Free An Impartial Witness by Charles Todd Page A

the station.
    My father’s motorcar, in fact.
    Simon smiled. “It’s home for you, Miss Crawford. Orders from the Colonel-in-Chief.”
    That was my mother. None of us disobeyed her when she issued a command.
    I had delivered Dr. Buckley to a doctor waiting for him in the hospital in Portsmouth. Once he’d been settled and the papers I’d been carrying about his condition were handed over to Matron, who took charge of them and Dr. Buckley with quiet efficiency, I had been free to leave.
    I was just as glad to be going home again. Standing at the rail of the ship bringing us into Portsmouth, I’d watched the smooth waters of The Solent and the irregular shape of the Isle of Wight rise out of the darkness like some fantastical place in dreams—quiet and peaceful. At the back of my mind, unbidden, were the sounds of that Spandau machine gun firing round after round. And then an officer of the Wiltshire Fusiliers came to stand beside me, looking out toward the busy harbor.
    “I miss the lights,” he said without turning. “I could pick out the villages by their lights as we came into port.”
    They had been turned off to make the enemy blind. Portsmouth, across The Solent, was a major port and a tempting target for submarines.
    I looked up at him, but it wasn’t the face I’d hoped to see.
    And that encounter had brought Marjorie Evanson back to mind. I still had her photograph.
    Turning to Simon as we drove toward Somerset, I said, “What did you learn about Lieutenant Fordham’s death?”
    “It’s still under wraps. A police matter. How did you come to hear about his death? Your letter was brief.”
    “I was worried about the censors. Scotland Yard wanted to know if he was the man I’d seen with Marjorie Evanson at the railway station, the day she died.”
    “And was he?”
    “No. I can’t even be sure he knew Mrs. Evanson. He was just in the same regiment as the officer the Yard is looking for. To help with their inquiries, as they say. Scotland Yard might even have asked me just on the off chance it would connect the two cases. Apparently they haven’t made much progress in finding her murderer.”
    “That explains the fact that so little has come to light about Fordham’s death. The Yard kept it out of the newspapers. Did you know that? But then Fordham was from a prominent family. I suspect they’d rather believe he was murdered than that he killed himself. He was a serving officer, recovering from wounds. Suicide smacks of not being able to face going back into the line.”
    “Was there an inquest?”
    “It was adjourned at the request of the police.”
    “I did ask Inspector Herbert for the particulars, when I answered his letter. But he never replied. Where does the Fordham family live, do you know?”
    “In Wiltshire. Leave it to the police, Bess.”
    “I know. They have more resources, and all that.” I gave the matter some thought, then asked, “Was Lieutenant Fordham married?”
    “I don’t know. Bess—”
    He turned to look at me, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. And that was when I realized that he was not telling me everything. I know Simon Brandon as well as he knows me.
    “There’s something else. What is it, Simon?” He was concentrating on passing a small dogcart driven by a heavyset man asleep on the seat, the pony trotting purposefully toward its destination as if it had done this a thousand times before. I waited until we were safely past pony and cart. “You might as well tell me.”
    “There’s nothing to tell.”
    I smiled. “Must I spend my entire leave making your life miserable, wheedling and pleading and issuing ultimatums?” His profile was like stone. “I’ll even cry.”
    He laughed then. “I haven’t seen you cry in years.”
    I let it go. We drove in silence for some time.
    Finally, Simon said, “All right. A fortnight before he died, Lieutenant Fordham was invited to a weekend party at Melton Hall.”
    I stared at him. “Melton Hall?