by Caron Allan
Taken aback, the gentleman, with a half-smile, shook Simon’s hand and said, ‘I do very well, thank you, Simon. And how are you?’
‘Not too bad, thank you,’ said Simon.
There was a sob from his grandmother, and rather to everyone’s surprise, she flung herself at Simon, pulling him into a tight hug, saying as she wept, ‘Oh my darling, my dear boy!’
Her husband came forward to put an arm about both of them, tears flowing unchecked down his face.
Dottie backed away to the door, stepped outside, and softly closed the door upon them, leaving them to be private. She turned to Gervase and went into his arms.
He stoked her hair. ‘They’ll take care of him,’ he said softly. ‘They feel terrible about abandoning Margaret; they won’t do it to Simon.’
Dottie nodded, but she had no voice. She was happy, but her emotions had suffered so many knocks of late that she couldn’t seem to hold herself in check any longer. Gervase held her, and when eventually the storm passed, he provided Dottie with a clean handkerchief to blow her nose and wipe her eyes.
She almost had a relapse when Simon hugged her goodbye and went out to get into his grandfather’s car.
There would be big changes for him, and it would take a huge adjustment, but at least he would not be alone, and there was no doubt in Dottie’s mind that he would be loved.
In London, William Hardy had finally found the time... no, it wasn’t time he had been short of, he was forced to admit to himself. He had been reluctant to come back to this house for several reasons. He took out the envelope Mr Bray the solicitor had given him almost two weeks earlier, and from it he extracted the bunch that held the front door key. With a sense of foreboding he went up the steps to the front door, took a breath, then slipped the key into the lock and turned it.
The hall was quiet, and empty. Of course it was. But his memory furnished the details of a night not so long back. Of coming into the hall to see the dead body of Mrs Carmichael lying at the foot of the stairs, of the little hall table, the broken vase.
It took him a moment to push that aside and look about him. He had been here twice now, the last time to attend to her death, and once before that to interview Mrs Carmichael about a case he had been working on. He smiled sadly to himself. She had been a real character, a formidable, impressive woman. If only he could have spoken to her again.
‘I knew your father,’ she had told him. ‘For almost a year...’. Little had he realised at the time that there would never be another opportunity to ask her about that. She was the mother of his half-brother, whose existence he had never even suspected, until recently. William shook his head.
The hall was still draughty and damp. He would have to get that seen to. The place was his now, and with it a little bit of money that he could use to make the repairs Mrs Carmichael had failed to carry out. He began to look about him now with the eye of a proprietor, not a policeman.
On his first visit, Pamphlett, Mrs Carmichael’s maid had shown them into the sitting room. He crossed the hall now to open that door, and cautiously looked inside. He had only the haziest memory of the room itself, though its occupant, in her lurid lounging pyjamas was imprinted on his memory for eternity. Thinking of this, he smiled again.
It was a relief to arrive home at last. Dottie viewed the house of her parents as she ran up the steps to the front door, and found it slightly strange-looking, as a familiar place is when you have been away for a long time.
But it was home. She had no need to ring the bell or knock, because Janet the maid was watching for her and the door opened before Dottie even reached it. Half out of her little tweed coat already, Dottie hugged Janet.
‘Stand still, Miss, or I won’t be able to get it off you!’ Janet said, trying to grab the trailing coat sleeve. She was beaming from ear to ear. ‘It’s so good to have you back!’
Before Dottie could answer, Gervase came up the steps behind her, and Janet sent her a questioning look. At the same time, Dottie’s parents came from the drawing room, smiling and arms outstretched.
There was a moment of stiff embarrassment before Janet went off with the outer wear and Gervase and Dottie were chivvied into the drawing room and introductions were made.
Gervase stayed for an hour, then made his way to his club. Mrs Manderson, happy with his rank and good looks, if not his age, extended an invitation to dinner the following day.
As soon as Dottie came back from seeing Gervase off, Mr Manderson said, ‘He’s just asked me for your hand in marriage! Quick work, I call that. How do you feel about it?’
‘Oh!’ Dottie stared, unable for the moment to think of anything intelligent to say.
‘Surely he isn’t really the assistant chief constable of Derbyshire?’ her mother broke in.
‘Um, well, yes, he is.’
‘Policemen certainly seem to hold a mysterious appeal for you,’ her mother added.
Dottie had to laugh at that. She couldn’t deny it. ‘Yes, they do!’
‘Has he already asked you to marry him?’
‘Not yet. But he has hinted that’s what’s on his mind.’
‘Do you really love him that much? You’re ready to marry him after just a mere fortnight’s acquaintance?’ her father asked.
Dottie huffed. Her fringe flew up in the air and settle neatly back on her forehead again. ‘I like him, he’s a jolly nice chap.’
‘But you don’t love him?’
‘I don’t know, Mother! Father, as you say, it’s all happened so quickly. I just want to get to know him a bit more.’
‘Hmm,’ said her mother in that disapproving way mothers have. ‘Well don’t let him rush you. Or take advantage. I must say, he’s a little older than I would have liked for you, and although he’s quite nice looking, he’s not so attractive as W...’
But Dottie wasn’t about to have yet another discussion about Inspector Hardy. ‘Well that is over!’ she said with finality, and she got to her feet to make an end of the conversation. ‘I’m going up for a wash and to change my skirt.’
George’s father for once was speechless. Piers Gascoigne de la Gascoigne was wooden-faced and pale, clutching his wife’s hand. But if in the past Dottie had ever thought him cold, she knew now that he was not. As his daughter’s coffin was lowered into its place in the ground, he sobbed like a child.
White roses had seemed the most appropriate. Dottie abhorred lilies and nothing else seemed quite so fitting. She dropped her posy down onto the coffin lid, and it lay there on the gleaming wooden surface, beside those of George, his parents, and Mr and Mrs Manderson. William Hardy was not there, of course, though Dottie had half-expected to see him, but in the end, this was a time just for family, a private affair.
Cynthia Gascoigne, reunited with her husband after an absence of two weeks, dabbed her eyes for the dozenth time with her handkerchief and turned a tremulous smile on Dottie, saying for the hundredth time, ‘Thank you, dear,’ and squeezing her hand. Her gratitude served only to make Dottie feel worse about the fact that she had been with Diana when she died and had not saved her.
Dottie assured her no thanks were necessary, kissed her cheek, and went to stand beside her mother, leaving Diana’s family some privacy at her graveside.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Dottie asked Mrs Manderson. Her mother had been subdued for most of the three days since Dottie’s return from Nottinghamshire. Dottie was becoming concerned. Was her mother sickening for something? Or was she worried about Flora? Or Dottie and her new relationship with Gervase? It was so unlike her to be silent and lost for words. And she was so pale.
‘I’m perfectly all right, dear,’ her mother said yet again, but Dottie wasn’t convinced. She resolved to get her father to herself and ask him.
They went back into the barrack of a place—practically a castle really—for a light lunch, then at half-past two, they said farewell and set off back to town. George was carrying a small box of things from his sister’s old bedroo
m that he was taking back with him. He said a formal, cool goodbye to his father, shaking his hand, then kissed his mother. Dottie reflected it was the best anyone could hope for in the circumstances. No doubt, given time, he would soften, but at the moment, it was all still too fresh, too raw for forgiveness.
‘Flora had wanted to come, of course,’ he said, as they stood beside the cars, ‘But obviously in her condition...’
‘Oh no, certainly not!’ Mrs Manderson agreed. ‘We’ll see you both the day after tomorrow, dear.’ She kissed him and allowed her husband to assist her into their vehicle. She was silent practically all the way back to London. Dottie’s concern grew.
On arriving home, Dottie went straight up to her room to change out of her black dress. A few moments later there was a tap on her door. Mrs Manderson was there. She looked upset. Dottie looked at her.
‘What’s the matter, Mother? What on earth has been wrong with you today?’
Mrs Manderson took a seat on Dottie’s bed—almost unprecedented—and inhaled deeply. Her breath was unsteady. Dottie felt alarmed. ‘What on earth is it? Flora...?’
Mrs Manderson drew Dottie to her side immediately, taking her hands. ‘No, dear, Flora’s perfectly all right. It’s not that. There’s something else.’ She sighed. Dottie could only remember anything like this happening a handful of times during her life. The last time had been when Dottie’s cat died. The time before that had been when her grandmother had passed away.
‘You’re not ill?’ she asked, in a sudden panic. Her mother shook her head. ‘Nor-Nor Father?’
‘No, dear, nothing like that. Um...’
Dottie could tell her mother was feeling for the right words. The very knowledge of this made Dottie feel cold and afraid.
‘With all that’s happened lately, happened to you, or happened to others but involved you, well, my dear, you’ve seen rather a lot of life just lately. I’m very proud of the way you have dealt with difficult situations and how you’ve shown yourself to be loyal and caring, and not afraid to help others. But I’ve seen how you’ve been hurt by some of the things you’ve discovered, and I know you’ve come to see that people aren’t always what you think, and don’t always behave as one would expect.’
‘What is it you’re trying to tell me? You’re scaring me, Mother.’ Dottie felt she could hardly move her lips. Her whole body felt frozen and fixed, like nothing could move or bend.
Mrs Manderson was looking down at her folded hands. Her voice was low and unsteady. ‘You’ve seen that men and women don’t always behave as they should,’ she said, ‘and Dottie, dearest, I’m sorry to have to tell you that I—I’ve kept something from you all these years.’
Before Dottie could make sense of the words, her mother rushed on, as if afraid to stop.
‘You see, you’re not my daughter. Not our daughter, I should say. I only wish you were. You’re my sister’s daughter. Your aunt Cecilia’s. She was very young, and foolish. She had an affair. She got caught, and she was afraid that her husband would find out, so she went away. Like—like Diana. And when you were born, she gave you to us to adopt. I hadn’t been able to have another child after some difficulties when Florence—when Flora was born, and of course, your fa—Herbert—and I were delighted to be able to take you.’
There was an abrupt silence as Mrs Manderson broke off and sat looking at Dottie, who was shaking her head.
‘Wh—I...’ Dottie fell silent. Words ran out. She had no idea what to say. There was nothing she could say. She couldn’t seem to understand. She fixed her eyes on a pigeon on a branch outside. ‘So you and...’ She couldn’t say Father, because he wasn’t. They. Weren’t. She turned to face Mrs Manderson, and the tears ran down her face. She had no words. She just looked at her.
Mrs Manderson leaned forward, her hand outstretched. ‘Oh Dottie, darling! I’m so...’
There was a sudden sound across the room, and Mr Manderson stood in the doorway looking agitated. His wife looked at him, dashing tears away, saying a little sharply, ‘What is it, Herbert?’
‘Sorry to interrupt, my love. That was George on the telephone. Flora’s gone into labour. The doctor is with her now. George has been told it won’t be long, things are already quite advanced. He asked that we go over.’
Mrs Manderson was already halfway along the hall to her room, calling over her shoulder to him. ‘Of course, we shall, dear, we’ll go immediately. Go and get the car, Herbert, and I’ll just change my outfit. And don’t forget the cigars and the champagne! Two minutes, that’s all I need. Oh, my goodness!’ She sounded breathless with the surprise of it all. The baby was arriving a good couple of weeks early. Dottie could only pray that wasn’t a bad sign. She struggled with so many thoughts at once. Thoughts of Diana and her baby, thoughts of what her mother had just told her. Mother? Dottie froze for a second. Mrs Manderson wasn’t her mother. Flora—oh, Flora wasn’t her sister. After all these years of sisterhood and intimacy. Not her sister. Where did that leave them now? Flora was her cousin. Not her sister.
Dottie stood in front of the mirror fighting back a fresh outbreak of tears. She should get ready, she had to be quick, they would be leaving shortly, but she couldn’t seem to...
‘Dorothy!’ Mrs Manderson was in the room again. ‘Could you help me with my gown, dear?’
‘Of course, M...’ The name died in her throat. Their eyes met in the mirror. Mrs Manderson’s eyes filled with tears, and Dottie’s overflowed. She was enclosed by arms hugging her tightly.
‘I’m so so sorry about the shock, my dear. To tell the truth, I had hoped you’d never need to know. It’s always been so easy to pretend to myself, to ourselves, that you really are our own little girl. But then, after all that’s happened lately, I thought I had no right to keep it to myself. And now... oh my darling girl, if only you were my own child, I could not love you more dearly than I do now, than I always have. I beg you, Dorothy—Dottie—dear, please, don’t let it change anything.’
Hebert Manderson’s shout from the hall downstairs made them draw hastily apart and repair their complexions. The two women hurried downstairs, grabbing a few necessary things on the way. A minute later the car was pulling out of their road, and they were heading across London to the Gascoignes’ home. Her thoughts were by turns stumbling then racing. She couldn’t seem to take a hold of them. The only thing that mattered was that Flora would be strong, the baby healthy and delivered safely. Nothing else... She shook her head. Everything else would just have to wait.
It took them fifteen minutes to reach George and Flora’s home, and the first thing they saw was the shiny black car belonging to the doctor. Greeley, the butler, must have been watching for them because the door was already opening before they got out of the car. They hurried up the steps and into the house, and immediately they heard the sound of a baby’s cries.
Greeley took their things and, beaming all over his face, said, ‘Such happy news, the baby’s here! I can’t tell you how glad we all are!’
Mrs Manderson clutched Dottie’s arms, tears already forming in her eyes. But unlike half an hour earlier, these were tears of joy. There was no sign of George. The daily woman and Mrs Greeley the cook hovered at the end of the hall, waiting to hear the news, and Greeley went to his wife’s side. It warmed Dottie’s heart to see how happy and excited the staff were.
Just then there came the sound of footfalls on the stairs, and they turned to see the doctor coming downstairs, with George following behind him, laughing.
‘Come upstairs, come up all of you! He’s here! My son. Sorry, I mean of course, our son!’
There was a happy confusion for a moment whilst George tried to give instructions to Greeley regarding champagne and cigars, and to say a heartfelt thank you to the doctor, who was leaving, and to urge the family, and the rest of the staff to follow him up to see Flora and meet the new arrival.
There was a scurry of rushing feet and excited chatter, and they were all crowding into Flora’s bedroom, to see h
er sitting up in bed, looking exhausted but happy, and cradling the bawling bundle in her arms. Cissie, Flora’s maid, was straightening the fresh bedlinen, which was a struggle as she could barely see past the happy tears in her eyes.
‘Aww Miss!’ she said to Dottie. ‘I’m ever so happy. It’s the first time I’ve been in a house where there was a baby. It’s ever so exciting!’
Dottie and Mrs Manderson went to Flora, kissed her and gazed at the baby. George took up a manly protective position beside the head of the bed, looking down proudly at his wife and son, his hand on Flora’s shoulder
‘This is Freddie,’ Flora said, smiling down at the finally-quiet infant. ‘Frederick George Gascoigne de la Gascoigne. Isn’t he just perfect?’
They all agreed he was.
The End
About the Author
CARON ALLAN WRITES cosy murder mysteries, both contemporary and also set in the 1930s. Caron lives in Derby, England with her husband and an endlessly varying quantity of cats and sparrows.
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Blog: http://caronallanfiction.com/
Also by Caron Allan:
CRISS CROSS – book 1 of the Friendship Can Be Murder trilogy
Cross Check – book 2 of the Friendship Can Be Murder trilogy
Check Mate – book 3 of the Friendship Can Be Murder trilogy
Night and Day: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 1
The Mantle of God: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 2
Scotch Mist: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 3: a novella
The Last Perfect Summer of Richard Dawlish: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 4
