by Caron Allan
He looked at her, and saw that the bruise on her temple was well-disguised with make-up and hardly noticeable. ‘How are you after your attack?’ he asked softly.
She murmured, ‘Fine thank you,’ and then introduced him to a large old woman was ensconced in an armchair.
‘Mrs Carmichael, this is Inspector William Hardy. Inspector, this is Mrs Carmichael, I work as a mannequin at Mrs Carmichael’s fashion warehouse.’
‘Of course,’ he said, offering his hand to the elderly woman, ‘I’ve heard of you, Mrs Carmichael. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure, ducks,’ said Mrs Carmichael, giving the Inspector a very thorough top-to-toe appraisal. She patted Dottie’s knee. ‘Off you go, Dot, there’s a good girl. This is the closest I’ve been to an assignation in twenty years.’
Dottie, pink-cheeked but smiling, obediently left them. Hardy was irritated to see that she was immediately engaged in conversation by the same well-set-up young man with little to boast of in the chin department. Hardy took the seat Dottie had vacated, and turned a morose expression on Mrs Carmichael.
The old woman smiled, showing good teeth, which he found somewhat surprising. ‘Don’t worry, Bill,’ Mrs Carmichael told him, ‘that chinless wonder Thurby means nothing to her. It’s you she wants.’
Her directness embarrassed him, but she seemed a good sort, and like him, she was something of an outsider in this polite, well-to-do society, although unlike him it didn’t seem to worry her or undermine her confidence.
‘I was sorry to hear about your mother,’ she continued, ‘I knew her once, don’t suppose she would have told you that, no reason why she should.’
‘No, I’m afraid...’
‘We fell out, she and I, you know. Years ago. Well before you were born. I had a bit of a thing going on with your father. Before he met her, obviously,’ she hastened to add.
Hardy wasn’t sure what surprised him the most, the notion of his father being the sort of man to have ‘a bit of a thing’ with a woman most definitely not of his own class—or indeed any woman—or that his father, the shrunken, ineffectual nonentity Hardy remembered, could have had any sort of appeal for women. He just couldn’t marry together the memory of the man he had known with the man he must surely have been when young. Hardy shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid...’ He couldn’t think how to answer someone in this situation.
‘Oh, he was good-looking you know, back then, and so was I. Though he wasn’t a patch on you, dear boy, I don’t wonder Dottie is smitten. You are the perfect foil for her dainty dark looks. I see your tie is exactly the same shade of dark red as her frock. No doubt a coincidence but very becoming to both of you. Yes, your father and I, we had a thing going on for almost a year, though his family never approved of me, of course. How could they? So then your mother came on the scene and she took him over, and she made him end it with me. I can see now she was right to do so, but at the time of course, it felt like the world had ended. I was star-struck in a way, I suppose. Thought it really would be a fairy-tale ending for me. He promised me he’d marry me, though of course, I know now they all say that. Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, but it always comes that little bit too late, I find.’
Hardy couldn’t think of anything to say. For a few moments, it seemed as though he and the elderly woman were isolated on their own little stage, far away from the crowds who knew nothing of their conversation. He had the strongest sense that she was about to tell him something of significance, but then their hostess announced that dinner was served, and the illusion was shattered. Obediently the guests paired up and walked through to the dining room.
The tall, well-to-do (but noticeably chinless) young man escorted Dottie in to dinner, his hand beneath her elbow in that way that made Hardy want to punch him even more. Mrs Carmichael had been commandeered by a grey-haired military type and proceeded into the dining room ahead of Hardy, rather like a ship in full sail, the silvery silk of her gown shimmering in the light.
Hardy looked to his left and noticed a tall elegant young woman directing a coy smile at him. Making a slight bow he offered her his arm, introducing himself as he did so. ‘I’m William Hardy. How do you do?’
‘I’m Daphne,’ she told him, ‘Daphne Medhurst. That’s my father, Major Medhurst, in front taking in the lady in grey silk. I don’t believe I’ve met you before?’
He found it easy enough to get into conversation with her, and seated side by side at the long table, they chatted amiably throughout the meal. Her father’s eye came back to them again and again, and Hardy knew that the gentleman would make enquiries of the Mandersons to learn more about Hardy’s situation and prospects.
By the end of the meal—and he wasn’t quite sure how it had happened—he had arranged to take Miss Medhurst to lunch the following day.
He told himself it would be perfectly pleasant, and nothing serious on either side. She seemed a nice woman, fairly attractive, reasonably well-educated but by no means snobbish or inclined to look down on those who worked for a living. He had told her his profession and her smile never faltered. He found that he was quite looking forward to their lunch.
He glanced across the table and saw Dottie’s face. His conscience pricked him when he saw the dismay, pure and unmistakable, in her eyes. Then with a mutinous set of her chin, she turned and treated Jeffrey Thurby to a brilliant smile and a loudly tinkling laugh at whatever it was—surely she hadn’t even heard it—he had just said. Hardy, inexplicably furious, redoubled his efforts with Miss Medhurst.
As he stood in the hall, ready to take his leave, Dottie was coming in from saying goodnight to Jeffrey Thurby, her eyes glowing, her cheeks pink, her lips flushed and full. She had been kissed. It took everything in his power for Hardy to respond to his hostess with something approaching politeness.
‘Oh, before you go, Mr Hardy,’ Mrs Manderson was now saying, ‘at the end of the month we are having a dinner party to celebrate Dorothy’s birthday. I do hope you’ll be able to join us. It’s Saturday the 31st.’
Hardy took a deep breath, and ignoring the look Dottie directed at him, shook his head and with little appearance of regret, said, ‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I am visiting my Uncle in Matlock, to spend Easter with his family, and I’m travelling up that morning.’
Mrs Manderson looked from her daughter glaring in the corner of the hall yet unable to give in to her temper and just walk away, to Hardy, clipped, barely civil, distant. Mrs Manderson felt some surprise, and was clearly disappointed as she thanked Hardy for letting her know and wished him a pleasant stay with his family, adding, ‘Do remember us to your dear sister.’ But he was already on the pavement and walking away.
The man Hardy dismissed as a chinless wonder was, as Dottie discovered on the front step of the house, endowed with even more determination to take liberties than any other man she’d so far encountered.
By the time she’d said goodnight and firmly shut the door on him, she felt quite hot and exhausted. And before she had the chance to speak to him, Hardy was saying goodnight to her mother and leaving the house, his grim expression telling her he was furious.
That trollop Daphne Medhurst had attached herself to him with the tenacity of a limpet and not left his side all evening. Dottie feared for Hardy’s freedom. Daphne was a most notorious and determined husband-hunter. Fortune was an indifferent matter to her—she had her late mother’s money, rumoured to be substantial, and her father gave her a generous allowance, according to those same rumours. But at thirty-one years of age—though only admitting to twenty-seven—time was not on Daphne’s side. She needed a man, and clearly she had set her cap at William Hardy.
Dottie said goodnight to her parents and went up to bed, pleading a headache left over from her attack in the street. Not for anything would she admit that her low spirits had anything to do with a certain young policeman and the smiles he had bestowed upon another woman.
But Mrs Manderson was not fooled for a
second, and was ruefully aware that her plans had gone awry. She returned to the drawing room and began to empty ashtrays, and plump cushions. She placed empty glasses on a tray. Then she went to sit on a settee near her husband’s favourite chair, intent on relaxing for a few minutes before going up to bed. She took a moment to relieve her mind of its primary vexation.
‘I should never have invited that fast piece Daphne Medhurst and her boring father to dinner this evening,’ she told her husband. ‘Daphne has spoiled everything. She is clearly determined to have Inspector Hardy, and so I shall have to find a new suitor for Dorothy. I can’t leave her in that idiot Thurby’s clutches.’
From behind his newspaper, Mr Manderson’s only reply was a soft snore.
It was clear from her every look and word that Daphne Medhurst was enjoying his company. Not since his university days had a young woman shown so much interest in him, Hardy realised, and he ordered another glass of wine for each of them, pushing away the traitorous murmur of his thoughts, apart from Dottie...
Somehow, he found he was holding Daphne’s hand, small and dainty in his own, and again he had to make an effort to dismiss the sense of betrayal he felt—both his own betrayal as he endeavoured to enjoy Miss Medhurst’s smiles, and hers, Dottie’s, as she had beamed into the eyes of that chap at dinner the night before. How Hardy wished he had taken his leave before Thurby, then he wouldn’t have to think about Dottie showing the man out, and allowing him to kiss her goodnight on the step. William Hardy pushed away thoughts of Dottie in his arms, her lips against his. He was with Miss Medhurst now...
‘Ouch, Billy, you’re squashing my hand!’ Daphne announced at that moment with her ever-present high-pitched giggle. The giggle irked him somewhat, but he told himself in time he’d get used to it, no doubt, and even come to find it endearing. He hastily apologised and released her clammy fingers. She leaned against his shoulder, and looked up into his eyes in a calculated, flirtatious manner. ‘How strong you are,’ she whispered, for his ears alone. He smiled politely at her, and she had to be content with that.
It seemed she was making arrangements for that evening. She was saying something about the cinema. His approval was taken for granted. Miss Medhurst was used to young men doing what she wanted so that they could enjoy her company.
‘You can pick me up at seven o’clock,’ she was saying, ‘and quickly just pop in to meet Pops, somehow we didn’t get round to that last night at the Mandersons’, then we’ll go on to the picture house. I can’t wait to see Deserts of Arabia. It’s supposed to be ever so romantic.’
He nodded. A waiter arrived with their drinks. Hardy, not normally a partaker of lunch-time alcohol, felt a little light-headed. His hand was squeezed in admonition.
‘Honestly Billy, you could at least try to sound a little enthusiastic,’ she chided. He hated being called Billy. He’d already told her so three times. Her response had been simply, ‘Well, I like it.’
He forced a smile again. ‘Sorry. I am looking forward to it, of course.’
‘Good,’ she said, and the flirty smile was back. ‘Obviously in front of Pops, you mustn’t kiss me or hold my hand just yet, as he’s rather old-fashioned, but once we’re alone of course, that would be perfectly all right. Especially in the cinema. If you know what I mean.’
He nodded. That was all that she required. Ten minutes later, she finally stopped talking, downed the last of her drink, and told him with evident reluctance that she had to leave.
He walked her home. Outside the house, she told him that because her father would be out, she didn’t think Hardy should come in, ‘This time,’ and she turned to face him expectantly. He hadn’t planned on kissing her so soon. They had only just met, after all. But as they stood there it seemed clear she expected it, so as he said goodbye, he bent his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek. She had other ideas, however, and turned to latch her lips firmly onto his, rather shocking him by touching his mouth with the tip of her tongue.
Forced to be satisfied with his lukewarm response, she called a cheery goodbye and ran up the steps to the front door, whilst a bemused Hardy made his way to the police station and felt a considerable sense of relief on reaching his office.
Maple was there.
‘Thought you were having the weekend off?’ Hardy asked him. Maple looked irritated.
‘I should of. But Janet was doing something and couldn’t see me till tonight, and my mum nagged me that much about sitting around the house I thought it would just be easier to come in to work. You drunk?’
‘A bit. Three glasses of wine at lunch.’
‘Got lipstick all over your face, too. Not Miss Manderson’s colour, neither.’ He directed a close look at Hardy who began scrubbing at his mouth and chin with a handkerchief. Hardy decided to ignore Maple’s curiosity, snapping at him instead.
‘Where are we with this bloody case?’
‘There’s five who have been at two or more of these posh get-ups,’ Maple said, and handed Hardy a piece of paper.
‘I suppose that’s no real surprise. These people all socialise with one another, they’re all part of the same set.’ Hardy read the short list. Ian and Sylvia Smedley-Judd, Gareth Smedley-Judd and Mrs Gerard were the first four. The fifth name stood out, in that he was surprised to see it there at all. ‘Mrs Muriel Carmichael,’ he said.
‘Yes, she’s some kind of fancy seamstress, I think,’ Maple began to say, ‘though I’m not sure why she gets invited to these posh places. That’s a bit suspicious, if you ask me.’
‘It’s all right, Frank, I know the lady. She is the owner of Carmichael and Jennings, a fashionable warehouse of ladies’ garments. Very in. And your girlfriend’s mistress works there.’
‘Mrs Manderson? The old dragon? She never does! Well I’ll eat my hat!’
‘No, you chump, not Mrs Manderson. Miss Dottie Manderson. She works at Carmichael’s as a mannequin.’
‘Oh yes, that does ring a bell, now you mention it. Not sure it’s entirely respectable, if you ask me,’ Maple added, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to, ‘All these pretty young girls taking their clothes off and parading about in front of people.’
‘I’m sure it’s entirely respectable, thank you, Sergeant,’ Hardy said crossly, and Maple hid a smirk behind his handkerchief as he pretended to wipe his nose. ‘And more importantly, Mrs Carmichael has a lot of connections, both high and low, you might say. I chatted with her myself just last night at the Mandersons’ dinner party. A nice woman, very no-nonsense. Rather inclined to be a bit blunter than is usual in polite society, but I think that’s why people take to her so, she is quite a character.’ In his head, Hardy replayed her great revelation, I knew your father. For almost a year...
Silence hung heavily on the stale air of the Inspector’s office. He thought for a moment, then, reaching for his hat and coat, said, ‘Come on, let’s go and see her now. See if we can find out anything. And we’ll arrange to see the others on Monday or as soon as convenient.’
The door was opened to the two men by Mrs Carmichael’s maid-of-all-work, a thin woman with a huge beaky nose and an air of deepest gloom. She gave her name as Pamphlett, and a look followed it as if daring them to comment or laugh. They didn’t dare.
Mrs Carmichael was at home, they were told, and was enjoying her tea.
‘Always has it this early, half past three,’ Pamphlett said with a loud sniff of her giant nose. ‘She doesn’t usually like to be disturbed. She might see you. Might not. Wait here.’
Here was right inside the front door. A draught came in under the front door and from around the glass of the tiny window beside it. The air in the hall was damp and chilly, which Hardy found surprising. Mould grew up the walls from the floor in the corner by the window. He felt he could smell the spores without even getting right up close. The house was a mouldering ruin, yet could have been every inch as desirable as the Mandersons’ home. Surely the lady’s success meant she could afford to live in comfort? Indeed, h
is impression of her was very much that of someone who enjoyed the finer things in life, and her business was known to be hugely profitable. So why didn’t she keep her home in better order?
‘You can come in,’ Pamphlett said from the doorway. ‘I suppose I’d better get some more cups. As if I haven’t got enough to do.’ She stalked off and they went into the room, Hardy tapping lightly on the door and popping his head round first, only to be waved in impatiently.
‘Come in, come in, I’m sure I just heard her tell you to!’ Mrs Carmichael grumbled. She looked at Maple in some surprise and turned back to address the inspector. ‘I assumed that you were here to continue our chat from the Mandersons’ last night, but if so you wouldn’t have brought him along. Is this official business then?’
Hardy was settling himself in a chair opposite her. Maple squeezed onto the far end of the sofa upon which Mrs Carmichael lounged in a pair of the largest cherry-coloured satin pyjamas either man had ever witnessed. On her swollen feet were matching satin slippers. Hardy was no costume expert, but even he knew fashionable ladies had stopped wearing lounging pyjamas over the last few years.
Pamphlett appeared with the cups and set them down on the tray with a clatter. Turning immediately she said over her shoulder, ‘Ring if you want anythink,’ and left the room.
Mrs Carmichael bid them help themselves, and the sergeant lost no time in taking a plate and adding sandwiches and an iced French fancy to it. He then poured tea for himself and his boss.
‘Yes, I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may,’ Hardy began. ‘It’s about these dinner party robberies. You were one of a small number of guests present on more than one occasion. I must confess we’re still a bit stumped about these cases, and frankly we need all the help we can get. It’s possible that you, having been to three of these dinners, might have seen something that could be a huge help to us.’
