'd turned against his wife and his daughter, and in the end, he'd punished both daughters for that. As Victoria had tried to punish Marjorie.
But Marjorie was expecting a child. Unless Meriwether was willing to acknowledge it and give it his name, the child would be a Garrison-Marjorie's maiden name.
What a revenge against her sister for all the grief that Marjorie had suffered!
It was almost shocking to contemplate what Victoria might do, given that knowledge. After all her scheming, she would have lost everything.
'Did anyone else know the contents of the will?' I asked.
'The servants were there for the reading; of course there was a small bequest to each of them. Then we were asked to leave. The final provision was read only to Victoria and Marjorie. As I mentioned, there was a terrific row, and none of us knew where to look. You could hear it, but not the words of course. Victoria screaming, and once, Marjorie laughing. If Mr. Blake hadn't been there, they'd have been at each other's throats. I expect Marjorie told her sister that as a married woman-the wedding was to be that October, you see-she might soon see Victoria evicted.'
'How long ago was this? When did Mr. Garrison die?'
'In the winter of 1914. Six months before the war began. Meriwether had already told Marjorie that he wanted to fly, that he wanted above all things to be a pilot. Marjorie told me later that Victoria had said, 'If there's a war, I hope he's shot down and killed. It will serve you right.''
Three years ago. The wounds would still be raw. And when Victoria had asked after Meriwether when the sisters met in May, it had not been a friendly overture-it had been a reminder that Marjorie hadn't had her child, and that Meriwether was still at risk.
'But if that's how the trust stood, why didn't Victoria marry as soon as possible, and have a child of her own?'
'And lose her house and her substantial income to it? Besides, I think she wanted to marry Michael and throw that in Marjorie's face. She might have taken the risk for him.'
'I could almost believe that it was Victoria who killed Marjorie. That perhaps Marjorie had gloated about the child she was carrying. It would make sense.'
'Oh, I'm sure Victoria isn't a murderer.'
But it might explain as well why Helen Calder herself had been stabbed. If Marjorie had told her about the peculiar provision, and now she was about to tell Michael. Was that the question he was burning to ask Helen? It gave Victoria the perfect motive for murder.
