by Caron Allan
The wind seemed to be growing stronger. It whipped up tiny waves in the middle of the lake where the ice did not reach. The wind whipped at Dottie’s skirt too; she had to hold it about her legs. It sniped at her face, nipping her ears and cheeks, causing tears to start in her smarting eyes. But she wasn’t ready to return to the house. What a shame she couldn’t stay out here until lunchtime, she thought, but it was far too cold. She got to her feet. Going down the slope to the bank of the lake, she began to walk slowly along, still thinking about parents and children.
Beyond the willow, there were a few more trees, some with their branches bending towards the water. There were several fallen branches, ice-frosted and lining the water with their old limbs. Old reeds stood up like the frozen masts of shipwrecks, and here and there some autumn leaves cling about their bases, turning black after weeks in the water.
Further ahead, there was something that wasn’t a branch or a reed moving gently in the ice that was weakening under the coaxing sunlight. There was an odd heaviness in the way the whatever-it-was moved so slowly, low down in the water. Dottie hurried towards it. She almost laughed. Her imagination! Given free rein, for the moment she had thought she saw something terribly melodramatic, a corpse or something, struggling to raise itself above the water, to make itself known to her.
‘Ridiculous,’ she told herself out loud. But she couldn’t pull her attention away, and for a moment she felt no surprise, no shock, as a hand, yes, most definitely a human hand, was raised briefly above the rippling icy water then fell back again out of sight.
Another gust of wind, and Dottie ran now. There, not ten feet away from her, a face stared at her.
The hand bobbed on the water again, and now she saw some of the plants from the lake had got caught between the fingers, drowned flowers and assorted leaves, and the face, half-covered by the wet dark hair slickly plastered about it, turned and turned again, buffeted by the rising wind across the water, and the eyes, sightless though wide open, looked at her.
It was her Aunt Cecilia.
Hysteria rose in her throat and was gulped back. She sprang towards the water, pausing only to kick off her shoes before wading in. The water was deathly cold, but she hadn’t far to go. She had to reach the body, yet even as she grabbed at it, missed then grabbed again, she was gasping from the cold, sobbing over and over again, ‘It’s too late, oh it’s too late.’
The water deepened too quickly, and only three yards from the bank she was up to her chest. She managed to catch at the body and found she held an arm, stiff and heavy. She turned back to the land, slowly hauling the body with her, its submerged weight pulling her back.
She lost her footing on the muddy bank and slid on her knees back into the water. Her hands were too numb to hold onto the arm. The body slipped from her and began to drift. She couldn’t get a purchase on the bank. She snatched at dry stalks of reeds and finally, finally she managed to inch her way up onto the grass, somehow dragging the corpse behind her. She fell on her face on the unyielding ground, gasping with exhaustion and retching from the water she’d swallowed, and the sight of the dead, staring eyes.
The head—the face—seemed perfectly normal, unmarked, undamaged, the eyes starting with mild enquiry, the brows raised in that characteristic way, the lips were as near white as Dottie had ever seen. But the back of the head was broken in like an eggshell, the bone poking white through the tangled mass of dark hair and flowers. There was no blood. That made it terrible. So clean, so bare.
Dottie threw herself onto her feet but only made it to the treeline. She vomited on the weeds and grasses and old, brown ferns that grew there. Above the sound of her disgracing herself she heard shouts. She used her sleeve to wipe her mouth, and shrank back onto the grass, shivering and weak. The wind dropped again, the sun reappeared from behind a cloud, but its fragile warmth did nothing to relieve the chill that shook Dottie now.
Hands seized her roughly and dragged her to her feet. And a man—was it Guy or Leo?—said, ‘My God! What have you done?’ Then Imogen began to scream and scream and scream.
A slap like a shot cut the air, and Imogen fell into hiccupping silence, her scream cut off short and still seeming to hang in the air. Dottie couldn’t stop hearing it. Imogen’s fingertips went to the white mark of Leo’s hand across her mouth and cheek, her eyes staring with shock. Then she began to weep softly, saying over and over again, ‘Mummy, oh Mummy.’ Oblivious to the mud and water that immediately began to soak into her dress, she sank to the ground.
Guy grabbed Dottie’s arms more tightly and turned her towards the house, beginning to force her forward as if he was frog-marching a prisoner. This was further enhanced by Leo calling, ‘Lock her in the downstairs cloakroom, then telephone to the police right away.’
Dottie tried to hang back, protesting. Leo crouched beside his sister, murmuring to her words Dottie couldn’t make out. His hand was on Imogen’s shoulder. Dottie, unable to ignore meaningless details, noticed that the hem of his jacket dipped in and out of the mud with all his movements. Beside him lay the tangle of flowers that had been in Cecilia’s hands, and now Dottie saw they were tied together in the shape of a wreath, the uppermost plants matted with dirt, the underlying ones wilted from the icy water. Something about this snagged at Dottie’s mind, but as she spoke Leo’s name, he reared up on his feet, turning to her so rapidly, his fists bunched in a threatening manner. She leapt back, certain he was about to hit her, but he only spoke to his brother:
‘Get that filthy bitch away from our sister. Lock her up. Throw away the key for all I care.’
And he turned back to Imogen, putting his arms around her in the first ever display of tenderness Dottie had witnessed between the members of this family. Guy dragged her away.
‘This is ludicrous, Guy, I couldn’t possibly do such an awful thing. Let me go at once!’ she said as soon as they were a little distance from the others. She fought to try to get his hand off her. He simply tightened his grip.
‘I’m sorry, old girl, but Leo’s right. We’ve got to keep you under lock and key until the police get here. If it was up to me...’
‘It is up to you, Guy! Do you honestly think I killed your mother?’
She saw now that he was white as a sheet. She tried again to shake off his hold on her. But even in his state of shock, he refused to let her go. Gently she said, ‘Guy, I’m so sorry. But you do know I would never...’
He hesitated. She felt he almost believed her. He glanced over his shoulder down the slope to where Leo and Imogen were talking, sitting side by side on the grassy slope some twenty feet from their mother’s body. Imogen was wiping her skirt with something white, presumably Leo’s handkerchief. June had her hand on Leo’s shoulder but she was looking this way.
‘If it were up to me,’ Guy repeated, ‘I’d let you go and good luck to you. Perhaps you’d get away. Possibly you’d even get abroad somewhere and never be caught. Frankly, I don’t much care. Whatever they do to you, it won’t bring my mother back.’
His words stopped the shivering of her body from the cold and shock. She felt stone dead inside. For a few seconds she’d almost thought he was on her side... Yanking her arm again, he pulled her around the side of the house and in at the door that opened onto the kitchen corridor. On reaching the cloakroom, he pushed her inside, then turned the key in the lock. She heard his steps going away, then his voice, presumably issuing orders to the staff, or telling them what had happened. She heard a cry of shock from one of the women. Dottie tried the door. Yes, he had locked it. The keyhole was empty, he had taken the key away with him.
She was shivering again. Her wet clothes stuck to her, reeking of silt and rotting vegetation. It was dim in the cloakroom; the stone floor and rough, white-washed plaster walls were bare and added to the damp air. She felt like weeping, but instead she washed her face and hands, rinsed her mouth at the sink, then tidied her hair as best she could with cold water and no mirror. She took up a position leaning again
st the sink, her arms folded across her chest for the small amount of warmth it gave her, and she waited.
It was the best part of an hour before the door was unlocked and a strange male voice said, ‘Miss Dorothy Manderson, I am arresting you for the wilful murder of Mrs Cecilia Cowdrey.’
It was almost one o’clock before Leo Cowdrey, with a sigh, said to his wife, brother and father, ‘I suppose I’d better telephone to Aunt Lavinia. She will need to know what’s happened.’
‘I’ll go up and see if Imogen needs anything,’ June said and left the room.
The three men looked at one another. There was a long silence. Finally, Lewis Cowdrey got to his feet. ‘I’m going to my study.’
As the door closed behind him, Guy gave a short bitter laugh. ‘Leaving us to fend for ourselves as always.’
Leo frowned. ‘Tell me why you did it.’
‘What? Did what?’ Guy stared at him.
‘You had to have done it. It couldn’t have been Imogen, and...’
‘It might. It might have been Imogen. Or Clarke. Either of them could have done it. They had a colossal falling out with Mother recently; she disapproved so much of them seeing one another.’
Leo shook his head. ‘From what I can gather, pretty much everyone fell out with Mother yesterday. Yourself and Father included. Only June and I...’
June returned to the room. ‘She’s asleep, and there’s a maid sitting with her, so that’s all right, the poor girl.’ She looked from Leo to Guy then back to Leo. ‘Are you two having a row?’
Guy nodded. He went to pour himself another drink. June frowned at him and said, ‘Guy, dear, are you sure you should? The police could come back at any moment to ask us some more questions. You don’t want them to think you’ve got a guilty conscience to numb with drink.’
‘I’ve just lost my mother,’ he snapped. ‘What could be more natural than to want to get slammed and forget all about it?’ He swigged his drink in one go and poured another, bringing the bottle back with him.
Leo left the room.
Guy went to sit beside June. He put an arm about her. ‘Leo’s just asked me why I did it,’ he told her. ‘I can’t believe he thinks I would do such a thing. My own brother, accusing me of murder!’
She patted his knee. ‘Don’t worry about it, he’s just upset. He doesn’t really believe it. He’s just trying to make sense of this whole terrible...’
‘That’s just it. He doesn’t seem upset. He’s just as cold and controlled as always. I think he really believes...’
‘Nonsense, dear.’ She turned and kissed him.
Guy leaned his head on her shoulder for a moment. Softly he said, ‘How much longer is this going to go on, June? When are we going to tell Leo the truth? I can’t keep this up...’
She patted his knee again. ‘Shh. It’ll be soon, I promise. Not long to wait now.’ She pushed him aside as he turned to kiss her again. ‘No more, he’ll be coming back shortly.’ She moved to a seat further away.
Just two minutes later, Leo returned to the room and sat down heavily, his face gloomy. He grabbed Guy’s drink and swallowed it.
‘Well that’s done.’
‘How did they take it?’
‘How do you think they took it, Guy? I’d just phoned them to say our mother was dead and their daughter had been arrested for murder.’
‘I don’t see that it’s our fault. I mean, we just told the police what we’d seen,’ June pointed out.
Leo said, ‘I don’t think the Mandersons will see it that way. They’ll be here as soon as they can. Aunt Lavinia says she expects us to show them every hospitality.’
Guy and June exchanged looks. ‘They’re staying here? But...’
‘My dear, they’d hardly stay at The Sheep Fold, would they? Do be sensible. I had no choice but to agree. I’ll tell Drysdale to expect them for dinner. No idea how long it will take them to motor down from Town. At least an hour I should think.’
‘I’d say easily two and a half, especially if they have to make a stop. And don’t forget it’ll be dark for a good bit of the way,’ Guy said.
‘True. They’ll be here for dinner then. I don’t particularly want to see them, but it should be all right if it’s just for dinner. They won’t be thrilled to hear it was us who told the police we suspected Dottie. We’ll leave as soon as we’ve finished eating, June. We can say we’re distressed and it’s been a long day.’
‘All perfectly true,’ June agreed, ‘and understandable.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Guy said. ‘I think you’re right, Leo. This Clarke chappie of Imogen’s. He’s clearly the most likely suspect. Perhaps we should put the police onto him? After all, he was here late last night, so he could easily...? I’m not sure it could really have been Dottie, you know, I mean she’s just a girl. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have tried so hard to help Mother if she’d been the one who...’
‘That was just a blind,’ Leo said. ‘She may be just a girl, but she’s got brains. And a temper.’
‘I haven’t seen any...’
‘It’s there if you look for it. Her fake smile, her manner, the way she looks every time Mother tells her...’ Leo caught himself up. ‘The way she looked every time Mother told her what she expected. She’s a little rebel. Doesn’t like being told how to behave, like all these modern young girls. Wants everything her own way. Stubborn. And she must be pretty hard, she’s in business for herself, so she probably thought that with Mother out of the way she’d come into some money. Like I say, she’s exactly the sort of person that just cracks and lashes out.’
‘Sadly, yes,’ June said, shaking her head. ‘She does seem the most likely suspect. Or she could have been working with Imogen’s fellow. They could have been in it together, they’d both benefit. Although I’m not sure about Norris Clarke, he always seems such a genial character.’
‘Until it comes to business,’ Guy said. ‘He can be quite determined from what I hear. He doesn’t give way, you know. Knows how to stick to his guns and drive a bargain. Knows what he wants and gets it.’
June looked worried. ‘I never knew that. He always seems so good-humoured. Perhaps your mother was right, and he’s not suitable for Imogen after all.’
‘You say he was here last night?’ Leo asked.
Guy nodded. ‘He’s here every night. He waits in the rose garden for Imogen to slip outside after dinner. Or, well, just lately with Dottie here, I think it’s been near enough bedtime before Imogen gets away. It’s supposed to be a secret, but I think almost everyone knows. Last night. I’d had a few drinks, and I was teasing Imogen. And... I’m afraid I let it slip to Mother...’
‘What?’ Leo said. He sank back against the cushions. ‘Can’t you see, this makes him a suspect? What if Mother went out there last night to confront the pair of them? If the police hear about this, they will soon let Dottie go. I only hope they don’t come for Imogen.’
‘We’ll need to let them know about Clarke. I’m pretty sure they’ll go for it. It doesn’t much matter which of them the police suspect so long as it isn’t one of us,’ Guy pointed out. The others nodded.
‘Absolutely,’ Leo said.
Chapter Fourteen
Mr Manderson looked at the telephone receiver, hanging useless in his hand, the buzzing of the empty line filling the tiny space. He could hardly believe what he’d just heard. He replaced the receiver crookedly, his mind not on what he was doing, then returned to the morning room where his wife—uncharacteristically flustered and impatient—waited to hear his report.
As soon as he came into the room, she crossed the floor to meet him, taking his arm.
‘What did Gervase say? I imagine he was every bit as shocked as we were.’ Only now did she notice that he was deep in thought, moving like an automaton. ‘Herbert?’
‘What? Oh yes. Yes, he was very shocked.’
‘I hope he didn’t swear too much, it shows a deplorable lack of self-restraint.’
Herbert smile
d at this. He was attending, but there was still something in his expression that told her he was preoccupied. ‘In that case, dearest, all you need to know is that he was extremely unrestrained.’
‘Humpf.’
That sound alone said it all. He’d known it for the best part of twenty-six years. It meant she strongly disapproved but knew there was nothing she could do about whatever had happened.
Lavinia Manderson changed tack. ‘Is he phoning Sussex immediately, or is he driving straight down there?’
Her husband said nothing. He took a seat on the sofa. She plonked down next to him in a manner she herself usually described as boisterous and unladylike, for example when her daughters did it.
‘Herbert? Is Gervase sending someone, or is he going down himself? No doubt he knows someone who can get Dorothy released at once.’
‘He may well know several people who could do that,’ Herbert said, giving himself a little shake in an attempt to formulate his thoughts and bring himself back to the present moment. ‘But he won’t be calling any of them.’
She put a hand on his arm. ‘He’s going himself! Oh Herbert, thank goodness! We’ll see him there, then, and the three of us will be able to get to the bottom of this nonsense. We shall be such a comfort to poor Dottie. She must be terrified, the poor child.’
She sat back. After a moment something in her husband’s odd manner seemed to get through her bubble of relief. She leaned towards him, peering into his troubled face. She put a hand on his chest.
‘Herbert? Darling, what is it? What’s worrying you? I’m sure everything will be all right now.’
‘Lavinia,’ he said, and his voice held a warning note. He took her hand, held it briefly to his lips, kissing the fingertips as he had been wont to do in their courting days. The gesture pulled at her heart. It didn’t reassure or comfort her. She felt cold and afraid.
