The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

‘Herbert, what is it? What don’t you want to tell me?’

  He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. ‘Lavinia, dearest,’ he said again. ‘Gervase is not intending to call anyone to intervene in Dottie’s case. Nor is he planning to go to her aid. His words to me—those few I can repeat in front of a lady—were to the effect that a man of his position cannot be seen publicly to have any connection with a person accused of murder, and he advised us to do as much as we can for her in terms of legal counsel. He asked that we keep him informed.’

  Lavinia Manderson was shocked into silence. Something that rarely happened. Herbert watched his wife’s face as she registered this information, analysed it, and her emotions found their response.

  ‘The bastard!’ she said with vitriol. Herbert Manderson blinked in surprise. He had only known his wife to use such language on two previous occasions in the last twenty-six years. He wisely said nothing, although in his head, he thought admiringly, she always was a game gal.

  ‘Keep him informed?’ Disgust fell from her lips. ‘Keep him informed? And this is all the help the girl can expect from the man who wants to be her husband?’

  She fell silent again, and sank back against the sofa cushions, leaning into his arm. Herbert nodded and patted her shoulder, dropped a kiss on her forehead.

  ‘I know, my love, I know. I feel the same.’

  ‘Surely he doesn’t actually believe she could have done this terrible thing?’

  Herbert shrugged, and shook his head. ‘I have no idea. He didn’t say anything to specifically indicate either way.’

  ‘I hate him now,’ she said, sounding a little surprised. Again, her husband could only nod and agree. ‘He is truly the worst son-in-law we could have almost had,’ she added.

  ‘If I ever lay eyes on him again, I shall call him out,’ Herbert said.

  Through tears, Lavinia said, ‘That’s very sweet, but don’t be silly, dear.’ She took the handkerchief he offered her and wiped her eyes. ‘Oh dear. Oh Herbert, I can’t believe it.’ She sighed. ‘What on earth shall we tell Dottie?’

  She sat up, patted his arm one last time, and said, with the air of someone with a new plan of action, ‘You should ring Monty right away, tell him what’s happened. I’m sure he’ll help us, he’s a good sort, and has always had a soft spot for Dottie.’

  ‘Right. Whilst I’m doing that, could you and Janet pack, then get Cook to put together some food and a flask of tea or something for the journey. We’ll be away for at least a few days. Don’t know exactly how long, but we can telephone when we know more, of course. After I’ve spoken to Monty, I’m going to ring George and Flora and tell them the latest, then there’s someone else I want to try and get hold of.’

  Lavinia’s brow furrowed. ‘Who?’

  ‘William Hardy.’

  ‘You’d better call him first.’

  The Mandersons talked of little else all the way to Sussex. By the time they arrived at St Martins village, they had come to one conclusion and one only: They were determined to do everything in their power to make Dottie realise that her choice of Gervase Parfitt as her future partner in life was a bad one.

  ‘And it shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Mr Manderson, changing gear to cope with the road’s steep incline. ‘She may be romantic like all girls her age, but she’s no fool. She will take as dim a view of this abandonment as we do.’

  ‘How I wish I’d encouraged her more with William Hardy. Florence was right. He is so much more suitable. He may not have a fortune, but that’s irrelevant in this case.’

  ‘Definitely. With his ability and his commitment to his work, he will rise very quickly through the ranks. And he already has his own home.’

  ‘And he is so very good-looking,’ said Mrs Manderson with a wistful sigh. Her husband shot her a suspicious glance. She was gazing out of the window in a dreamy manner. ‘He has such nice hair and eyes. And he has a sense of mischief about him. That Parfitt fellow is too pompous and... oh I don’t know... Herbert, he’s just so middle-aged. Too old for Dottie.’

  Mr Manderson was in complete agreement. It made him smile to hear the once much-adored Gervase Parfitt, Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire, referred to dismissively as ‘that Parfitt fellow’.

  The Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire sat at his desk. He had turned his seat so that he could look out across the fields and hedgerows. If only the department was located in the centre of the little town of Ripley, that would have been far more to his taste: to be able to look out at his domain and feel a proud sense of ownership, to gaze benignly upon the bustling streets and the market. But here they were in this out-of-the-way spot, from the point of view of the citizens of the town, very much out of sight and out of mind. Admittedly, he thought, it was easier to get through the traffic to reach his office in the mornings.

  He sipped the tea, freshly brewed and brought to him by the comforting motherly figure of Mrs Holcombe, his secretary. Generally Gervase Parfitt didn’t approve of lady secretaries. However it was becoming quite the thing now for respectable widows who needed to support themselves to undertake these administrative positions formerly filled by men. He was aware that the Chief Constable was keen to be seen as a champion of progress and modernity.

  That Holcombe was efficient was beyond doubt, although Parfitt regretted that she was not both younger and prettier. But doubtless it was a good thing to keep his mind on his work when he was at the office. And on seeing her, he thought, no one could possibly suspect anything untoward. She had the attitude of a mother hen, and was very good at keeping unexpected or undesirable visitors away.

  Heaven knows, I need some peace and quiet so I can think, he reminded himself. He was feeling very distracted at the moment. Furthermore, he was really very annoyed. This latest scrape of Dottie’s was the limit. He could scarcely believe she’d do something so ridiculous as to get herself mixed up in a murder case—of her natural mother too, of all things. The scandal if it were ever to get out! He’d never live that down. He’d be ruined. She really had absolutely no regard whatsoever for his position, or how difficult she had made things for him.

  He’d pandered to her during the summer. It had suited him to take her up: she was very pretty, and had—usually—a sweet, pleasing manner. She was delectably youthful. She had good breeding, and for the most part knew how to behave—or so he’d thought until this latest escapade—and even though he was almost certain that she knew about him and Margaret, and knew that the child, Simon, was his, she’d never challenged him on it outright. No, she would turn a blind eye when required. Though not necessarily without a certain amount of fuss, at least in the beginning. She was a little too moralistic, that was her trouble. One of many faults, he admitted now.

  To himself he could acknowledge that women were his weakness. As a rule, he managed to keep things discreet—apart from Margaret, that stupid girl—but he knew Dottie would not be pleased if she ever found out about the others. It annoyed him that she was likely to be rather puritanical about it if she had so much as half a clue about what he got up to. But after all, what did she expect when, even though he would be giving out their engagement in a matter of months—as soon as she was twenty-one at the end of March—she still denied him and kept him at arms’ length. Very well then, she would have to learn to accept him as he was. She had only herself to blame if a man was forced to seek solace elsewhere.

  Though that wasn’t working out too well for him either at the moment. He sent a brief frown in the direction of the letter on his desk. Another annoyance he would have to deal with. When would anything go smoothly for him? All these little but aggravating bumps in the road to his ultimate destiny: Chief Constable and a knighthood. This was just another little bother for him to sort out quickly, before things became unpleasant. Another thing to keep from Dottie until after they were safely married.

  He had known Dottie was one of these bluestocking types, of course, but it was only after a courtship of some mont
hs he began to realise that today’s bluestockings certainly didn’t seem to have the same clinging, affectionate natures of women ten or twenty years ago.

  A case in point: not content with being the fiancée of an important man, she was forcing him to indulge her ludicrous aspirations in business: this idiotic pretence at being a dress saleswoman. Surely she knew she was too young and naïve for any kind of proper business? Besides, the thought of girls running businesses... well it was ludicrous. And how on earth did she think she could keep it up from her new home with him once they were married? Besides which she’d be busy with entertaining his guests, and of course, bringing up children. He’d been patient long enough. It was time to put his foot down. After all, they were about to become engaged.

  Gervase Parfitt sighed. All that was only going to happen if Dottie survived her current predicament unscathed. If there was even the merest whiff of guilt, of wrongdoing of any kind, he would of course be forced to think of his own career and the impact such a connection could have upon it. After all, he’d never be Chief Constable, or achieve a lordship or a seat in parliament with a wife who had been suspected of murder. How very like Dottie to get into this sort of hole. Did she really have the maturity to be the wife of a man of his importance? Yes, she was pretty enough to charm his guests, but could he really see her at the opposite end of the table from him, at some crucial dinner party, saying the right thing to eminent politicians or nobility? Or would she feel compelled to point out certain social injustices or spout the propaganda of some women’s political group? The thing with Dottie was, she never knew when to just sit back and let the men settle things. He sighed. But she was so... alluring. Not that it was a blind bit of good if she kept saying ‘No, Gervase,’ in that virtuous manner. He was not accustomed to listening to the word ‘No’.

  He sipped his tea again. His eyes caught sight of a small boy playing with a dog and a stick. He smiled at the scene of happy innocence. He had had a dog at that age. Rollo. What a time they’d had, walking, swimming in the river, chasing rabbits and squirrels. If someone had told him back then that one day, he would be the Assistant Chief Constable—and that was only the start of the illustrious career he envisioned for himself—he’d have laughed in their faces. And the things he’d had to do to get where he was...

  He took another sip of his now-cold tea, grimaced and set it aside. Well, some damned illegitimate young wench wasn’t going to ruin his chances, his mind was made up on that score.

  It was almost a relief to be taken upstairs to be interviewed again. She asked the warder to let her go to the outhouse but was told she had to wait. She’d had nothing to drink since the early morning cup of tea the maid brought to her in her room at St Martins. Nor had she had breakfast or lunch, and it was now, she guessed about three o’clock in the afternoon, if not a little later. There was still some daylight that she glimpsed through the skylight as they made their way along the corridor.

  Halfway up the stairs, she stumbled, suddenly light-headed, but the warder’s grip merely tightened on her arm and forced her onward. The pain helped her to pull her woolly thoughts together.

  The police sergeant she had seen before was waiting for them. He opened the door of the miserable little room where they had questioned her earlier. On the other side of the table, the inspector didn’t look up from his notes. She reminded herself that William Hardy had once told her this was just a ploy to unnerve suspects and make them talk. If so, it was working excellently. But what could she tell them she hadn’t already said?

  ‘Take a seat, Miss Manderson,’ the sergeant said kindly. As if she had a choice. The warder shoved her onto the chair and cuffed her to its arm. That done, the warder took up her position just inside the door, as if on sentry-duty. Which, Dottie thought, perhaps she was. Dottie tried not to giggle as a line from a children’s poem came to her: They’re changing guards at Buckingham Palace, Christopher Robin went down with Alice. Oh dear, she thought, I feel as though I’m tipsy. Her head swam and the room seemed to be tipping to one side. A soldier’s life is terrible hard, says Alice.

  ‘Why did you do it, Dorothy?’ the inspector bellowed at her, slamming his fists on the tabletop.

  Dottie practically leapt out of her skin. If she hadn’t been cuffed to the chair, she certainly would have fallen on the floor. She jolted and bit her lip. The salt-and-rust taste of blood filled her mouth; she could feel it coating her teeth and seeping between her lips, running down her chin.

  ‘My name is Miss Manderson,’ she told him, lifting her bloody chin and straightening her spine as best she could when cuffed to the low right hand chair arm. The note of defiance only caused the inspector to laugh, however. Then he suddenly slammed his palm down on the desk again, and this time even the sergeant jumped. The inspector’s carefully ordered papers floated to the floor. The sergeant got onto his knees to gather them together and handed them up, a page at a time, the sheets sticking this way and that and doubled over. The inspector snatched them and hurriedly set them straight once more before him.

  ‘Your name is whatever I say it is, young lady,’ the inspector snapped at her.

  It was such an idiotic thing to say, Dottie stopped being afraid and smiled at this. ‘You can’t simply rename me, inspector.’

  ‘I can do...’ He paused to get his temper under control, finishing in a calmer tone. ‘I can do whatever I wish, and I will keep you here until I get some straight answers. So, I ask you again, why did you kill your mother, Mrs Cecilia Cowdrey?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Dottie said. She noticed that one of his pages was still upside down, and she had a brief moment to read some of what it contained.

  She looked up, surprised. ‘I noticed the plants too. I thought they seemed to be wound together in a kind of wreath.’

  The sergeant looked puzzled, and for a moment so did the inspector. ‘What on earth...?’ Dottie saw understanding come into his eyes. ‘How dare you read my confidential reports, Miss Manderson, these are official documents.’

  She didn’t waste time trying to apologise. He carried on: ‘And seeing that it was you who actually made the wreath with your own murderous hands, I’ve no doubt it appeared wreath-like to you. Why did you do it, that’s all I’m interested in.’

  ‘I...’

  He leaned forward, folding his hands on top of his confidential papers. ‘I’m an important man, young lady. I can help you if you help me. Or I can hinder you, which will cost you your neck. Now, which is it to be?’ He smiled now, and she knew it had pleased him to watch her blanch. It was hardly a surprise that she was shocked. His reference to death by hanging had frightened her. It brought home the truth of her situation: this was no laughable mix-up that could all be sorted out with a chat over a cup of tea, or fixed with a phone call to the right person. If she wasn’t able to convince this man in front of her that she was innocent, then what chance would she stand with a judge and jury? Especially in this area, far from home, where the Cowdrey name was respected, and had been so for decades.

  She felt faint. She leaned forward as far as the cuffs permitted. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, ‘Please, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t kill my aunt.’

  ‘Your mother, you mean.’

  ‘Well, yes, she was really my mother, but I only found that out recently. Until then, I’d always thought she was my aunt.’

  ‘How did it make you feel to know she and her husband had cut you out of their wills? That both she and Lewis Cowdrey left all their money to your half-brothers?’

  Dottie tried to shrug. The cuffs clanked and jolted her wrists. ‘It doesn’t concern me over much. I’ve never even thought about it before. I have a small income from a grandmother, and a business, and I shall come into some money when I am twenty-five or marry. I live with my parents, my adoptive parents,’ she carefully amended, ‘and they are very generous and support me financially.’ And in every other respect, she mentally added. ‘So I don’t need money.’

  He
gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Do I look like I came down in the last shower? Do you expect me to believe that a girl of your age has her own business? Or that money doesn’t matter to you? Why, certainly,’ he leaned back, sending a glance in the direction of the sergeant first, and then the warder. He exchanged a witty smile with them. ‘Certainly, if you say you have plenty of money, then obviously you’d have no need of a share of your mother’s assets and estate which total almost ten thousand pounds. My goodness, why didn’t you just say so, I could have let you go at lunchtime. If only I’d realised you have no need of money.’

  The warder laughed outright at this, and the sergeant, though looking less sure of himself, smiled and said, ‘Yes sir, if only we’d known.’

  ‘No really, I didn’t mean...’

  ‘Pulling my leg are you? Think us mere coppers don’t know anything?’ He got to his feet, anger and disgust in his small features and his sneering mouth. He went to the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘Lock her up again. Perhaps a night in our finest accommodation will help her to remember her manners. I’ve no doubt that by this time tomorrow she’ll feel like telling us the truth for a change.’ He left.

  Dottie knew she had tears in her eyes, tears of frustration as well as from the pain from the warder hauling her to her feet so roughly and pulling her to the door. The sergeant looked sorry for her, but the warder felt no pity as she ignored Dottie’s pleas for a drink of water and the use of the outhouse.

  The key grated in the lock, and with a last jeering look, the warder thrust her into the gloomy cell and slammed the door behind her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  William Hardy arrived an hour before the Mandersons, driving down in one of Scotland Yard’s brand-new fast cars and making no stops. He even broke the speed limit on three occasions in his grim determination to reach Sussex as soon as humanly possible.

  He went straight to the village pub to find out about a room. He was in luck, and took the only room they had free, dumped his hastily packed weekend case then drove immediately to the police station five miles away in Horshurst. On arrival he showed his identity papers and demanded to see the senior officer. A few minutes later, Sergeant Palmer, looking wary, came to meet him and conduct him to the inspector’s office.