charming into the bargain, he might easily turn a lonely woman’s head. He was the sort Serena Melton should have invited to a weekend party, not a Lieutenant Bellis, who considered himself a friend of Meriwether Evanson’s, or Captain Truscott with his shaking hands. They were loyal to the dead, and not likely to confide anything they might know to a grieving sister.
I added another line to my message.
What weapon did Lieutenant Fordham use to kill himself? Service revolver? Other?
It was the price Inspector Herbert must pay for not being more straightforward. For something had just struck a chord of memory.
Thinking about Serena and her house party had brought to mind a vivid image of Jack Melton’s hand pausing over an empty depression in the lining of his gun cabinet.
To suspect Serena Melton of killing a man she thought was her sister-in-law’s lover was ridiculous. And yet—and yet I had seen for myself how deep her grief and anger ran. If she’d found someone she believed was the guilty man, and there was no way of proving it, what would she do?
For one thing, she wouldn’t have a weapon handy, in the event she needed to use it. That was a very different thing from being soangry one could lash out with the first thing that came to hand. Besides, Lieutenant Fordham was a soldier, with a soldier’s reflexes. He wasn’t likely to let someone walk up to him, revolver in hand, and fire at him.
I was letting my imagination run away with me. But as much as I didn’t want to believe it, there was most certainly the possibility that Marjorie had had more than one lover. And Lieutenant Fordham could have had his own guilty conscience.
And so I didn’t tear up the reply to Inspector Herbert and start again. I left the query in my letter.
But Scotland Yard never answered. Not even to thank me for helping them with their inquiries.
C HAPTER S IX
F INALLY I WROTE to Simon Brandon.
He had been my father’s batman, his friend even though he was less than half my father’s age, and eventually his RMS, his regimental sergeant-major, a position of some responsibility as well as prestige. If anyone could find the answer to my question without involving the police or causing a stir, it was Simon. His contacts were myriad, and they had long memories of service together.
I knew my father well enough to be sure he’d find the answer to my question, and then want to know why I had asked it. The Colonel Sahib, as we called him behind his back, was accustomed to commanding troops in battle. Raising a daughter would—he’d thought—be as simple as taking a seasoned company on maneuvers. He could do it blindfolded. Hands behind his back.
By the time I was walking, he was in full retreat from that position. “She’ll be running the British Army before she’s ten!” he’d warned my mother. It wasn’t long before all the servants and half the men in his command were enlisted in a conspiracy to keep me safe. Not to mention our Indian staff and all their relatives.
The Army has a code of its own. I had been well taught not to air its dirty linens in public, and in India my father would have made short work of finding out who had been involved with Lieutenant Evanson’s wife, and seeing to it that he was disciplined. Or learninghow Captain Fordham had shot himself. It would have gone no further, been dealt with quietly and appropriately. We weren’t in India now, but the same circumspection was still there, inbred in us.
A letter came back faster than I’d expected. It occurred to me that Simon had somehow arranged to have it sent with dispatches. The post where I was presently stationed was notoriously slow. And sent with dispatches, the letter wouldn’t pass through the hands of the military censors.
I opened it quickly, eager to see what he had discovered.
Bess. It’s been hushed up. I can’t discover why. What’s this about? Do you know this man?
Before I could answer Simon, we were moved again, this
I added another line to my message.
What weapon did Lieutenant Fordham use to kill himself? Service revolver? Other?
It was the price Inspector Herbert must pay for not being more straightforward. For something had just struck a chord of memory.
Thinking about Serena and her house party had brought to mind a vivid image of Jack Melton’s hand pausing over an empty depression in the lining of his gun cabinet.
To suspect Serena Melton of killing a man she thought was her sister-in-law’s lover was ridiculous. And yet—and yet I had seen for myself how deep her grief and anger ran. If she’d found someone she believed was the guilty man, and there was no way of proving it, what would she do?
For one thing, she wouldn’t have a weapon handy, in the event she needed to use it. That was a very different thing from being soangry one could lash out with the first thing that came to hand. Besides, Lieutenant Fordham was a soldier, with a soldier’s reflexes. He wasn’t likely to let someone walk up to him, revolver in hand, and fire at him.
I was letting my imagination run away with me. But as much as I didn’t want to believe it, there was most certainly the possibility that Marjorie had had more than one lover. And Lieutenant Fordham could have had his own guilty conscience.
And so I didn’t tear up the reply to Inspector Herbert and start again. I left the query in my letter.
But Scotland Yard never answered. Not even to thank me for helping them with their inquiries.
C HAPTER S IX
F INALLY I WROTE to Simon Brandon.
He had been my father’s batman, his friend even though he was less than half my father’s age, and eventually his RMS, his regimental sergeant-major, a position of some responsibility as well as prestige. If anyone could find the answer to my question without involving the police or causing a stir, it was Simon. His contacts were myriad, and they had long memories of service together.
I knew my father well enough to be sure he’d find the answer to my question, and then want to know why I had asked it. The Colonel Sahib, as we called him behind his back, was accustomed to commanding troops in battle. Raising a daughter would—he’d thought—be as simple as taking a seasoned company on maneuvers. He could do it blindfolded. Hands behind his back.
By the time I was walking, he was in full retreat from that position. “She’ll be running the British Army before she’s ten!” he’d warned my mother. It wasn’t long before all the servants and half the men in his command were enlisted in a conspiracy to keep me safe. Not to mention our Indian staff and all their relatives.
The Army has a code of its own. I had been well taught not to air its dirty linens in public, and in India my father would have made short work of finding out who had been involved with Lieutenant Evanson’s wife, and seeing to it that he was disciplined. Or learninghow Captain Fordham had shot himself. It would have gone no further, been dealt with quietly and appropriately. We weren’t in India now, but the same circumspection was still there, inbred in us.
A letter came back faster than I’d expected. It occurred to me that Simon had somehow arranged to have it sent with dispatches. The post where I was presently stationed was notoriously slow. And sent with dispatches, the letter wouldn’t pass through the hands of the military censors.
I opened it quickly, eager to see what he had discovered.
Bess. It’s been hushed up. I can’t discover why. What’s this about? Do you know this man?
Before I could answer Simon, we were moved again, this
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