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 her trunk. I wasn't sure I could reach it before whoever it was got the door open. I didn't want to be caught empty-handed.
My tennis racket wouldn't do much damage.
Think!
For a fleeting moment I hoped it was Simon, come back to look in on me to be sure I was all right. But he wouldn't have come upstairs. Not without Mrs. Hennessey in tow. And he would have knocked.
The lock was old, and it didn't take long to force it open.
Whoever it was stood there on the threshold for a moment, letting his or her eyes adjust to the small amount of light there was in the flat. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman.
I stood still, not breathing, and heard the rustle of clothes and a first tentative step inside. There were five tiny bedrooms. Which way would he turn?
He made a move toward Diana's room-nearest the door-and I caught the flash of light from the window on something in his hand. A knife?
I was barefoot, and it occurred to me that I could reach the flat door quietly and lock the intruder inside, if I was fast enough, before he realized what was about to happen. My fingers searched for my key, which was lying on the bedside table-and they knocked it to the floor.
The clank was so loud it could have awakened the entire street. But I knew it had shocked him, as well. Taking advantage of that, I caught up my hairbrush and ran on silent feet, reaching with the other hand for one of the chairs in the sitting room, sending it spinning across the floor toward Diana's bedroom as I went. It too seemed to make a tremendous racket, and I heard someone swear as he tripped over it.
I had reached the open door. I was out of it in a flash, slamming it shut behind me and flinging the hairbrush over the banister to skitter its way down the stairs for all the world like flying feet. But before I could turn the key and then conceal myself in the shadowy alcove on the opposite side of our door, it was flung open. In the same instant, a hand came over my mouth and an arm encircled my waist, lifting me off my feet, shoving me into the alcove. Frantic, I began to kick. But just as suddenly I was released, and as I regained my balance, whirling to defend myself, I realized with astonishment that I was alone and someone was clattering down the stairs. No, two people-
My intruder was trying to escape. But who was at his heels? I rushed to the top of the stairs and leaned over the banister to peer into the dark well below.
And then in the faint light from the windows by the street door, I saw the second figure make a flying leap to close the distance between them and take the other figure in a headlong fall down to the entrance hall.
There were flailing fists and feet, grunts and a curse broken off in midsentence. I went down the stairs after them, and reached the bottom just as the two men crashed into Mrs. Hennessey's door, then rebounded into the far wall.
"He's got a knife-" I exclaimed, and then saw that it was in the hand pinned high against the wall, a long, wicked blade that wavered, then flew from open fingers as the intruder cried out. He was spun around as the knife slid across the floor, and the two struggling men went thudding into the outer door. I could just see the knife, and I dashed forward to pick it up, then moved out of the way. Just as I did, the sound of a fist hitting hard and landing squarely sent one of the combatants staggering back to collapse at the foot of the stairs, almost colliding with my bare feet.
The fight had been all the more deadly for being so silent, and not knowing who had won, I slid along the wall, groping for the entry light switch.
Simon Brandon turned swiftly toward me, blinking in the brightness of the light. I reached out to touch him, needing to be sure he was all right-there was blood on his cheekbone, just under his right eye. He said, "You should have stayed in your room. I wouldn't have let him reach you."
He put a hand on my shoulder-a comradely gesture I'd seen many times among soldiers-and then his fingers gripped hard before releasing me.
He gave his attention to the man who had fallen on his face by the stairs. After a moment, he turned him over with one foot, wary of a trick, and I knew as I saw his profile that it was Jack Melton. I looked at the vicious knife in my hand and shivered.
"He came to kill me."
Simon, his voice brusque, said, "He had to. You asked too many questions. You might have overturned-"
Mrs. Hennessey was opening her door, her hair in a long gray plait down her back and a cast-iron frying pan in one hand, shouting, "I'll have the police on the lot of you for breaking into my house-" And then her voice quavered to a stop.
She saw me standing there barefoot and in my nightgown, that wicked knife still gripped tightly in my hand, and then her gaze moved on to Simon, breathing hard by the door and examining bruised knuckles. I couldn't think when I'd seen him so angry. She stopped at the sight of Jack Melton, still slumped where he'd fallen, showing no signs of regaining his senses.
"It's all right, Mrs. Hennessey," I said quickly, trying to reassure her. "That man by the stairs broke into my flat. Simon stopped him before he could do any harm."
"Men aren't allowed upstairs," she said primly, and I felt a rising bubble of nervous laughter-the reaction to what had just happened-and I quickly suppressed it.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hennessey," I began. "I didn't want him there, I assure you. He's killed at least one person, and injured another rather badly. If you'll hand me a coat or something, I'll see if I can find a constable."
"You'll do no such thing," she told me. "Go upstairs at once and dress, you can't be seen down here like that. I'll find the constable."
At a look from Simon, I did as I was told. It didn't bother me going up those dark stairs to dress, knowing that Simon was there by the outer door and Jack Melton was beyond harming anyone for the moment. But I wondered how I was going to feel later, when the dark at the top of the stairs, once friendly and safe, loomed ahead of me and I couldn't see what was in the shadows.
I dressed in record time, still buttoning my sleeves as I hurried down the steps again.
Simon had found some rope somewhere, probably from Mrs. Hennessey's flat, and had tied Jack Melton's wrists. He was busy now with the man's ankles, and none too gently.
I said to Simon after a glance at Jack Melton, "What were you doing upstairs? You know it's not permitted."
"I told you, I didn't like the idea of your staying in London. I left the motorcar round the corner and came back. Mrs. Hennessey was nowhere to be seen. So I waited in that dark corner you yourself were going to use. But we won't tell her that, if you please. I was down here in the entry."
Jack Melton was just beginning to stir, shaking his head to clear it, then coming to the conclusion that his hands were bound. He tried to stand up, saw his ankles were tied as well, and slumped back against the stairs. Raising his head, he glared at me. I was reminded then of his brother, any charm erased by cold anger.
"You were in my way at every turn," he said through clenched teeth. I thought his jaw must ache-I hoped it did. Simon had hit him very hard.
The outer door opened, and Mrs. Hennessey was back with Constable Vernon, a burly man with a square face and large hands. I'd seen him often on the street, and he'd nodded in passing. He came into the hall now and looked to Simon for an explanation.
Simon introduced himself, pointed to me, and said, "This man tried to kill the young woman you see there. The knife he was carrying is there on the table. Mrs. Hennessey can swear that Sister Crawford is one of her lodgers. And I'm here in place of her father, Colonel Crawford, who is presently in Somerset."
"That's true," Mrs. Hennessey said, nodding. "I know her family."
"If you'll go upstairs to my flat, you'll see how he broke in. I was lucky to escape." I shivered in spite of myself. "Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard knows this man," I ended, pointing to Jack Melton. "He'll confirm everything we've said."
The constable nodded. "You can be sure we'll notify him."
No one had said anything about Michael Hart. But I was beginning to think we could at least hope. I felt almost giddy with relief.
After inspecting both locks, the constable took Jack Melton into custody, and the rest of us accompanied him to the nearest station where I told a sergeant my story, supported by Mrs. Hennessey and Simon. I realized that Mrs. Hennessey was the one they listened to most intently, their impartial witness. Little did they know.
Jack Melton said nothing, his head down, his shoulders stiff with suppressed anger, refusing to give his name.
Simon quietly supplied it, trying to keep me in the background. Then he added, "I suggest you send for Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard. He may have an interest in this man."
"That will take some time," the sergeant on night duty said, looking from Jack Melton back to Simon. He was a middle-aged man, face lined and hair graying.
"It doesn't matter," Simon answered him. "Just see to Mr. Melton, and we'll be happy to wait."
The sergeant turned to me. "Were you harmed, Miss? You say he came into your flat. Did he hurt you?"
"The flat was dark. I didn't even know who was there-a man, a woman-but I saw the flash of what I thought was a knife. And so I ran, slamming the door while he was in one of the other bedrooms looking for me. He followed me but I was hidden, and I threw my hairbrush down the stairs so he'd think I'd gone that way."
"Why did you believe you'd seen a knife?'
"I was afraid, I was alone in the flat, Mrs. Hennessey was on the ground floor, asleep. And I happened to know Helen Calder, who had nearly died from stab wounds after she was attacked. I didn't want to be a victim too."
He considered me for a moment. Then he summoned a constable and gave him quiet instructions. The man left, and we sat there on the hard wooden benches, waiting. There was a large-faced clock high on the wall. I watched the hands creep through the minutes, and then an hour. Simon got up and paced, Mrs. Hennessey nodded where she was, her head sinking to her chest, her breathing heavy. I tried to keep myself from yawning, partly from reaction, and partly from sheer fatigue. Another hour passed, and I realized as I gazed across the room to where Jack Melton sat on one of the benches along the far wall that his anger had faded, and he was busy thinking, a harshness in his face that made me look away.
He must have followed Michael Hart's case. He must have known who Inspector Herbert was. He must have realized that he was in an almost untenable position. But he was a very intelligent man, and he was slowly coming to the conclusion that he would be able to talk his way out of this.
The question was, what would he say? And I thought I knew. He would claim that I had invited him to the flat-lured him there-in some foolish, desperate attempt to clear Michael's name. Everyone knew how hard I'd fought for Michael. And he could swear Simon was a part of the plot.
His head came up and his eyes met mine. I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. I saw the slight smile, as if he'd already won.
We were into the third hour now, and suddenly the outer doors opened and Inspector Herbert walked in, followed by two other men. He nodded to the desk sergeant, glanced at Jack Melton, then turned to me.
"Miss Crawford," he said.
I realized that he looked very tired. There were circles under his eyes, and lines about his mouth that hadn't been there before.
I got to my feet. "Inspector."
Turning to the sergeant, he said, "Is there a room where I could speak to Miss Crawford in private?"
"Just there, sir, second door. Inspector Knoles's office."
Inspector Herbert nodded, then waited for me to join him. Simon, who had been sitting next to Mrs. Hennessey, moved to follow us, but Inspector Herbert shook his head.
After the briefest hesitation, Simon sat down again. But I could tell he didn't like it.
I followed Inspector Herbert to the door of the office, and he held it for me, then shut it behind me.
"You've been busy," he said. "And stubborn."
"I had to be sure you were hanging the right man."
His smile was a grimace. "Why are you here with Jack Melton? It appears that he and Sergeant-Major Brandon have bruises on their faces and hands. Tell me why."
I explained what had happened. "I sent for you," I ended, "because you knew what it was I feared, and why. Otherwise what happened tonight seems inexplicable. But Jack Melton was in my flat, and he was armed, and I was there alone. I could have been badly hurt, like Helen Calder, or killed, like Marjorie Evanson. Tell me why this man was in my flat? I can't think of any reason except the fact that I knew too much about what he'd done. I didn't invite him there-Mrs. Hennessey can tell you I was in my nightgown when she came out of her flat to find Simon Brandon trying to stop Jack Melton from escaping."
He had listened patiently, his eyes on my face.
"I was out concluding a case when you came to Scotland Yard tonight. I returned to find your message. I went to Little Sefton, to have a look at that revolver while I could. When did you see Miss Garrison?"
I explained about my visit yesterday-was it yesterday?-and speaking to the Harts before going to see Victoria. I touched on her threat.
"And you tell me she was alive and well when you left her?"
"Yes, of course. Sergeant-Major Brandon can confirm that. And the Harts, indirectly." I felt the first surge of unease. "Why?"
"When I arrived in Little Sefton, I found the local constable, a man named Tilmer, in Miss Garrison's house. The sound of a shot had been reported to him, and he was investigating it when he discovered her lying on the floor of her sitting room. There was a revolver by her hand, and on the desk, a sheet of paper and an uncapped pen. It appeared she was preparing to write a note, then stopped."
"Victoria-Miss Garrison-is dead?" I hadn't liked her. She'd been destructive and cold and willing to inflict hurt. But her death shocked me. "But I don't understand-" I couldn't imagine her taking her own life. There was too much hate in her. People killed themselves for all sorts of reasons, but not for hate.
"A Mrs. Whiting reported that a motorcar stopped in front of her house. Her dog barked, and she looked out. The car stayed there for half an hour, then left. She didn't know the motorcar, she didn't know where the driver went. But the shot was heard before the motorcar drove away. Any thoughts on that?"
"I don't believe I've met Mrs. Whiting, but I must have heard her dog bark when I was walking by in the mist. There aren't that many motorcars in Little Sefton. She'd know most of them."
"Do you think that Miss Garrison was killed by Melton?"
"It's possible. I think he was afraid her anger would lead her to say things she shouldn't. He wants Michael to hang, you see. And the case closed."
"But there's nothing to indicate it wasn't suicide."
I shook my head. "She wouldn't. I just know-"
"Hardly evidence to present in a courtroom."
"I don't know how Jack Melton got to my flat. There must be a motorcar somewhere."
He looked at me and then excused himself, leaving me there in the cluttered little office. And then he was back, asking me again to go over what had happened in the flat. I told my story a second time.
Inspector Herbert thanked me, accompanied me to the reception area, and then asked for Mrs. Hennessey. For a moment she looked a little confused and frightened, then her back straightened and she marched ahead of him like a Christian on her way to meet the lions.
I didn't look at or speak to Simon. After ten minutes, Mrs. Hennessey came back, chatting comfortably with Inspector Herbert about "her girls," and he thanked her for her assistance.
Simon was the last to be taken away, and he was gone for a very long time. Jack Melton, restless and impatient, his hands no longer tied, took out his watch three times. And then Simon was back, his face inscrutable.
Finally it was Jack Melton's turn.
I watched dawn creeping in the station windows, the lamps paling before the sun's growing brightness. The dingy paint and the wooden benches seemed shabbier than before, the floorboards scuffed and worn. There was no money, no paint, no men to wield brushes, and all of us had realized slowly but surely that the cost of war was reflected in many small ways no one had ever imagined in the autumn of 1914 when it had all begun.
Inspector Herbert returned, nodded to Simon and Mrs. Hennessey, and then said to me, "Mr. Melton is for the moment helping us with our inquiries. I see no reason for you to stay any longer. You must be very tired."
"I'd like to know," I said, choosing my words carefully, "what's to come of this matter. Whether Mr. Melton will be released-whether I will be in danger again."
He said wearily, "It's been a long night, Miss Crawford. But I think it is safe to say that you have little to fear from Mr. Melton in the future."
"You'll compare that knife with the wounds Mrs. Evanson and Mrs. Calder suffered?"
"I think I know how to handle this inquiry."
"Do you-did he kill Victoria? I'm leaving for France-please, won't you tell me?"
"I can't discuss an ongoing investigation," he said. "My advice to you is to go home and go to bed, and leave this matter in our hands."
I stood there, trying to find the words to ask him if this would have any bearing on Michael Hart's case.
But he turned away, shook hands with Simon, thanked Mrs. Hennessey again, and walked back to the door of the small room where he'd interviewed us, shutting it firmly behind him. Was Jack still there, waiting? Or had they taken him away, out another door, where we couldn't see?
I looked at Simon, but he shook his head, and I followed Mrs. Hennessey out the door toward Simon's motorcar.
We drove in silence back to the house, and then Mrs. Hennessey said, "I don't know when I've been so tired. Bess, dear, do you think you could make a cup of tea for all of us? It would help me rest."
I wanted nothing more than my own bed, but we went into her small flat and I made tea while Simon found bread, sliced and buttered it, and added a small bottle of preserves to the tray. Mrs. Hennessey, her face lined with weariness, sat and watched us. I wondered if she was afraid, just now, to be alone, in spite of the daylight sifting through her lace curtains.
Pretending to eat, I managed to swallow a little of the bread with a bit of marmalade preserve perched on one corner, and I drank my tea. Surprisingly, it did make me feel much better.
Mrs. Hennessey wanted to know why that man, as she called Jack Melton, should wish to break into her house and attempt to murder one of her nursing sisters.
Simon said circumspectly, "It has to do with one of Bess's patients. I shouldn't worry about it. Melton is likely to find himself in far more trouble than he expected."
"But you were here, I didn't understand how you could have been here. I have quite strict rules, you see."
Simon's glance met mine. "I followed him into the house."
That made perfect sense to her. She nodded, and addressed her food with an appetite, finishing her tea, then turning to Simon once more, asking him if he should care to rest on her settee before going back to Somerset.
He promised her again that all would be well, and I washed up, tucked Mrs. Hennessey into her bed, and shut the door behind me when I had finished.
Simon was waiting on the stairs, sitting there as I'd seen him sit so many times in India, able to sleep without lying down or losing touch with his surroundings. I myself had learned to do much the same in the field, catching what little rest I could when I could.
He looked up as I shut the door of Mrs. Hennessey's flat.
"I asked him what this would mean for Michael Hart's situation. He said that at the moment he could see no connection."
I didn't need to ask who Simon meant. Inspector Herbert. "Did he tell you that Victoria had shot herself? I don't believe it for an instant! Oddly enough, I'd warned her about Jack. And surely there is some way to see if this was the same knife that killed Marjorie. It's out of the ordinary, he had a collection of American weapons. The postmortem-"
"Perhaps it would be wise to see that Mr. Forbes is told that Melton is in custody and why."
"He wasn't interested before," I said.
"Because it was only your word, without proof or the sanction of an arrest. Try again."
That made sense even to my tired mind.
"I'll write it now," I said, pushing away any thought of my pillow. "And I'll deliver it personally."
"No. Let me deliver it. His clerk won't turn me away."
"And then, Simon, I want to go home."
I heard the plaintive note in my voice, in spite of every effort to suppress it.
"Give me four hours. Then we'll see to the letter before leaving London," he promised.
I looked over my shoulder. "If he's released-if he can talk his way out of this night's work-will Mrs. Hennessey be safe? I have a feeling he's cleaning house."
"She's not important to him. You are. That's why it's best for you to leave London and let Inspector Herbert sort this out."
I went up the stairs, righted the chair that I'd left overturned, braced my door, and sat down at the table that served as a writing desk.
Two tries and a lot of thought later, I'd finished what I felt was a fair representation of the night's events.
By that time it was half past nine. I got myself together, went lightly down the stairs so as not to rouse Mrs. Hennessey, and went to find a cab. I was lucky on the third try, and I gave the driver Helen Calder's address.
The maid answered, and I apologized for calling so early but begged to see Mrs. Calder on urgent business.
After a wait of some minutes, I was taken to Helen Calder's bedroom. She was awake and lying on a chaise longue with a coverlet over her knees. She was dressed, this time, and not in her bed, but her face was still wan, without spirit.
She greeted me warmly, looked again at my face, and said with concern, "Bess, I don't think I've ever seen you so weary."
"It's been a long night, Helen. Is there any way you can be sure who was waiting for you when you were stabbed?"
"I've tried, my dear. Heaven knows I've spent hours trying to remember."
Which was sometimes the wrong way to go about it, but that was neither here nor there.
"Jack Melton tried to kill me last night. And it's possible he murdered Victoria, though the police at the moment aren't certain whether it was suicide or murder."
Her eyes were wide with alarm. "Are you all right?" She looked me over, as if expecting to find bandages bulging beneath my coat or my skirt.
"I was lucky. I got away. But it could have ended very differently. The police have Jack Melton in custody, and are talking to him." I hoped I was right, and he was still there at the police station. "I don't think you have anything to fear from him, but a word of warning. If he's given bail, turn Jack Melton and his wife from your door, if they come here. Just to be safe."
She said, "Are you suggesting that it was Mr. Melton who attacked me? Not Michael Hart?"
"I don't know how to answer that. Yes, I believe it's possible. Whether it's right or not, I don't know. I hope the police are looking at the possibility that the knife he had with him when he attacked me could have been used to kill Marjorie and wound you. But that may not match after all. I'm just suggesting prudence."
Frowning, she said, "Yes, prudence by all means. I'm so confused."
"You mustn't be." I rose to leave. It wouldn't do for Simon to find I was not there at the flat. "It's for the police to look into these things. And to make interpretations. We can only trust to them to find the truth."
Helen Calder said earnestly, "I have given so much thought to what happened to me-because I don't want to believe it was Michael. I don't wish the Meltons any harm. I have no reason to want them to go through what I've gone through over Marjorie's death. But the truth will be a blessing, Bess. Poor Victoria, I'm sad for her, and I wish her life could have turned out differently. I think in the end her father punished both his daughters for what they had done between them to ruin his marriage. I think as he aged, he drew into himself and wanted to believe he hadn't been wronged by his wife."
I said good-bye, and she replied, "Will Michael die?"
"God knows. And the Crown."
She nodded, and I saw that her eyes were heavy with tears as I shut the door.
I was back at the flat a mere fifteen minutes before Simon came to fetch me. I looked in on Mrs. Hennessey, made her a fresh pot of tea, and set the tray across her knees before saying good-bye.
"You're going back to France again. Do be safe, my dear child. I will pray for you."
"Mary will be here tomorrow or the next day. Tell her good-bye for me as well."
And then I was gone, out the door, into Simon's motorcar, and we were on our way to Mr. Forbes's chambers. Simon said nothing, and when we had found a place to leave the motorcar, he went in with the letter in his hand.
I had wanted to do it myself, I had wanted to see this finished. But he was right. He would hand the sealed envelope marked Private and Confidential to Mr. Forbes's clerk, and the clerk would hand it to Mr. Forbes. And it would be read.
We drove on to Somerset, and were silent for most of the journey. I slept a part of the way, finally giving in to the need for a little respite.
It wasn't until we were pulling into the drive that Simon said again, "You have done all you can. And Inspector Herbert will not wish to have an innocent man's death on his hands. We must leave this to Scotland Yard and Mr. Forbes. If, in spite of everything, Michael Hart goes to the gallows as scheduled, it is his choice, Bess. You must see that and respect it."
I touched my face with my hands, as if to relieve the pressure I felt behind my eyes.
"I will have to, won't I? But it seems such a waste."
"How many soldiers have you watched die because they lost the will to live?"
"Too many."
"That's what Michael Hart has done, whatever gallant name he attaches to his decision."
"Thank you, Simon. For everything."
"One final thing. Let the Colonel take you to the train in London. I think he wants to do that."
I nodded, understanding.
And then for the next several days, I played the daughter of the house on leave, and gave neither of my parents a moment's anxiety. But my thoughts were in that prison with Michael. And I couldn't pull them back.
My train left the day before Michael's hanging.
My father drove me to London and Waterloo Station, to see me off for Portsmouth this time.
I stood there thinking that it had all begun here, that I had stood here and watched Marjorie Evanson in tears talking to a man who was nearly as callous and coldhearted as his brother. I had been an impartial witness then. I had tried to keep that personal distance, but events had drawn me further and further into the vortex of a murder investigation. I had got too close to people and perhaps hadn't been as objective as I could or should have been.
But Simon was right. I had tried. And there had been no messages for me from Inspector Herbert, either in London or in Somerset. I wanted so badly to ask him if there was any hope. But I knew he wouldn't tell me.
I chatted brightly with my father and then watched as the train pulled into the station, steam roiling in the cool night air, knowing that in a matter of minutes, I would be on my way to war again.
We had said our good-byes in Somerset, but I held the Colonel close for a moment and kissed his cheek. "I'll be all right," I said.
"You'd better be," he told me lightly. "Or the Kaiser himself will answer for it."
I laughed, as he'd intended me to do. I had just turned to face the train when there was a flurry of movement to one side of us, and the crowd of people seeing off or waiting for loved ones parted a little. A woman came hurrying through the gap, and I didn't recognize her at first, her face was streaked with tears, a handkerchief in one hand.
And before I could catch my breath or even move, Serena Melton was upon me.
She lifted her fists and beat against my coat, blows that forced me back a step, and I felt the presence of my father just behind me, his hands reaching for my shoulders to move me behind him, out of danger.
"You selfish monster!" Serena was crying, her fists flying, and heads turned to stare at us. "You came to my house and betrayed us. Callously, without thought for anyone but Michael Hart. You used us and everyone you met, to save him. I know all about you, I know what sort of woman you are. My husband has never hurt anyone in his life, do you understand me?"
My father had come between us, and her blows fell on his outstretched arms.
"It's Serena Melton," I managed to say.
But she wasn't finished. Her voice was strident, thick with emotion, and she'd lost all sense of anything but punishing her tormentor. I wondered what lies Jack Melton had told her, and where he was.
"You used us, you cold, uncaring bitch. Sister of mercy indeed. You're a disgrace to that uniform you're wearing, and I hope the Germans do for you what I can't, shoot you down like the animal you are!"
And then she was gone in a whirl of skirts, shoving her way through the staring throng. A policeman had come up, drawn by the screaming.
"Anything wrong, sir?" he asked, not seeing Serena as the wall of watchers closed around her.
My father said, quite clearly, "A demented woman I've never seen before just attacked my daughter without any provocation. As witnesses will attest. Will you see us to the train, Constable? It's been a very trying moment, my daughter is very upset."
It was true, the Colonel had never met Serena. But the words were comforting, even though they were partly lies.
I didn't know how my father looked. I knew my own face was flushed with shame and horror, and one of Serena's fists had caught me on one cheek. It ached, and I was close to tears. Angry tears, helpless tears. But I held my head high, and walked with my father and the constable toward my compartment on the train. I saw the constable have a word with the conductor. I was settled in my seat by the window, my belongings stowed safely, loved and cosseted and given the moral support that made my courage possible.
Then my father said rapidly, "Sticks and stones, Bess. She's distraught. But it tells you something, doesn't it? It tells you that someone heard you, and that someone is doing whatever can be done."
"I feel such pity for her."
"She must have known, Bess. She must have been afraid from the start that it was her husband."
And so she'd become a detective to find a lie, not the truth.
"Murder is never kind. To the victim, to the survivors. Not even to the murderer him-or herself. Let it go, be safe, and concentrate on why you're in France."
He was right. I kissed him, smiled-albeit most likely a tremulous one-and settled back into my seat.
And then we were pulling out of the station. There was no sign of Serena, but I lowered my window and leaned out to watch my father's tall, broad-shouldered figure out of sight.
No one had come into my compartment, crowded as the train was. My father's parting gift to me. Forward I could hear male voices singing one of the interminable verses of "The Mademoiselle from Armentieres," that bawdy drinking song that the troops seemed to love even when sober.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, seeing only emptiness and darkness ahead.