An Unwilling Accomplice by Charles Todd Page A

realized what must be disturbing her—the murder. But I said nothing about it, just keeping pace as she went on breathlessly. “I must hurry, Mother will be wondering where I am.”
    “I hope she enjoys the flowers,” I said, just as she stumbled. I caught her arm, saving her from a nasty fall. That rattled her as well, and she nearly dropped her basket of flowers.
    “Here, let me carry that.” But I couldn’t convince her to slow down until we were off the bridge, and by that time she had recovered her composure.
    “Silly of me,” she said, clutching the basket. And then she added, “Something happened on the bridge not long ago. I’ve not got over it.”
    “I’m so sorry,” I answered, guessing that she must mean Sergeant Lessup’s death, and not knowing what else to say, thinking she wouldn’t wish to talk about it.
    But I was wrong.
    “It—someone was murdered . I’d never known anyone who was murdered.”
    “A friend?” I asked, wondering if she had some connection with the victim.
    She shook her head. “I knew him by sight. He’d worked in one of the foundries before the war.” She hesitated. “What’s worse is that I saw the face of the man Inspector Jester believes killed him.”
    The witness? And yet—she was coming across the bridge in late afternoon. She’d just told me she walked this way every day.
    “How trying for you,” I said, and meant it, all the while wishing she might tell me more. It was something that obviously preyed on her mind.
    “I was walking home from the farm—I shouldn’t have stayed so late that day, but my father-in-law asked me to help him take down the curtains for washing. I rested afterward, which made me even later. I’d paid the toll and the man was walking toward me. I saw he was a soldier. But I didn’t know him. As he came even with me, he spoke to someone just behind me. He said, ‘Well, well, there you are. I’ve come about Who.’ ”
    “Who?” I repeated, uncertain what she meant.
    “Yes, I’m sure I heard him right. And the other man, the one behind me, asked, ‘What’s that to do with you?’ His voice was rather surly. I hurried on, not thinking any more about them. And the next morning, I learned that someone had been killed on the bridge. It wasn’t until later in the day that I discovered it was murder. Inspector Jester was asking everyone who’d been on the bridge what time they’d been there and who they’d seen. That afternoon, while I was reading the newspaper to my father-in-law, I remembered where I’d seen the man’s face before. There were photographs, you see, of several of the men being given medals. That newspaper hadn’t gone into the fire yet, and so I went through the bin to find it and be sure. I went back to the police, everyone said I must. But I didn’t like giving such evidence. I mean, what if that man wasn’t the killer? Someone else could have come along afterward, couldn’t they have? And I didn’t see the man behind me. I couldn’t swear it was Sergeant Lessup. Yet it must have been. The timing was right. The police told me I’d been a witness.” She shivered, uncomfortable with the role that an unexpected encounter had thrust upon her. “I don’t know why I’ve told you. You won’t repeat it?”
    I smiled. “I won’t be staying here long. And I don’t know anyone to tell.” I glanced back at the bridge. “What about the man in the tollbooth? Surely he saw something?”
    “Unfortunately he’d just gone home to his dinner. It’s been worrying me so,” she went on. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with my troubles. But they tell me it’s best not to brood, in my condition.” She bit her lip. “And yet I can’t stop thinking about it.”
    “Try not to,” I said. “You must take good care of yourself.”
    We talked about her pregnancy for a bit and about her husband, still in France. And then she said, “Oh, just look at the time. Mother will be worried about me. I must go. It