Free An Impartial Witness by Charles Todd Page B

But—” I stopped, then asked, “And did he accept?”
    “He refused the invitation.”
    There could have been any number of reasons for refusing. But what had Serena Melton made of that?
    “How on earth did you discover that?”
    “Quite by chance. I was asking someone about Fordham, but she hadn’t seen him for weeks. And then she added that, in fact, she’d just missed him. Apparently she’d attended a party where she’d been looking forward to seeing him—she had heard he was to be a fellow guest. But he never came. When she asked her hostess if he was all right, she was told that Fordham had pleaded another engagement. When she learned afterward that he’d died, she had wondered if his wounds were worse than she knew.”
    “I was a guest there one weekend. Simon, he must have known Marjorie—that’s the only reason he’d have been asked to the party.”
    “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d jump to conclusions.”
    I let it drop. But the rest of the way home to Somerset my mind was busy.
    Inspector Herbert had asked me if the face in the photograph was the man I’d seen in the railway station with Marjorie Evanson. And I’d replied that he wasn’t.
    Granted, a good deal ot time had passed since that night. But Inspector Herbert must have believed that I could still recognize him. Otherwise, why send the photograph?
    If there was some evidence I didn’t know about, why hadn’t he said so? Something that pointed to Lieutenant Fordham, something to show that the man at the station had had nothing to do with Marjorie’s death later that night. Yet he’d asked if they were one and the same.
    Surely he wouldn’t simply close the case now, whatever evidence he had uncovered, and never identify Marjorie Evanson’s lover? Yes, Lieutenant Fordham had taken his own life, there could be no trial, the matter could be hushed up and the family’s good name protected. But what about justice for Marjorie and her good name?
    The silence, keeping the facts of the lieutenant’s death out of the press, adjourning the inquest—it all made a certain sense whether I was comfortable with it or not.
    After all, it was her murderer Scotland Yard wanted. It didn’t matter about her private life if that private life had nothing to do with her death. Even if it had been responsible for her husband’s suicide, the police could wash their hands of the case.
    That seemed so unfair to Marjorie, so unfair to her husband, and to the families that grieved for them.
    “You’ve been quiet. Are you all right?” Simon was asking as we came down the street and could see the house gates just ahead.
    “A little tired, that’s all.”
    Thinking that I must be remembering what I’d left behind inFrance, he said, “If you need to talk to someone…” He left the rest unfinished.
    I thanked him, and then I was being welcomed with open arms. There was no fatted calf, there not being one handy for this occasion or any other, but I was safe and at home.
    It wasn’t until after dinner that I found a moment to put through a call to Scotland Yard. I only wanted to be reassured, told that I was wrong about Lieutenant Fordham.
    A constable at the other end identified himself and asked how he could help me. I asked for Inspector Herbert.
    “Your name, please?”
    I gave it.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Crawford. Inspector Herbert isn’t in at present.”
    “When do you expect him to return?” I asked.
    “I can’t say, Miss.”
    “Tonight? Tomorrow?”
    “I can’t say, Miss.”
    I waited for him to ask if there was a message. But there was only silence.
    I thanked him and put up the receiver.
    Then I went to find my mother.
    For someone who had spent most of her married life following my father around the world, she seemed to know half of England.
    My father always explained that without any difficulty. “In the first place,” he’d told me soon after we’d returned to Britain, “she needs to know anyone of