The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  The sergeant’s look of dismay told Hardy everything he needed to know. It was just as he’d hoped. The arrival of an inspector from Scotland Yard would shake up the local men. Hardy was glad he’d taken ten precious minutes to quickly see his superiors and get this visit put on an official footing. At first they had quibbled, but he had been able to persuade them of it’s being in Scotland Yard’s interest to oversee this little provincial murder. It had been a great help when he explained that Miss Manderson, apart from being a friend of his, was also on the point of announcing her engagement to none other than the Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire, a man in whom the Yard had their own reasons for being interested.

  But very soon, Hardy was struggling to hold on to his temper. It immediately became all too clear there was no real reason for holding Miss Manderson other than to look as though they had achieved something. Inspector Woolley was being defensive and unhelpful.

  ‘This is my patch,’ he said, just as Hardy had expected. ‘And I know these people better than you do. I’d thank you to remember too, that I have at least twenty years’ experience on you, and this is not my first murder investigation.’

  ‘No indeed,’ chipped in the sergeant with a fair amount of malicious pleasure. ‘We’ve had easily four murders this last ten years alone.’

  Hardy confined his reaction to a raising of the eyebrows. ‘It’s my eighth. In as many months.’ He didn’t trust himself to say more. ‘I’d like to see your case notes, and the medical report.’

  ‘This isn’t London. This is not the sinkhole of depravity you appear to think. We’re a nice quiet part of Sussex. This is just some sordid little local matter that we’ve already dealt with. You’re just wasting everybody’s time.’

  ‘I must insist...’

  The inspector cut Hardy off. ‘And we, and our coroner, are perfectly capable of assessing whether or not someone has drowned, or hung themselves, or tripped over the cat and fallen down the stairs. We’re not backward here, you know, just because we’re not a big city full of wet-behind-the-ears young coppers from some fancy college out to make a name for themselves.’

  ‘I want your case notes right now,’ Hardy said. ‘Along with witness statements, the pathologist’s report and anything else you have.’

  The inspector nodded at Sergeant Palmer who went to fetch the file and handed it to Hardy. The sergeant looked at him. It was clear the young fellow from London was furious, but it seemed the angrier he got, the quieter he became. And he wasted no time on bluster or being defensive, unlike the sergeant’s own inspector who thought he’d be heard all the more for shouting louder. The sergeant felt a dawning respect for this new chap, even if he did seem rather young.

  ‘And,’ Hardy added, ‘I want to see the corpse. That is not a request. I expect you to cooperate fully with Scotland Yard, or my superiors will contact yours to find out why.’

  Settling himself in a chair, Hardy opened the case file and began to read.

  Sergeant Palmer felt secure in sitting back to enjoy the scene that he knew was about to unfold. After all, he’d only been following orders, and on at least two occasions had voiced his own admittedly tentative doubts about the likelihood of Miss Manderson being the guilty party, and the wisdom of keeping her locked up.

  It was only about four minutes later that Hardy said, ‘Why didn’t you at least interview Miss Manderson at the same time as the other suspects at the house?’

  ‘We interviewed her at the station,’ the inspector said with exaggerated patience.

  ‘Yes, but only after you’d arrested her for murder. Why didn’t you interview the other suspects?’

  ‘Because we already had our murderer. The rest of them wasn’t suspects. They were witnesses, and I don’t like your tone.’

  Hardy shrugged away the inspector’s concerns about his tone. He said, ‘Has she spoken to her parents? Or a local solicitor?’

  ‘When I’m good and ready, she can call someone. She can call whoever she likes. No doubt her family have got some tame chap in their pay, they’re that sort. I shall have her family informed in the morning, if I remember.’

  For tuppence, Hardy would have been on his feet, hauling Woolley over the table. Instead he took a steadying breath. Adjusted his tie. He counted to ten, then to twenty just to make sure. Then, certain he could trust his temper, he said, ‘Luckily for you, Mr Leo Cowdrey informed them at lunch-time. They will be arriving shortly. And kindly tell Miss Manderson that her solicitor is on his way and should be with her by eleven o’clock tonight at the latest.’

  There was an angry silence. Then Inspector Woolley said through gritted teeth, ‘Now just you look here. I’m not having any lawyer coming down here in the middle of the night talking to my suspects. And, I’m not having you coming down here, some glory-boy from Scotland Yard, telling me how to do my job. I’m running this investigation, and I say, we get her back up here, and question her over and over until we get her to confess, that’s what we need to do.’

  ‘No.’ Hardy got to his feet. ‘No. You’re going to conduct this investigation the correct way. My way. I am taking charge, with this authority from Scotland Yard. And you will kindly inform Miss Manderson that her solicitor is on his way. He will arrive late, no doubt, but that can’t be helped since you chose not to notify Miss Manderson’s family of her arrest and you denied her early access to legal advice. I’d like to point out that she is not of full age. Now I wish to speak with Miss Manderson. You will have her taken to the interview room, and you will have a pot of tea sent in for both of us. And I expect to see biscuits. I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast.’

  Without waiting for a response, he gathered up the case notes and left, shutting the door very firmly behind him.

  Dottie sat on the hard bench and made up her mind she would be here a while. She couldn’t give way now. To keep her nerves steady and her eyes dry, she fixed her attention on the cell itself.

  First, she measured with her eyes the length and breadth. About eight feet by six or seven, she decided. More or less the size of the small staff cloakroom off the scullery passage at home. Then she looked at the way the two benches were attached to the wall—presumably so no one could pick them up and throw them at anyone else, the immense, terrifying female warder for example, or another inmate.

  She glanced at, then quickly away from, the other two women in the cell. She wondered vaguely if one could catch fleas from being in prison. She had been so itchy since her arrival. She scraped at a spot just behind her knee. Then, itchy again, she risked a further covert look at them from behind her hand as she scratched her temple.

  The woman on the other bench was hunched up against the wall, concealed beneath a huge ragged shawl, apparently asleep. Her shoes—holed and heel-less—lay beneath the bench, one resting on top of the other. One bare grubby foot poked out from under a skirt or some other dark voluminous garment.

  On the opposite end of Dottie’s bench, the other woman leered at her, open-mouthed and gap-toothed. She was a red-faced greasy-looking creature in what appeared to be just her underclothes—and none too clean either—with a blanket wrapped around her. She was clearly amused at the idea of a well-to-do young lady in jail with a couple of ‘women of ill repute’. She looked strong and aggressive. Her bare arms, poking out from under the blanket in spite of the chill, were muscular and solid. Dottie felt a knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

  It seemed a lifetime later that the outer door opened, very slightly thinning the darkness with a little grey light from the corridor beyond. Before the warder—a woman of almost six feet in height, and not much less in girth—had even begun to unlock the gate, she was bellowing orders at them. Dottie’s two companions took little notice; it was Dottie she’d come for.

  ‘Manley, get up. You’ve got a gentleman caller.’

  The red-faced woman along Dottie’s bench laughed.

  The ‘sleeping’ woman called out, ‘And not for the first time, neither!’ the
n cackled at her own wit. So not asleep after all. The cackling gave way to a paroxysm of coughing and hacking that made Dottie feel ill.

  Dottie approached the bars with caution, then seeing they were all laughing at her timidity, she straightened her back and lifted her chin.

  ‘It’s Manderson, thank you very much. Not Manley.’

  But they only laughed harder. Dottie bit her lip. She would not cry. She wouldn’t give any of them the satisfaction.

  The warder pinioned her by the arm and chivvied her out into the draughty corridor, pausing to handcuff her. The corridor was almost as dark as the cell, and Dottie was slow to see where she was to go or understand what the warder wanted her to do. As a result, she got slapped twice by the warder, who clearly believed in the adage that actions spoke louder than words.

  A door on the right was thrown open, and Dottie was thrust, blinking, into a room brightly lit by an electric light hanging low over the table. A figure across the room rose, but with the light in her eyes it was half a minute before she found the chair and sat down. Then she looked across the table into the eyes of Inspector Hardy.

  It was so unexpected. It broke her composure entirely. The tears ran down her face, and with no handkerchief to check them, the prison uniform rapidly became spotted with damp patches.

  Hardy was aware of a rage greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life. He glared at the warder.

  ‘Get those handcuffs off her at once! Then get out. This is a private interview.’

  The warder threw the keys onto the table and giving him a filthy look, banged out of the room.

  He came around the table to unlock the cuffs. It concerned him to see bruises on Dottie’s wrists, and it made him feel ten times worse when she said very quietly, ‘Oh no, those aren’t from just now, those are from yesterday when they first brought me in.’

  He removed the handcuffs and threw them down on the table with a bang. He had to do that, or he would have taken each wrist in his hand, stroked each bruise then kissed it. He forced himself to get his temper and his emotions under control. The loud noise of the handcuffs falling onto the table helped, as did the swift action of it, though not by much. He took a deep breath, resumed his seat, and, not knowing what else to do, began to shuffle his papers.

  When he glanced up, her lovely hazel eyes, with the dark smudges beneath them, were resting on his face. She’d stopped crying but tears streaked her cheeks. He was dismayed by how pale and fragile she looked. He looked down at his papers again, then cleared his throat.

  ‘So, it seems you’re being charged with murder.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dottie Manderson. She couldn’t think of anything else to add.

  ‘William! Have you seen her?’ Mrs Manderson launched herself at him as soon as she spotted him entering the crowded bar of The Sheep Fold. He hid his surprise at her tight warm hug, putting it down to concern over her daughter.

  He shook hands with Mr Manderson. ‘How do you do, Mrs Manderson, Mr Manderson. Yes, Mrs Manderson, I’ve seen her. I’ve just come from the police station in Horshurst where they are holding her pending charges. She seems well, and in fair spirits, all things considered. Of course, I need hardly add, she says she is innocent.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ Mrs Manderson said with impatience. She was peeling off her gloves to look in her bag for something. She drew out a tiny diary and used the pencil that came with it to write a brief note, then she tore out the page and handed it to William. ‘That’s the telephone number for St Martins house. In case you need to reach us. We were hoping to catch you to find out what you know. We guessed you would probably be taking a room here, it’s so handy. Have you eaten, William dear?’

  William glanced at the paper and put it away in his wallet for safe-keeping. ‘Er—no, I haven’t eaten—sorry, what do you mean? You’re staying at the Cowdreys’ place?’

  ‘You sound surprised,’ Mrs Manderson said. They moved to a vacant table and clearing it of the worst of the bottles and tankards, Mr Manderson wiped the filthy surface with his handkerchief. He held out a chair for his wife, then he took the seat next to her. Mrs Manderson continued, ‘I’m sure it’s the least they can do, to put us up for a few days, after all the trouble they’ve caused. They can’t possibly object to me coming to offer my condolences. And where else should we stay but in the home of my deceased sister?’

  ‘Oh, er, absolutely.’ Hardy said.

  Mr Manderson said, ‘Do you know if the police have any other suspects?’

  Hardy shook his head. ‘As far as I can tell, they haven’t even considered the possibility of someone else carrying out the crime. I’m afraid her cousins are unanimous that Dottie is the one responsible.’

  ‘But...?’ Mrs Manderson shook her head, trying to make sense of this.

  ‘Why are they saying that?’ Mr Manderson demanded. ‘It can’t possibly be true. What are they trying to hide?’

  ‘One of them must have done it,’ his wife said. ‘As soon as we get there, I shall ask them what they think they’re up to.’ She seemed very determined. And she was—Hardy could attest—formidable when she took a view on any matter.

  ‘I’d ask you not to confront anyone, Mrs Manderson. You could very possibly be staying under the same roof as a murderer, and I urge you in the strongest terms to reconsider.’

  She sent him a look that told him her mind was made up. Consoling himself that the regular police presence at St Martins should afford them protection, coupled with the fact that she was not alone but had her husband with her, Hardy wisely decided to drop the subject. He said, ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may, Mrs Manderson.’

  If Lavinia Manderson was startled, like a true lady she gave no sigh, saying simply, ‘But of course, Inspector Hardy. I’m always happy to help.’

  The fact that she’d called him ‘Inspector Hardy’ and not the recent ‘William, dear’ showed that she sensed he had switched roles to his official capacity, and in a way that made things a little easier for both of them.

  He was parched, but he couldn’t risk a pint of beer, no matter how tempting, on an empty stomach. He wondered if the landlord would be able to offer him some food. But it would have to wait. He looked at her and said, ‘I’m afraid some of the questions are of a rather private nature. They may seem impertinent.’

  She smiled then, and was transformed into the image of an older Dottie. It seemed almost impossible to accept that they were not really mother and daughter. ‘I quite understand. I hope I will be able to help you.’ She glanced at her husband, who put an arm about her shoulders, moving forward to kiss her cheek. As he did so, his wife leaned into his shoulder, briefly closing her eyes at his caress.

  It struck William as a poignant private moment between two people who had loved each other for a long time. Just such a relationship as he had always hoped for. He didn’t feel he was intruding, but he dropped his gaze to his notebook as he felt a sudden lump in his throat. He was annoyed with himself for feeling emotional. As he fumbled for his pen he thought, we should all hope to be so lucky in our choice of a spouse.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I understand that you recently revealed to your daughter Dottie—I mean, Dorothy—that she is in fact the natural daughter of Cecilia Cowdrey, your late sister.’

  ‘It’s all right, William, I know that everyone else calls her Dottie. I have no objection to your doing so.’ She smiled again, then said, ‘Er—yes—that’s quite correct. Many years ago, my sister had told me she was expecting a child that wasn’t her husband’s, and had begged me for help.’ She paused, biting her lip just as both Flora and Dottie were wont to do. ‘It might have been the age-gap between us, but we hadn’t ever really been close, you understand, but I suppose she had nowhere else to turn.’ She hesitated.

  Hardy had never seen her uncertain before. Just as he would do with any other nervous witness, he gave her an encouraging smile. In a gentle tone he said, ‘And of course, because she was your only sister, you wanted
to help.’

  ‘Y-yes. We already had our little daughter Flora. She was almost three years old. Due to complications when she was born, I was told by my doctor I wouldn’t be able to have any more children. And certainly up to that point, that had appeared to be the case. But I so wanted...’ She broke off, tears threatening. Herbert passed her his handkerchief, and it was he who continued:

  ‘We discussed it and decided to offer to adopt the child. Lavinia wrote to her sister to suggest how it might all be managed. They planned to travel together for a few months, and, in the fullness of time, Lavinia came home with our new baby daughter, and Cecilia returned to her husband and the three children she had with him.’

  There was a prolonged pause. Hardy sensed the most difficult part—and the most private—was over and the rest might be easier. He made a few quick notes. Glancing up, he saw that Lavinia Manderson was composed once more.

  ‘But neither of your daughters knew that they weren’t actually sisters? Dottie didn’t know about her true parentage?’

  ‘No, William, dear. Oh, sorry, Inspector Hardy,’ Mrs Manderson said. ‘We had always felt it should remain a secret for Cecilia’s sake, although I must admit, in a way I didn’t want Dottie to ever know I wasn’t truly her mother. When you are older, William, and you become a father, you will realise just how deeply you can love a child and how you want them to love you every bit as deeply in return.’ More tears threatened, and her hand on her husband’s sleeve gripped so tightly that the knuckles were almost white. With an effort she continued. ‘So it was never discussed with either of the girls.’

  Hardy nodded and made more notes. Not that he needed them, but it was to give Mrs Manderson a short breathing space. ‘So when did you tell Dottie?’