The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  ‘Of course. Well, many congratulations. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy,’ Hardy said, unable to resist adding, with some facetiousness, ‘A man could hardly wish for a lovelier lady on his arm.’

  His sarcasm went unnoticed, however.

  ‘Oh definitely. She’s quite the little charmer, and she’ll be the perfect little wife for a man in my position. She’s young, but teachable, if you catch my drift.’

  Anger pushed Hardy to say, ‘The lady has considerable charm. I’m certain you’re the envy of every man here tonight.’

  ‘Damn well hope so,’ Gervase said with a smirk. He winked at Hardy. ‘And between you and I, she’s a saucy little minx behind closed doors. As you say, considerable charms. And not too shy about using them.’

  Hardy almost choked on his drink. Could Parfitt have said anything less appropriate to a complete stranger? If he had the luxury to follow his own inclination he would have called Parfitt out there and then, like some slighted suitor of the middle ages, he admitted to himself. But once again, he forced down his temper and said simply, with a man-to-man grin, ‘As I said, you’re the envy of every man here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Gervase said. ‘And now I must get back to her. Got to keep the other men away. One needs to give girls plenty of attention in these early stages of courtship. Of course, later on one can ignore them a lot longer.’ He guffawed at his own joke.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Hardy gave him a curt nod and turned away, his blood boiling. He turned back briefly just in time to see Dottie look up and smile as Parfitt reached her side. The way her whole face lit up, the way her lovely smile reached her eyes... Hardy had to turn away. How dared Parfitt talk about her in that disgusting way?

  Later, as Herbert Manderson proposed a toast to his lovely wife and publicly thanked her in the warmest terms his daughters had ever witnessed for their twenty-five happy years of marriage, Dottie couldn’t help noticing that while William Hardy was focussed wholly on Dottie herself from one side of the room, Gervase Parfitt, official escort and unofficial fiancé, was stifling a yawn and looking everywhere except in her direction, from his position on the other side of the room. It was most aggravating.

  She thought back to the beginning of the summer and the first time she had seen Gervase at a hotel in Scarborough where he’d been staying with his newly-widowed sister-in-law. Dottie had glimpsed his fair hair, his tall, lean build, and for a moment had thought he actually was William. She shook her head slightly in exasperation. Inspector Hardy. She must stop calling him William, even in her thoughts. Sooner or later it would slip out in conversation, and she could not let that happen.

  Looking at them now, she couldn’t think why she had ever thought them alike. Will—Inspector Hardy was an inch or two shorter than Gervase. Gervase was slightly taller, he was thinner, and had a slight stoop to his shoulders, no real surprise for a man who spent the majority of his time working at a desk. And of course Gervase was eight or nine years older than Will—Inspector Hardy. Gervase’s fair hair was just touched with grey at the temples—most distinguished. Whereas Inspector Hardy’s hair was lighter in colour and both fuller and thicker. What a shame she couldn’t have Hardy’s hair on Gervase’s head! And of course, Inspector Hardy was more athletically built than Gervase, with more solid muscle, broader shoulders, and...

  She was distracted from her thoughts by the enthusiastic applause that greeted her father’s rather rambling, but beautifully tender speech, and along with everyone else Dottie raised her glass and repeated the toast: ‘To dearest Lavinia, the love of my life.’

  Her mother, never one to encourage emotional outbursts in public, for once didn’t reprove her husband but simply said, ‘Oh Herbert, you dear, dear man!’ and kissed him on the cheek. The little band in the corner struck up a waltz, Herbert and Lavinia took to the floor, then after a few bars, other couples began to file onto the dancefloor around them. Seeing Gervase go by with a buxom lady of forty-five in his arms, Dottie ended up dancing with an older family friend, Montague Montague, known to herself and her sister as M’dear Monty for his habit of calling all women ‘M’dear’.

  Later that night, when the guests had gone, the Mandersons were alone in their drawing room with their son-in-law and both their daughters. Even Gervase had left fairly early, pleading the long train journey back to the Midlands in the morning and a full week of work ahead of him. Dottie, now with a negligee over her revealing dress, sat in the opposite corner of the sofa to her sister Flora and huffed a sigh of frustration that sent her hair bouncing into the air and settling again about her temples.

  ‘What’s up, poppet?’ George her brother-in-law asked.

  Mrs Manderson managed to restrain herself from criticising her son-in-law’s use of the popular idiom. If one of her daughters had said it, Dottie thought, they would have been scolded. But not George. Since George—once considered by his in-laws as frivolous and lacking in maturity—had proved himself to be a loving and supportive husband to his wife during her first pregnancy, then an equally loving father to his and Flora’s first child, and a loving brother to his late sister in committing himself to raising her baby daughter as his own, his mother-in-law’s regard for him had gone from strength to strength. Dottie was half-convinced her mother now preferred George to either of her daughters.

  But that was not the reason for the huge sigh. Unable to put it out of her mind, she said, ‘Why did you insist on inviting Inspector Hardy this evening, Mother? It makes everything so uncomfortable.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ her mother said. Dottie could have almost predicted that. Mrs Manderson continued, ‘He’s a very pleasant young man, and we needed as many young men as we could get, with so many single ladies requiring dance partners. He may not be prosperous, but he is a decent, hard-working young fellow, and very presentable. And he waltzes beautifully.’

  ‘Knew his father,’ said Mr Manderson from behind his newspaper, his romantic leanings carefully in check once more.

  ‘Yes, I know, but all the same...’ Dottie gave it up. She couldn’t win this argument. There was definitely a conspiracy at work here.

  ‘He’s certainly better looking than Gervase,’ her mother added. ‘And has far nicer manners.’

  Unable to think of anything to say to this, Dottie glared at her and went up to bed.

  She brushed her hair vigorously, enjoying the scraping of the bristles against her scalp, bringing her scalp to life. When she had finished, she pulled the loose hairs from the brush and dropped them into the waste basket beside the dressing table as always. Glancing up slightly as she did so, she surprised herself, catching a glimpse in the mirror seemingly of someone else, someone she knew yet who seemed slightly strange to her, like a friend she hadn’t met in a while.

  She leaned forward to look at herself. What could she see?

  A pale face, grown thinner of late with the anxious times she’d been through. She felt she could see the ghosts of tiny lines about her eyes and mouth—the tiny tell-tale lines of life, that usually kept away until a woman turned thirty at the least—that vast age! But Dottie knew with a little care and rest, her complexion would recover its youth. It was the expression in her eyes that told the story of age and experience. A perfect stranger could look into her eyes, Dottie thought, and immediately see that she had known death and sorrow: too much for a young woman still not quite of full age. Too much death. Too many funerals. Too much sorrow.

  She bit her lip. She was turning maudlin, she thought, and it simply wouldn’t do.

  She patted some cold cream carefully into her skin and caught up the hairbrush once more to try again to coax her curls to be neat and orderly.

  Chapter Three

  A week later they all met again.

  It was the first week of December and usually the weather in Britain could be counted on to remain quite mild until the turn of the year, but Saturday the 8th of December proved to be very cold. A chilling wind snatched at the guests as they hurried, hats clutched
on their heads, coats gripped tightly across their chests, into the church for the christening of Flora and George Gascoigne’s twins.

  Only a handful of people knew that the twins were no such thing. In fact, they were first cousins. The little boy, Freddie, now a little over five months old, was George and Flora’s own child, but the little girl Diana, almost four weeks older, was the secret illegitimate daughter of George’s sister, Diana, who had died in childbirth. It had been George and Flora’s decision to raise the little girl as their own, and to keep her shameful origins hidden from the world. George’s and Flora’s parents all knew, of course. Gervase knew, because Dottie had told him, and no doubt the servants of both the Gascoigne and the Manderson households knew as well. William Hardy knew, because George’s sister had been a witness in a murder case, the victim being her married lover. And obviously Dottie knew, not because she and Flora told each other everything, but because she had been with Diana as she gave birth to her daughter, only to die after placing one gentle kiss on the baby’s cheek.

  But society at large knew nothing, and so Flora and George stood at the front of the church proudly holding their two babies as the ceremony began.

  Dottie had not been looking forward to this event. Ordinarily she loved any celebration or occasion, but once again, that man was involved in her family’s intimate affairs. She couldn’t help wondering if it was to spite her that Flora and George had asked William Hardy to be godfather to Freddie and Diana Gascoigne, and Dottie to be godmother.

  She had to admit he looked very nice in his new grey suit. It wasn’t an expensive, hand-made suit like Gervase’s, and it didn’t fit him with Gervase’s suit’s perfection. It was a good colour for him, though, and he looked—she grudgingly admitted—he looked really rather gorgeous in it.

  Gervase was good-looking, there was no denying it. But the colour of his jacket was less flattering. That this particular shade of fawn was fashionable was beyond doubt. However, it wasn’t a colour that flattered Gervase at all. Rather he looked fawn all over—his hair, his skin, his clothes, his features had become indistinguishable and uninteresting, a kind of beige mass.

  Dottie glanced at Flora, who raised an eyebrow at her, signifying her amusement at Dottie’s discomfort. Yes, Dottie thought, they definitely did this on purpose.

  She stepped forward and in her clear contralto, made her promise before God, the vicar and those present as godparent to the fidgeting baby boy and the quiet baby girl who watched everything with such interest. Hardy did the same.

  The babies were so good, Diana looking about her, Freddie soon falling fast asleep amongst all the lace and frills thought necessary for the christening gowns of infants. It really was quite difficult to tell them apart, Dottie thought, not for the first time. That gave weight to the success of the ‘twins’ idea. It helped that although tiny Diana was a crucial twenty-six days older, Freddie was a big fellow, so they looked the same age.

  The peace was not to last though. As soon as the vicar took the first baby and bathed its head with the chilly water from the font, the deafening wails of protest told everyone who knew the family that it was Freddie being baptised.

  When they left the church, hurrying to their cars, the first few flakes of snow began to fall. It was a relief to reach Flora and George’s and be welcomed into the house by roaring fires and a glass of warm punch from Greeley, their butler, back in his own domain once more.

  Gervase was being very possessive of Dottie, keeping an arm about her waist or shoulders at almost every moment, and continually dropping hints about having christenings of their own. It was such a relief when they took their seats for lunch and she found herself sandwiched comfortably between Charles and Alistair, George’s good friends, with Gervase seated at Flora’s right hand further along the same side of the table. But her relief was short-lived when she found herself staring across the table into the eyes of William Hardy who took a seat opposite. Dottie made a mental note to have a serious discussion later with her sister.

  Charles and Alistair were something of a double act. They made it their business—having been coached by Flora and George the day before—to keep Dottie occupied, entertained and distracted from Gervase Parfitt for the rest of the afternoon. Her eyes were drawn several times to glance across the table. She wasn’t sure why she was so surprised to see Hardy chatting in that relaxed, very animated way with her mother. Surely that didn’t bode well? But with Charles and Alistair talking nonstop nonsense, she couldn’t hear what was being said on the other side of the table, although she caught the name Eleanor once: that was Wil—Inspector Hardy’s sister. If any last doubts lingered, they were now completely banished. There was a conspiracy afoot among her relations to include Hardy in everything they did as a family. Which could only mean one thing: they didn’t like Gervase, and wanted Inspector Hardy in their family.

  That night, Gervase took Dottie dancing. It should have been the perfect end to an enjoyable, happy day. But Dottie felt irritable and scratchy, whilst Gervase spent too much time criticising her family and their guests. Dottie tried to smile and say the right things, but she was immensely relieved when after a relatively short kiss he said goodnight and returned to his club.

  In his room at his club, Gervase was feeling pretty pleased with himself. He felt confident that he had shown Dottie how much happier she would be once they were married and moved into his home in Nottinghamshire. The sooner she was removed from her sister and parents’ controlling grasp the better. Among the guests there had been one young fellow he hadn’t taken to, the same one he’d talked to at the anniversary party. Oh, the man had talked about being a friend of the family, but Gervase realised now that it was more than that. He obviously had designs on Dottie. The way the chap looked at her! Gervase tried to remember what he’d said to the fellow at the anniversary party but could only remember the odd look in his eyes when Gervase mentioned Dottie. Clearly the man had an infatuation for her. Not that someone of his class could ever hope to win a girl like Dottie, but all the same, Gervase knew he’d be able to relax once he’d got her away from all these influences. And the sooner the better, he couldn’t afford to waste too much more time away from his business interests or his position as the Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire.

  As Dottie got ready for bed, so grateful to Janet, the Mandersons’ maid, for the fire in her room and the hot water bottle in her bed. She was also deep in thought. She felt depressed. Where should she turn? Usually she would talk to her sister. Or in extremis, to her mother. But with the current slight reserve between them now, everything was all too difficult.

  With the visit to her Aunt Cecilia and Uncle Lewis in Sussex looming as soon as Christmas was out of the way, she had a sense of being overwhelmed by everything that was happening. If she could only go back a year, to when her heart belonged—briefly, before being crushed—to Cyril Penterman, that would be perfect. It now seemed as if the childish broken heart she suffered then was nothing compared to the turmoil of her thoughts and emotions now. She should be happy. She had Gervase pressing her to marry him as soon as possible, and she had her fashion warehouse. Yet it felt as though her life was a complete mess, and that nothing was going the way it should. How had she let it all happen? What on earth was she to do about any of it?

  But she slept well, in spite of her unsettled mind. In the morning she rose, went to church as usual, had a quiet lunch with her parents, then the three of them went to Flora and George’s for afternoon tea and to spend some time with the much-loved little ones.

  It was a good thing that the butler, Greeley, showed William Hardy out the following evening, the Monday after the christenings. Left to himself, Hardy would have slammed the door with all his strength, he was so very angry. He had no words to give vent to his temper, but with a series of furious sighs and unworded sounds he reached his car, and slammed the door shut upon its inner world. He sat there in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel, and wrestled with what he�
��d just been told.

  It was beyond preposterous. It was highly improper. It completely contravened every moral and legal aspect of police work not to mention the integrity of the law. He shook his head yet again. He just couldn’t believe it, although given what he’d already found out about the man, he should not have been surprised.

  He leaned his forehead on the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths. Eventually he became calmer. He was still furious, yes, but the first heat of it was ebbing away, leaving him able to think in a rational manner about what he’d just been told.

  She—no, he—it was he who had committed these ridiculous and false acts. She was not to blame. Well, perhaps she was a little to blame—she had been far too naïve, far too trusting, and had clearly not once paused to think about what she was doing, or what she was being drawn into. The potential for harm if something had gone wrong! Anything might have happened. Leaving aside the sheer breathtaking irregularity of the event, there remained the possibility that she could have been harmed. But Hardy’s rage was all against the man: legally knowledgeable, older, more experienced, and Hardy had no doubt, fully aware of the actions he was taking, and the implication of them. This was yet further proof of the uncertain nature of the man’s moral integrity.

  He sat there a little longer, his thoughts circling round and round in his head. He was completely unaware that Greeley was watching him from the dining room window, a troubled look on his face, and that Flora herself was peeking from behind the curtain in the drawing room, biting her lip as she realised all too late that she had said too much, and had light-heartedly confided in entirely the wrong person.