I rose and walked to the door. 'Thank you for your time, Mr. Forbes.'
My hand was on the knob when Mr. Forbes said, 'You must also surmount the obstacle of Lieutenant Hart's refusal to be helped.'
I turned to stare at him, accepting for the first time the fact that Michael would hang.
'Someone should have reminded him that while he's being gallant and selfish, Marjorie Evanson's murderer will live a long and happy life,' he added.
I quietly closed the door behind me. As I walked down the passage past the clerks' rooms, I told myself that I'd done everything that was humanly possible. I could do no more.
Nevertheless, I refused to be reconciled to Michael's fate.
As I stepped out into blindingly bright sunlight after the dim, paneled walls I'd just left, Mr. Forbes's words echoed in my head.
Give the police the murderer himself. Or herself.
And that was going to be a challenge.
For a fleeting moment I wondered if Mr. Forbes had meant it to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I walked nearly a mile before I looked for a cab to take me back to the flat.
I needed the exercise to counteract the depression settling over me. But it did little to help. I reminded myself that men could be incredibly stubborn and unconscionably blind at times, and that also failed to bring me any consolation.
Would Simon Brandon have any better luck talking to Michael in his prison cell?
Simon could be very persuasive when he wished to be.
But chances were, Michael had already reconciled himself to dying. I'd seen soldiers do that-make peace with the knowledge that they would very likely not survive, so that survival didn't enter into any decisions that they would have to make on the battlefield.
As the cab made its way around Buckingham Palace and the Royal Mews, turning toward Mrs. Hennessey's house and the flat, I looked out at the afternoon sunlight slanting across London's landmarks, and wondered what to do next. I felt at a loss, with no purpose.
How does one find a murderer in a matter of a few days?
In my careful reconstruction of the evidence against Jack Melton and Victoria Garrison, there had to be a flaw. But where?
I closed my eyes, reviewing everything I'd said.
And then I sat back in the cab, breathless for a moment.
Everything had fit to perfection. Except for one thing. How had Jack Melton known that Michael was intent on speaking to Mrs. Calder? Coincidence? Accident? If I knew the answer to that, I could eliminate him from my quest.
What had driven Jack Melton to murder a second time?
It wouldn't do to appear at Melton Hall and ask questions. Serena would show me the door, if her husband didn't.
I bit my lip, thinking. But my mind was a blank.
All right, then, save time and eliminate Victoria Garrison from the role as murderess.
We were just pulling up in front of Mrs. Hennessey's door. I hastily returned to the present and got out, paying the driver as I did. Above my head, the late-afternoon sun was turning the windows of our flat to gold.
It was the only time beauty entered the sensible little flat designed to be a home for a few of the hundreds of people who had descended on London at the start of the war to work in one capacity or another.
I went inside and climbed the stairs. If only Michael would listen to Simon and decide to help at last in his own defense. Wishful thinking indeed. How many people facing the gallows suddenly proclaimed their innocence? No one would even listen. But at least I could find out what he knew.
I had begun to make myself a cup of tea. Now I set the tin back in the cupboard, put the cup and saucer on the shelf, caught up my coat, and went flying down the stairs.
It made no sense to sit here in London. I needed to talk to Victoria.
I stopped at Mrs. Hennessey's door and knocked.
She didn't answer, but as I was about to turn away, the door finally opened. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, she said, 'Oh, Bess, dear. I was just doing a little ironing-'
I smiled. She never liked to be caught napping in the afternoon.
'I have to travel to Little Sefton, Mrs. Hennessey. That's in Hampshire. The train leaves in half an hour. Sergeant-Major Brandon will be coming here looking for me. Will you tell him where I've gone? Tell him it's important or I would have waited.'
'Of course, dear, I'll listen for his knock. Should you be going on your own like this? You'd make so much better time driving with him, given the way the trains are these days.'
But I had no idea when I could expect him.
'I must hurry if I'm to find a cab. Please don't forget, Mrs. Hennessey.'
'No, dear.'
And I was out the door, hurrying down the street to the corner by the bakery where I hoped to find a cab. Nothing. I all but ran to the next block, heads turning as I passed more sedate pedestrians.
Finally a cab saw my wave and slowed down just in front of me. 'Waterloo Station, if you please,' I said, slamming the door even as I spoke.
It was the same train that Captain Melton had taken, and I nearly missed it. Crowded with soldiers, the corridor filled to capacity, and no seat to be had, I resigned myself to an uncomfortable journey. And then a young private noticed me. 'Sister-' He shyly offered me his place in the first compartment.
Thanking him, I sat down, struggling to catch my breath. Scraps of conversation floated around me and over my head, but I paid no attention. I was hoping that Mrs. Hennessey wouldn't fall asleep again and miss Simon's knock at her door.
Settling myself at last, I watched the outer villages of London slip past and the sun begin to sink in the west, a great red ball of flame that cast long shadows over already misty landscapes. Lights were coming on in village houses facing east, and in the increasingly frequent farms. The weathervane on a church spire reflected the sun long after the churchyard below it lay in purple shadow.
Too beautiful an evening to be hunting a murderer.
The soldier on my left asked where I was going, and I smiled to myself. He was very young. I must have been two years his senior at the very least, but he was tall, broad shouldered, and about to do a man's job. So I listened to his stories about growing up in the Fen country and how different it was from the scenery turning dark before our eyes.
And then Great Sefton was the next stop, and I turned to wish him well, wondering if one day I'd see him in a surgical theater, or if he would even survive his first weeks in the trenches.
The lamps were lit in the station as I stepped down from the train, and I went inside to ask the stationmaster if he could find someone to take me to Little Sefton.
'I'll be glad to, Miss.' He finished the list he had been making, looked at his pocket watch and then the waiting-room clock. 'If you'll have a seat on that bench, I'll find Sam.'
He came back a few minutes later with a girl of perhaps seventeen driving a dogcart. She smiled at me as I stepped out of the station.
'Here you are, Miss,' he said. 'Sam will see you safe to Little Sefton.'
I thanked him and opened the gate of the cart, stepping in and taking my seat.
'Do you drive people to Little Sefton often?' I asked.
'Fairly often. My father kept a carriage for station use, but the horses were taken away. I've got only the pony left.'
We trotted out of Great Sefton, leaving behind a comfortable little town that had a pretty High Street and a
