Fordham swore he'd kill Jack Melton when he'd recovered from his wounds. Victoria Garrison has in her possession a.45-caliber revolver. Jack Melton gave it to her. I'd see if Melton had used it to murder Lieutenant Fordham. I wouldn't be surprised if she shot at Michael as well. If you solve the Fordham case, you owe it to me to pursue Michael Hart's innocence. It would be a tragedy to discover after his hanging that you were wrong. I found a bullet in the Hart gardens. If you look, you'll find its mate there as well.'
I handed my message to the constable, and asked him to see to it that Inspector Herbert received it as soon as he came in the next morning. I'd marked it Urgent, all that I could do.
Simon, waiting by the motorcar for me, said, 'That was quick. Were you shown the door?'
'His office was dark. He's gone home. I left a message.'
He held the door for me, then got behind the wheel.
'Bess, there are circles under your eyes. You've had no rest since you got home. You've done everything that's humanly possible. More, in fact, than anyone ever dreamed could be done. Michael doesn't want to be saved- for the wrong reasons, I must admit. Or perhaps he is guilty after all, and it's hard to accept. Who knows?'
I fidgeted with the fringe of the rug. 'If I could talk to Jack Melton, I'd know whether or not he was guilty. I don't think Victoria is. She's just vicious, cruel, wanting to hurt because she's hurt. If she'd killed her sister, I think she'd have met me at the door with a knife in her pocket, not that revolver. It was probably to protect herself, not to shoot me. She knew who was at her door, she'd had time to plan what to do.'
Simon chuckled in the darkness of the motorcar, a deep chuckle in his chest that reminded me of Michael.
'What's funny?' I demanded angrily.
'Nothing. You. Rationalizing why you weren't killed tonight.'
'Well,' I retorted, 'if you'd thought I was in any danger, you wouldn't have let me walk down that path with my back to the woman!'
His mouth tightened into a hard line.
'You should go back to Somerset. Tonight,' he said finally. 'It's safer. I have a bad feeling about this business.'
'I know. But I can't abandon Michael.'
'In spite of all you've done, you can't be certain he's innocent. Your theories are no better and no worse than the one that put him in jail.'
'I know. But by the same token, I can't be certain he's guilty. I don't want his death on my conscience. There must be something else I can do. I'll think of something, I'm sure I will. And I want to be here, in London, where I can act on it. It takes hours to drive in from Somerset. Besides, Inspector Herbert knows where to find me.'
'He's not going to listen, Bess, he's already got his man. There are too many hurdles to leap now, he won't risk his career on what Michael Hart's friends have to say.'
'Then tomorrow we go back to Michael's defense counsel. I have a witness now. He'll have to listen. And if he won't, we'll go to the newspapers.'
'They won't risk lawsuits to print your accusations.'
I was tired, my mind wasn't working as it should. But a night's sleep would make a difference.
I said stubbornly, 'I won't go to Somerset tonight. If I have to, tomorrow I'll go to Serena and tell her what I know. Or to Jack Melton himself.'
'I tell you, it isn't safe.'
'Mrs. Hennessey is there. I'll be all right.'
He stopped arguing with me then. 'All right.' He drove on, turning toward the flat, his face in the shadows. I knew he was very angry with me. I knew he'd seen me take a risk I shouldn't have, speaking to Victoria alone. But I couldn't go home.
'Simon?'
He said nothing, driving in silence, and I subsided into my seat.
The problem was, Michael had confessed. And because of that, all doors were closed. Simon was right. Battering at them was a useless exercise.
I collected myself, swallowed my frustration and the feeling of helplessness that made me so angry.
We were halfway to the flat now.
'Simon. Give me one more day. Please? And then I'll go to Somerset. I promise you. I was drawn into this business because I nursed Meriwether Evanson. I wish now he'd carried a photograph of Gladys Cooper, like thousands of other men in France.'
'None of this is your fault, Bess. You must understand that. It would have happened even if you had never recognized Marjorie Evanson that night at Waterloo Station.'
And that was true. Her fate had been decided months ago when she embarked on a love affair.
I took a deep breath. 'One more day, please?'
'All right. Against my better judgment. One more day.'
Ahead was the house. There were no lights showing. Mrs. Hennessey had gone to bed, and Mary wasn't in. I could pace the floor or sleep, it wouldn't matter.
'Thank you, Simon.'
He walked me to the door and saw me inside, waiting until I had climbed the stairs and unlocked my door. I went to the window and drew back the curtains, then turned on my light.
He lifted his hat to me and got back into the motorcar.
For once I wished Mrs. Hennessey wasn't the dragon at the gate, that Simon could have come upstairs with me and had a cup of tea before leaving. I'd have known then that he was over his anger.
Sighing, I locked the outer door and made a cup of tea for myself. I sat there sipping it, my mind finally slowing down enough to sleep. And then, finally, I went to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I don't remember turning out the light, but I must have done, for I woke up some hours later to find my room dark, with only the star glow from the windows telling me it was still hours until dawn.
I drifted off again, dreaming that I was a witness to Michael's execution, standing there like stone as he climbed the steps to the gallows and his sentence was read to him by the warden. Then the executioner slipped a black bag over his head. I was thinking that the last thing he'd seen was a bare prison yard and my face. Overhead the sky was cloudy, not even the sun shining for him one last time, and I wanted to cry, but couldn't. There was a priest just behind Michael's shoulder, and as he turned to say something to the warden, I recognized Jack Melton's face. It was he who stepped forward to throw the lever, not the executioner, and I made myself wake up before the trap fell and Michael died.
I lay there breathing hard from the effort, trying to shake the last remnants of the dream.
And then I heard something that brought me wide awake in seconds.
Someone was trying to open the flat door.
Everyone here had a key, unless we were to be away for some time, in which case we often left it with Mrs. Hennessey. Elayne and Diana weren't due for leave for a while, and Mary was staying with friends. Pat had been in Egypt these past six months or more. The flat below us was empty as well, its occupants in Poona, India, just now.
I got up very quietly, and stood at the bedroom door, listening. It hadn't been my imagination. There it was a second time, the scratch of something hard against the plate. It was very dark at the top of the stairs, and finding the keyhole wasn't always easy.
My flatmates and I could locate it blindfolded, from long experience.
Someone was trying to get into the flat.
My throat was dry now. I ran through a swift inventory of possible weapons.
There was the knife we used to cut bread and make sandwiches, but I didn't think the blade was stout enough to drive into someone, and I had no intention of getting that close. Diana had a golf club in her room. She was trying to learn to play, and sometimes amused herself by putting into a glass wedged between the door and
