I was hardly back in France-a matter of a fortnight-before we were given leave. It was unexpected, but the little dressing station in St. Jacques was too exposed and was being moved to another village. A fresh contingent of nursing sisters was assigned to take over there.
First, however, we were to escort a hundred wounded back to England. It was never easy, and on this occasion, even though our convoy moved at night, we were strafed by a German aircraft, racing down our lines with guns blazing and then swinging around behind the lines to find other targets of opportunity. Ambulances were clearly marked, so there was no excuse for the attack. The wonder was, only three people were wounded and no one died. I couldn't help but think the pilot had intended to frighten us rather than kill us. If that were true, he'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
The weather had changed by the time we reached the coast, and on our crossing there was a storm that turned the rough Channel into bedlam. We were all seasick, patients, nurses, orderlies, and doctors, and probably half the crew if they were honest about it. I'd sailed from India to England and never met a storm like this.
My stomach agreed with me as I ran to the railing for the third time.
Then it was back below, cleaning sheets as best I could, washing faces, swabbing the decks. By the time we reached Dover, I could have kissed the quay from the sheer joy of having dry land under my feet once more.
Dover Castle was a familiar sight looming above us, half hidden in the clouds, its walls dark with rain. A friend was on duty there, but I didn't catch a glimpse of him. We were pressing on, for the sake of the worst cases, and pulled into London late in the afternoon. A watery sun greeted us, the worst of the storm well behind us.
I was relieved of my duties there, and after seeing the train on its way again, I took the omnibus to the corner of our street and walked down to the flat I shared with friends.
None of them was at home, but there were signs that Mary might be on leave again as well, and I left her a note before taking a leisurely bath and falling into bed. It was Thursday evening, and I'd have enjoyed dining out if I hadn't been so tired.
Mary came in later, bringing me a cup of tea and a plate of cheeses and biscuits that she'd just received from home. She was small, British fair, with rosy cheeks and dimples. The soldiers adored her, wrote poems to her blue eyes and curls, and flirted outrageously with her, but her heart was in the Navy, the first officer on a cruiser.
"You can't sleep away your leave," she said cheerfully. "How long do you have?"
"Ten days," I said, stretching and yawning. "I thought I might go home for the last half of it."
"Your parents will be delighted." She paused, then said, "I've heard stories. Was it a bad crossing?"
"Very bad. I thought I would never be able to swallow food again. Now I'm ravenous. Tell your father how grateful I am that he is in the cheese business. I haven't had a Stilton this good since the war began."
"And these are the leftover bits. Think what it would be like to have half a wheel to ourselves."
Laughing, we caught up on news, chatting among the biscuit crumbs, and then Mary said something that nearly caused me to choke on my tea.
"I've an invitation to spend the weekend with friends. A house party in the country. Would you like to come?"
"It would make a nice change. Do I know them?"
"I don't believe you do. It's the Melton family. But I think you convoyed Serena's brother home from France. Lieutenant Evanson. He killed himself not long ago, had you heard? Serena's husband will be coming home after a fortnight somewhere he can't talk about; it's his birthday, and she wants to do something nice to celebrate-here!" She reached out to pound me on the back as I turned red from coughing.
I cleared my throat and said politely, "Surely this is a family occasion-she wouldn't care to have strangers hanging about."
"The truth is, nearly everyone they know is somewhere else-in France, at sea, in the Middle East. She told me I could bring one of my flatmates with me, if I cared to. She wants it to be a gay weekend, no sadness to mar it."
I thought of the envelope with Marjorie Evanson's photograph still sealed in it. I'd carried it through France and now it lay in the top drawer of the small chest under my window, where I'd put it when I unpacked. It was Mrs. Melton who had decided that it shouldn't be buried with her brother. I thought I'd guessed why, but both Matron and I had felt it was-wrong. I really shouldn't go to this house party.
On the other hand, I hadn't had any news about the search for the killer. Perhaps I could satisfy my curiosity without causing any trouble.
"Yes, all right. If she'll have me. But it might be best if we don't say anything about my having nursed her brother. It could bring up-painful memories."
"If you don't mind, then I won't."
Which is how I found myself on a crowded train to Oxford-shire, with malice aforethought.
The house where the Meltons lived was within walking distance of the station. We arranged to have our valises brought there by trap and set out on foot. It was a lovely day, and the dusty scents of summer wafted from the front gardens of the small village of Diddlestoke, and then from the pastures and fields that surrounded us as we reached the outskirts. Another quarter mile, and we could see the gates of our destination.
Melton Hall was a charming old brick house with a central block, spacious wings to either side, and a small park through which the drive meandered on its way to the handsome Pedimented front door. Two small children ran out to greet us, the girl taking my hand and the little boy clinging to Mary's.
"Niece and nephew," she said over their heads, and I nodded. "On Jack Melton's side. Serena told me they'd be leaving before dinner."
We were greeted in the marble foyer by Serena Melton herself, and I was most interested in my first impression of her. Tall, dark, and rather elegant, she embraced the shorter, fairer Mary, then held out her hand to me. "Elizabeth! I may call you Elizabeth, may I not? We are so pleased you could come."
I hadn't met Lieutenant Evanson before he was burned, and so I couldn't judge the likeness between brother and sister.
And then she was leading the way up the stairs to our room, which overlooked the east gardens. Over her shoulder, she was telling us about her plans for the grand celebration and then, while we washed away the dust of travel, she was asking me about my family, expressing interest in the exotic places where my father had served, and then wanting to know about my work in France.
"I hear it's frightful to be the first to deal with the severest wounds. My brother was badly burned. I was never so shocked as I was when I saw him the first time. They were changing his bandages, and his skin was raw and weeping. It was all I could do to keep myself from showing what I was feeling, that he could have been a complete stranger."
"I hope he's continuing to heal," I said, though Mary cast me a sharp glance.
"Alas, he didn't survive," Serena Melton answered, her eyes filling, and I made appropriate noises of sympathy. I could see how much she cared for her brother. In her shoes I might have felt the same about Marjorie Evanson. After all, it was Marjorie's betrayal of her husband that had led to his suicide. Sometimes in cases of sudden death, people needed someone to blame. Or blamed God.
Taking a deep breath, Serena added, "I was never so grateful than when they found that Jack was good at numbers, and assigned him to break codes instead of carrying a rifle. He was furious, but as I told him, one martyr to the cause in a family is enough. If he can protect a convoy or warn of an attack, he saves hundreds of lives. Surely that's more useful than slogging through France in the hope of killing a few Germans. I don't know why men think that they aren't doing their part if they aren't up to their knees in mud and frightfully cold and hungry and tired."
We followed Serena down the stairs. She and Mary were having a conversation about a mutual friend serving in the Navy, and exchanging news about him. Then we were in the kitchen, where she was supervising the main course for dinner. Serena said proudly, "I got my hands on a roast. Don't ask how! It nearly cost me my virtue and my firstborn. But it's Jack's favorite."
From the oven came the most tantalizing aromas-beef, I was sure of it. After a quick look at her prize, and a few instructions for the cook, a Mrs. Dunner, Serena whisked us out to the north terrace where her husband was sitting with several other guests. There she made the introductions.
Captain Truscott, Lieutenant Gilbert, and Major Dunlop were Army of course, while Jack wore his naval uniform with panache. I thought perhaps that he was making up, a little, for not having war stories to tell, for he worked in the Admiralty in Signals. He looked particularly handsome, regular features, his hair only lightly touched with gray, and his eyes without that haunted look one so often sees among men who've served at the Front. Still, there were lines in his face, and I had the feeling that he knew more about the war than most, and carried different burdens because of it.
I realized very quickly that everything happening outside this household had been set aside for the weekend. Talk ranged from past shooting parties in Scotland to the Thames regatta. Any topic would do that didn't remind us of war and death and destruction. We laughed at stories that weren't really funny, made no mention of absent friends, and pretended to be happy and lighthearted. Other guests arrived in the next hour, but none of them was a certain officer in a Wiltshire regiment. Not that I'd expected him to be here, he was no doubt still in France. But Marjorie Evanson must have met him somewhere, in just such a social setting. It was entirely possible that someone would mention him. Remember Fred? Serving with the Wiltshires? We had a letter from him last week…
Of course he could be a complete stranger. Someone Marjorie met in London and never introduced to anyone she knew. That was surely the safest way to conduct an affair. But people don't fall in love with safety in mind. Sometimes risk must be half the excitement of a secret affair.
Neither Mary nor I wore our uniforms to dinner. Nurses at a dinner table tend to cast a pall over conversation. Men in uniform on the other hand tend to look dashing, whether they are or not.
The roast was indeed heavenly. There was even horseradish sauce, and Yorkshire pudding. For an hour the war faded into the background and it was 1914 again, when food was plentiful and parties like this frequent and fun.
That evening we played croquet on the lawn in the long summer twilight, a ruthless game with no holds barred. The next morning, Saturday, we played tennis and were silly over the litter of pups that one of the English setters had produced in the stable-cum-garage instead of the box carefully prepared in the house for her accouchement.
As we admired the little family, under cover of the ohs and ahs someone behind me commented quietly, "That was Evanson's bitch, you know. He'd arranged to breed her to FitzGerald's dog, the one the King admired. He'd hoped to give HM the pick of the litter."
"Pity about all that," the other voice said. "His wife. I mean to say, murder."
But before I could turn and see the speakers, we were being handed pups and I couldn't be sure who had been just behind me.
The warm, furry little bodies, wriggling and squirming in our arms, licking our faces, kept us occupied for another half an hour, and then it was time for our luncheon.
We trooped out of the stables in good spirits, and I listened for the same voices as people laughed and congratulated Serena on the litter. Still, the two men had been nearly whispering, so it was harder to identify them with a normal voice.
Serena said nothing about the mother of the pups being her brother's dog.
Not an hour later, I overheard her speaking to Jack as I passed the study.
She was saying, "I don't believe any of them could have been Marjorie's lover. It was sheer foolishness to think we could find out this way."
Her husband answered quietly, "You were desperate. It was the best I could do on short notice. So many of the people we know are in France, or God knows where. The man may even be dead, as far as that goes."
"By his own hand, I hope," she retorted viciously. "After all he's done to us."
Jack said nothing.
"It's not your family," she went on into the silence, answering it as if her husband had spoken aloud. "I'm the one who has to live with the whispers and the shame. I can read pity in my friends' eyes. That is, when they can't avoid me. And wherever I go I can feel the stares behind my back. 'Did you know? Her sister-in-law was murdered, and then her brother killed himself.' As if I've done something wrong. No one asks how I'm coping, for fear I might embarrass them by telling them and expecting a little comfort in return. What if they knew the rest of it? I'd never dare show my face in public again." Her voice broke, but not with tears. "I should have had that damned bitch put down!"
"I understand," her husband answered her. "But you're tormenting yourself as well, you know. As for the poor dog, find her another home if you feel that way. Don't blame her."
"I'm not blaming her. I see her looking up at the door sometimes, as if she's waiting for Merry to come through it any minute. She loved him. Probably more than Marjorie did, if you ask me. And how do you tell a dumb brute that her master is dead?"
"I think she knows Meriwether is dead. I think she also hopes it isn't true."
"This is the third time we've had one of these parties. I don't know if I can face another one, Jack. But I can't think of a better way to question someone about Marjorie's friends than inviting them here under false pretenses. And the women come out of curiosity, hoping I'll drop some crumb of gossip that they can take home with them. The men come because they like you, but I watch their faces when I mention Marjorie, to see if she meant more to them than she should have. Surely whoever that man is, he still feels something. He's bound to give himself away. A shift in the way he looks at me, a tightness in the mouth. I want to know who it is. I won't have any peace until I do and can put the blame where it belongs."
"You may be right, my dear, but the truth is, I don't hold out much hope."
I walked on down the carpeted passage for fear one of them might come out and find me there, eavesdropping.
But I carried with me food for thought.
For one thing, Inspector Herbert hadn't told Serena about the man at the railway station. And probably wouldn't until he knew whether or not it was pertinent to his investigation.
For another, it appeared I wasn't the only one searching for Marjorie Evanson's lover. Even here. And I had the very strong feeling that if Serena found the man before I did, she would take savage pleasure in exposing him to the world.
Before she killed him…
The thought occurred to me out of the blue. I didn't know whether she was capable of such a thing or not, but her brother's death had affected her deeply, and sometimes people who turned to anger as they grieved acted rashly, in the heat of the moment, wanting to hurt the person who had hurt them.
Still, now I knew the purpose of this wartime birthday party and why it hadn't mattered if Mary had brought a friend. Serena Melton saw me as a smoke screen, added to make up the party's numbers and conceal her true purpose in inviting certain guests. Well, I needn't feel quite so guilty now about coming here under false pretenses, out of curiosity.
Last evening during croquet and again during the tennis match this morning, I'd seen Serena casually drawing aside first one guest and then another. She and Captain Truscott had had a long conversation, and soon after that, Lieutenant Gilbert. I'd thought she was making them feel at home, just as she'd chatted to me about my father and my duties.
And that reminded me of the naval commander she and Mary had discussed. Had Marjorie known him as well? I'd tried, politely, not to listen at the time. Now I made an effort to bring the exchange back. I didn't want to mention it to Mary.
"When was his last leave, do you remember?" she'd asked. "Was he in London then?" And when Mary told her he'd taken the train directly to Scotland, to see his parents, she'd replied, "No wonder Marjorie had missed seeing him. I must say, Jack was wondering about him too."
Serena must not have been very close to her sister-in-law or she wouldn't be fishing among Marjorie's friends for answers.
And that brought to mind another question.
Was there jealousy between Marjorie and Serena? Had Meriwether Evanson's marriage caused a rift with his sister?