An Impartial Witness (2 page)

“Who was the man with her?”

“I’ve no idea.” I shook my head, trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d been murdered that very same day. “That poor man—her husband—was counting the hours until he saw her again. It was what kept him fighting to live. I wonder who had to break the news to him. I can’t imagine having to do it.”

“Bess, if you saw her that day, you must tell the Yard.”

“But I don’t know who she was with, or where she went after she left the station. Only that she was there for a few minutes, seeing someone off, and that’s not terribly useful. It’s been a week since this request came out in the newspaper—surely someone else has come forward. A waiter in a restaurant, a cabbie, a friend who ran into her somewhere.” But what if they were saying the same thing: someone else will do it.

“If he’s at the Front, this Wiltshire officer hasn’t spoken to the police,” she pointed out. “And just now, what Lieutenant Evanson probably wants more than anything else is for the police to find her killer.”

“Does it say there how she died? I didn’t read the rest of the article.”

She went back to the newspaper, scanning down the column of close print. “Here it is. She was stabbed and then thrown in the river. They say that she was still alive when she went into the water, but was most likely unconscious.”

“How awful.” I tried to bring up the image of the woman I’d seen in London, her face streaked with tears. Yes, it was the same person.
I’d have no problem swearing to that. And the man? Could I remember him as clearly? Dark hair, blue eyes, a rather weak chin…

More to the point, would I know him again?

“What if this officer hasn’t seen the newspapers? Or been told yet that she’s dead? If the police find him, it’s possible he could tell them where she was going after she left the station. There’s no way of knowing where that might lead,” Martha James persisted.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “You’re right. I really should report what I saw, and let the Yard decide whether it’s helpful information or not.”

“They don’t mention what time she died or when her body was found. More’s the pity,” she added, finishing the article. “You may have been the last person to see her alive, except for her killer. Now there’s an unsettling thought. If he was looking for a likely victim, he might have followed you home instead. You were a woman alone too.”

“You have a ghoulish imagination,” I told her. “I’ll write the letter now.”

My voice suddenly seemed overloud.

We looked at each other. Silence had fallen, the earth was still. I felt almost dizzy with relief, my ears still ringing, my nerves still jangled, my teeth on edge.

“Oh, dear,” Sister James said. “I have a feeling they’ll be sending for us soon.”

“Very likely. It shouldn’t take long to put down what I saw. Could you make us a cup of tea meanwhile?”

But it proved unexpectedly difficult to compose that letter. I kept seeing Lieutenant Evanson’s eyes peering through his heavy bandages, tenaciously holding on to hope even as time was running out for hope, trusting to his wife’s love for him to help him survive and unaware that she would be dead before morning. And so I weighed each word, to make certain that I reported events accurately, uncolored by my own imagination.

After three tries, I was finally satisfied. I was just on the point of sealing the envelope when we could hear the first of the ambulances rumbling toward the wards, bringing in new casualties. I hastily finished my tea, put on a fresh uniform, and by the time Sister James and I were ready, there was a knock on the door and an orderly’s voice summoning us to duty.

I
EXPECTED THAT
the police would thank me for my information. And that would be the end of it. I wrote to Mrs. Hennessey, asking her to save the London papers, in the event there was any more news.

What I was not prepared for was a summons through channels to speak to someone at the Yard, an Inspector Herbert. I was given leave to travel to London for that purpose and two days later I was sitting in a grim little office at Scotland Yard, having been escorted there by a constable with a limp and lines of pain in his face.

After several minutes, a harried, balding man stepped into the room, introduced himself, asked me how my journey from France had been, and then lifted a sheet of paper from his desk and frowned at it. I recognized it.

“The Evanson case. We’ve had precious little help from the public, sad to say. I was on the point of giving up hope when your letter came.” He lifted his gaze to my face, the frown deepening.

“You write that you recognized Mrs. Evanson from a photograph that her husband kept by his side. How long before encountering Mrs. Evanson at the railway station had you seen this photograph?”

“A matter of hours? That morning I’d transported her husband and other patients to a clinic in Hampshire and turned them over to the staff there. It was a little past five o’clock when my train pulled
into London—I wasn’t required to return to France for another day.”

“Tell me again exactly what you saw.”

“As I left the train and was walking toward the exit, Mrs. Evanson was literally in my path, and it was obvious that she had broken down. Her shoulders were shaking with her sobs. Of course, at that point I couldn’t see her face because she was turned toward the officer standing beside her. Just then she looked up, and I realized I knew who she was.”

“You also state in your letter that you recognized the cap badge but couldn’t see the man’s rank because of the trench coat he was wearing. But he was an officer in a Wiltshire regiment. Can you be quite certain about such details?”

“My father was in the Army for most of his adult life,” I replied. “I know how to judge what rank a man holds and what regiment he serves with.”

“And you are satisfied that he did take the train just as it was pulling away? He didn’t pretend to board and then return to the platform?”

“I saw him take his seat. He didn’t look back toward Mrs. Evanson. That distressed her, and she watched the train until it was out of sight. I don’t know how he could have managed leaving without being seen. She turned then and left in a rush. I couldn’t tell which way she went after that. It was raining, I had to hand in my ticket, and I was carrying my valise.”

He nodded. “To be sure. And she was in great distress, you said.”

“Yes. That’s what drew my attention to her in the first place.”

“What made her distress different from that of other women seeing off friends or loved ones?”

I frowned. “I thought at the time that perhaps she’d had a premonition or a dream that he wouldn’t be coming back. She wasn’t putting on a brave front, you see, as so many women do. She appeared to be giving in to her feelings.”

“As you observed the two of them together—Mrs. Evanson and the officer—could you form an opinion of the relationship between them?”

“She clung to him. He hardly looked at her or touched her.”

Inspector Herbert raised his eyebrows. “He didn’t comfort her? Was he perhaps embarrassed by her behavior?”

“I—that’s one possible interpretation. But he stayed there with her, he didn’t walk away until the train began to move.” It occurred to me then that by standing with her until the last minute, he’d kept her from following him to his carriage.

After a moment’s thought, Inspector Herbert went on. “I am about to confide to you information that we haven’t made public, Miss Crawford. And I hope you’ll not repeat it. But I think it’s necessary if we’re to understand the facts you’ve placed before us. The coroner has informed us that Mrs. Evanson was nearly three months’ pregnant. I must assume, from my exchange of letters with his commanding officer, that her husband, Lieutenant Evanson, couldn’t have been the father of this child. By any chance, are you able to verify his medical history?”

I tried not to show my shock. “I know from his medical records that Lieutenant Evanson has been in hospital in France for two months. Before that, his aircraft had been shot down over German lines and it was at least two weeks before he made his way back to British lines. He wasn’t hurt in that crash, at least not seriously, although he was sent to hospital for observation because of a blow to the head. There was no concussion, and he was released to his unit. But a few weeks later he wasn’t so lucky—his aircraft caught fire and he was fortunate to survive at all. It must be four months or more since he was in England. At the very least.”

I had heard one of the doctors say that Lieutenant Evanson had been returned to duty too soon, before the psychological effects of his first crash had worn off. But they were desperate for experienced pilots and he’d been eager to rejoin his flight.

“As we’d thought. The Army has supplied the particulars, but not in such detail. To the next question. You only saw Mrs. Evanson and the officer together for a brief moment. Do you think that this man might be the father of her child?”

I knew what he was asking: if not, did she have other lovers? I didn’t want to believe that of her. But then I really knew nothing about her.

I pictured her again in my mind’s eye. If I’d been touched by her anguish, why hadn’t he? How had he managed to remain indifferent? Could that mean she’d only just told him her news? There at the station, where they were surrounded by strangers? She might have lost her nerve earlier, or been afraid that he wouldn’t allow her to come to see him off.

I remembered a detail that I hadn’t put in my letter. When he bent to kiss her on the cheek, she hadn’t responded. She hadn’t put her hand up to his face or turned to kiss him. It was as if he hadn’t quite known how to walk away from her. And she had been numb, the perfunctory kiss a gesture on his part that she barely felt. That could mean he’d just made it clear that for him the affair was over. What if her distress was her bitter realization that he would do nothing to help her now, even if he knew about the child?

I took a deep breath. “It would be easy to read into what I saw all sorts of explanations that very likely weren’t there. At a guess, there was more estrangement between them than passion. That’s why I felt at the time that she never expected to see him again.”

Inspector Herbert nodded. “I’ve drawn much the same conclusion. Still, there’s always the possibility that he left the train at the next stop because he knew where to find her. I must keep an open mind there.”

“If he was rejoining his regiment, he might not have had the option of waiting for a later train.”

“Then we must find the man, if only to clarify that point. To be honest, we’re no closer to discovering our murderer now than we
were when our plea for information was published in the newspapers.” Which I interpreted to mean that he was in some way disappointed in my evidence.

“If you’d told me she was a suicide, I would have found that believable, given her state of mind. Or even if he’d been found dead instead of Mrs. Evanson. Not to suggest that she could have killed anyone. It’s just that her death seems so—inexplicable.”

Inspector Herbert smiled. “You have been very helpful, Miss Crawford. Thank you for coming forward.”

I was being dismissed.

I rose to take my leave.

But at the door, I turned, my training reminding me. “Do you know—had she seen a doctor, to confirm her suspicion that she was pregnant?” She must have guessed by the third month.

“We’ve had no luck there either. I sent my men out with photographs of Mrs. Evanson, in the event she had used a false name. They spoke to doctors and their staffs all across London, and to midwives as well as—er—less savory practitioners in the poorer neighborhoods of the city. So far it would appear that she hasn’t been to anyone. We had hoped that the father was decent enough to accompany her and someone remembered him.”

Scotland Yard had been thorough.

“Surely her family must have some idea who her friends were. There must have been someone she’d seen more of than was proper.”

“Neither her sister nor her sister-in-law had any inkling that there was someone. And the friends we’ve spoken to tell us the same thing,” Inspector Herbert replied. “On the other hand, it’s more than likely that when she was with this man, she’d avoid places where she might be recognized. Otherwise there could have been gossip, which might even reach her husband’s ears in time.” He paused. “You’re a woman. Where would you look for help if you were in Mrs. Evanson’s shoes?”

“I can’t imagine that I’d turn to the man’s family. I’m sure they were kept in the dark as well. I’m not sure about friends either. I’d be afraid they would stand in judgment of me. I expect I’d go somewhere I wasn’t known, and pose as a war widow. People might be more kind in such circumstances. I’d be frightened about doing anything until I’d told my lover. And perhaps even after I’d told him.”

“Frightened of him?” Inspector Herbert asked sharply.

“Frightened for myself and what was to come. I couldn’t count on him, could I? He might be married. And even if he were not, I couldn’t be sure he’d stand by me and marry me when—if—my husband divorced me. I’d have to face everything alone—my family, my husband, my friends. There’s nowhere else to turn, then. And there’s the child to think about. I wish now I’d caught up with her outside the station. But that’s hindsight, of course. She wouldn’t have confided in her husband’s nurse, would she?”

“Quite. At least, thanks to you, we’ve discovered she was with someone later that day. That leaves only five or six more hours to account for. It had been ten, in the beginning. And in ten hours, she might have gone anywhere and still returned to London in time to be murdered. A needle in the proverbial haystack.”

I remembered Sister James’s comment. “I don’t like to suggest—but there are men who prey on women, and if she had nowhere to turn, literally, if she sat crying on a bench along the Thames, or walked in Green Park—”

“We’ve had no problems of that sort—thank God—these past twelve months. But yes, we’ve taken that into account. Far-fetched, perhaps, but we haven’t shut our eyes to the possibility. And her husband’s family is pushing for an early conclusion. We have none to offer at present.”

I thanked him and left. The patient constable led me down the stairs and out to the street. He asked as I stepped out onto the pavement, “Shall I find a cab for you, Miss?”

“I’d like to walk a bit first. Thank you, Constable.”

He smiled. “Safe journey home, Miss.”

Little did he know that I’d be in France in another four and twenty hours.

I’d come nearly as far as Buckingham Palace, going over what I’d learned from Inspector Herbert. This meeting at Scotland Yard had been distressing. Both because of what I’d seen at the railway station and because I’d had Lieutenant Evanson in my care long enough to be concerned for him and his welfare. Yes, Marjorie Evanson had transgressed in the eyes of society. Sadly, such affairs were more common in the disruption of war. I’d heard patients worry about their wives when letters were slow in arriving, long silences that were never fully explained. They would ask me if I thought there was someone else, and always I’d tried to be reassuring, for fear of a relapse. And I’d had patients confess to me that they’d been unfaithful to wives or sweethearts, afraid to die with that on their conscience.

“Sister, I have to tell someone…”

But I couldn’t judge Marjorie Evanson. I knew nothing about her, about what or who had tempted her, how she had come to do what she did. Whether it had anything to do with her death was something Scotland Yard must discover.

I found myself looking at the watch pinned at my shoulder. There was time—just—to find a telephone and put in a call to my parents, to say hello. And then I could take the early train to Portsmouth and stop at Laurel House on my way there.

I could see for myself how Lieutenant Evanson was faring, and it would help me put all this behind me. There was probably very little I could do for him, but perhaps a familiar face would cheer him, and we needn’t mention his wife at all.

I felt a little better as I turned to hail a cab.

This was a lovely summer’s day to be traveling, the roadsides and meadows rampant with wildflowers, villages quiet under the after
noon sun. A herd of sheep, recently shorn, ambled down a lane on their way back to pasture as we waited half an hour at a crossing to give a troop train priority. Lambs frolicked about the ewes, and robins were nesting in the hedgerow beyond. Birds had all but vanished in France, even the carrion crows.

I was looking forward to seeing Lieutenant Evanson, but I was beginning to wonder what I was to say to him. I needn’t explain precisely why I was in England. He would take it for granted that I’d brought other patients back. And I wouldn’t speak of his wife unless he brought up her death. Least said, soonest mended, my mother had often warned me. There was no need to mention my encounter with Marjorie at the railway station either. And if there were other visitors, my stay could be brief. I’d know, after five minutes in his company, how he was coping.

At Marlyn Station, I found a man who could carry me on to my destination. And he promised to wait, because I dared not miss the next train south to Portsmouth. I’d have to stay the night, and my orders didn’t leave me that option.

I had had other things on my mind the last time I was here, and it had been raining. Today as we came through the gates and up the drive, I could see that Laurel House was a handsome brick edifice in the Georgian style, with white stone trim and two broad half-moon steps leading up to the main doors. They stood open to the warm day, and I walked in, stopping at the small table that served as Reception.

I didn’t recognize the middle-aged woman sitting there.

“Nursing Sister Crawford to see Lieutenant Evanson. He was my patient on his journey back to England, and I’ve stopped in to see him.”