An Impartial Witness Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 severestwounds. 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