by Caron Allan
‘It was when she returned from being away in the summer. She was so upset about the damage it had done to people’s lives, keeping secrets of that kind. I—I just felt I had to tell her. But I was so afraid of losing her.’
‘I imagine she was very upset,’ William said. It was an understatement of colossal dimensions. But he was red in the face, embarrassed, and all too acutely aware of his own role in the damage those secrets had caused. Mrs Manderson was looking down at her hands, playing with the plain gold band of her wedding ring, turning it and turning it. She nodded. As she did so, a tear ran down her cheek and dripped onto her dress. She made use of her husband’s handkerchief once more.
‘She was devastated, as you can imagine,’ Herbert Manderson said. ‘And of course, we’d to tell Flora, but she’d just that evening given birth to Freddie—er—and Diana of course.’ He blushed at that point.
William smiled slightly, one of the few people who knew the truth about that blessed event. ‘Naturally,’ he said.
‘It was a few weeks before we were all able to calm down and realise that it made very little real difference,’ Herbert Manderson continued, ‘Or, I should say, that it ought to make very little difference. Because of course, it’s one thing to know something with your head, but it’s a very different fish altogether to convince yourself deep inside that things are still the same. I’m afraid it was something of a difficult time for all of us.’
‘How I wish now I had kept the truth to myself. If I had known the impact... Then none of this would have happened. But it seemed so important that she shouldn’t be lied to anymore.’
‘Mrs Manderson, I don’t think you should blame yourself. You did what you thought was best at the time. Personally, I’m convinced that Dottie didn’t kill your sister because of it.’
She shot him a vexed look, and very much like her old self, said waspishly, ‘For goodness’ sake, William! Of course she didn’t kill my sister. That is a ludicrous suggestion. What I meant was, someone else has used this private family situation to further their own interests. I want to know who benefits from my sister’s death.’
Taking the reproof in good part, he said, ‘So do I, Mrs Manderson. And I shall do my very best to find that out.’
He snapped the elastic back around his notebook, placed the book and pen back in his jacket pocket. Then he asked, ‘By the way, did your sister ever confide in you the identity of Dottie’s father?’
If she was startled by this question, once again, Lavinia Manderson didn’t reveal it. But she turned away from him, busying herself with her gloves and bag. ‘No, Inspector, I’m afraid she refused to discuss it with me. But I believe Dottie hoped to find that out.’
He nodded, got to his feet and shook Mr Manderson’s hand. ‘Well thank you both for your time. I’ll keep you informed as things progress. In the meantime, I know you’ll be relieved to hear that you can visit Dottie any time between nine o’clock and eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, although Inspector Woolley has agreed to allow Sir Montague to consult with Dottie tonight as her legal representative.’
Lavinia Manderson once again hugged him warmly, tears in her eyes as she thanked him for this bit of good news. Herbert shook William’s hand, and clapped him on the shoulder, calling him a ‘good man’ and saying ‘jolly good show’ a couple of times.
Chapter Sixteen
He was supposed to be working. The reports and witness statements lay scattered across the bed. On the little side-table was a tray with a pot of tea, chicken sandwiches and a generous slab of cherry cake, kindly provided by the pub’s landlady half an hour ago yet still untouched.
The flower-sprigged china reminded him suddenly of his grandmother. He remembered afternoon tea with her when he had a day out from his prep school. He must have been eight or nine years old. She had spoiled him rotten, her only grandson at that point. A fleeting memory of her smile, her scent, roses and face powder. Her soft hugs and the sad look as she waved him off again. He remembered sobbing and begging to be allowed to stay. The sense of nostalgia that washed over him was almost too painful to permit the memories. He shook his head. If he ever had a child, boy or girl, they wouldn’t go to boarding school. Having experienced the sense of loss, of separation for himself, he could never do such a thing to his own child.
He really should be working.
Nevertheless, he stayed where he was. He’d let the top window right down to sit behind the lower sash, and he leaned on the frame, looking out into the darkness, his chin propped on his arm. The weather was mild again after the sudden cold snap over New Year, the fresh winter air refreshing after the close confines of the police station in Horshurst. He stayed as he was for another half an hour, going back over his conversation with Dottie at Horshurst police station.
It was clear she was frightened. Given the situation she was in, that was understandable. The colour was gone from her cheeks, and the dark hollows under her eyes showed she’d had little sleep. She’d been upset on first seeing him. That too was understandable; she had been shocked by his arrival, and no doubt all the things that had happened between them during the previous year. He’d been upset too; he had needed to fight to control himself.
Yet once she’d composed herself, she was lucid and convincing. Not that he’d needed convincing: he knew she could never commit a murder. She might shout. She might even slap a fellow who got out of hand. But she’d never commit such a terrible crime as murder. She’d faced him across the desk, her chin up, her shoulders back, and looked him right in the eye as she’d answered his questions.
He had been annoyed with himself for feeling proud of her courage. But not every well-to-do young woman who found herself facing a third day in prison would be so composed. But to begin with, he had no right to feel proud of her. She was her own person, not some creation or protégé of his to be applauded and praised. And he had no rights where she was concerned—there was no ‘us’, he had to keep reminding himself she was with Parfitt now. But even so... It was so hard to tear his heart away... If only things were different. He fell back into his daydream.
At last he checked his watch—almost ten o’clock—and was shocked by how much time had gone by. He turned from the window, giving himself a mental shake. He really must get on. He hoped Monty would arrive shortly and spare him some time before he went to see Dottie.
He drank half a cup of cold tea straight down in one and ate half of a chicken sandwich. Eating made him aware of just how hungry he was. He finished the rest of the sandwich in record time, then still standing by the table, wolfed down the cherry cake as if he were again that ravenous eight-year-old. He wiped his fingers on his handkerchief, topped up his cup and went to sit on the bed. He took up the first witness statement and began to read.
‘I am Imogen Cowdrey. I am twenty-nine years of age, and I am a single woman. I live at St Martins Manor House, in St Martins village, Sussex. On the evening of Wednesday 2nd January, I was at home in the drawing room. My mother and father were there, and there were also my two brothers, Guy and Leo, my brother Leo’s wife June, and my cousin Dottie, Miss Dorothy Manderson, who is visiting us at the moment...’
‘Monty! I’m so relieved...’ Dottie could have hugged Montague Montague when she saw him seated at that same table in the now perfectly familiar interview room. She wanted to say more but couldn’t quite manage to get the words out. Even Monty seemed overcome, which given that he was almost fifty and had been a lawyer for many years was quite something. He leapt to his feet nimbly in spite of his generous proportions and took her hand in both of his. He ignored the warning looks from the warder who had stationed herself by the door once again.
‘My dear Miss Dottie. What a thing. I came as soon as I could. I can only spare you until the weekend, I’m afraid, as I’m already committed to another case, but I’m absolutely certain that will be ample time. This is a preposterous situation, m’dear, truly preposterous.’
They sat. He put his monocle firmly in place
and scrutinised her. ‘And are you quite all right, m’dear?’
‘I’ve been better, of course,’ she admitted. ‘But I understand my parents have arrived, and of course I’ve already seen W—Inspector Hardy, and now you...’
‘Ah yes, Inspector Hardy. I’ve met him a few times now, professionally and through your parents. A very personable young fellow. I must say, we at Montague, Phillips and Ardlui find him a wee bit formidable, there’s something of the terrier about him that makes us all worry what he’s going to dig up next. Unless he’s on our side, of course, then well, we count our blessings.’
‘Oh yes,’ Dottie said. She looked down at her hands. ‘Inspector Hardy has been—er—very—’
‘Indeed.’ Monty’s eyes twinkled at her. He clearly believed her confusion to be of a tender nature. He ahemmed delicately and turned his attention to the papers in front of him. After a moment he said, ‘Well of course this is all ridiculous. I’m sure we can get all this thrown out by the local magistrate almost straight away. Looks as though the police simply fixed on you from the outset and looked no further. Negligible, circumstantial evidence, pure supposition. Nothing to give us any real worries.’ He pocketed his monocle behind the neatly presented silk handkerchief and looked at Dottie once more. ‘Hardy said that he thought you may have been mistreated?’ He shot a glance at the warder, who noticeably paled.
‘Oh—er—well, not really. They’ve been a bit—firm—with me, but no one’s actually—hit me or anything.’
‘Hmm.’ He didn’t sound satisfied by that, but he let it go. ‘Now, m’dear, I’m afraid you’ll be going back to your cell tonight. But I shall speak to the magistrate first thing in the morning, and I’m confident we can have you released very soon. So keep your chin up, Dottie m’dear, and try to get what rest you can. You’ve seen your parents, haven’t you?’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t see them.’
He looked annoyed. ‘What? This is insupportable. You’re not even of age.’ He glared at the warder. ‘See to it your inspector remedies that error immediately, or I will have something to say about it to my friend, the Home Secretary.’
The warder nodded, gulped and said, ‘V—very good, s-sir.’
‘There you are then,’ he said with a beaming smile at Dottie. She smiled back. She was immensely reassured by his certainty. At last she had the feeling that everything was going to be all right. ‘Thank you, Monty.’
‘Good, good.’ He got to his feet and gathered up the papers. ‘Look m’dear, I’m going to leave now. But I shall see you in the morning. I’m loath to leave you here, but there’s nothing for it tonight, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s quite all right, Monty. Just—thank you so much for coming all this way. It’s very good of you.’
‘Not at all m’dear.’ He just touched her shoulder, smiled and then the warder closed the door behind him. She seemed to not quite know what to do about Dottie. After a moment’s thought she said to Dottie, ‘Stay there.’
As if I have any choice, Dottie thought once again. The warder left the room, leaving the door ajar. A pleasant breeze wafted in, but on it came the tantalising smell of bacon. Dottie’s stomach rumbled. She had only eaten two pieces of dry bread since the previous night.
Ten minutes later, the door opened but this time it was Inspector Woolley.
‘I just thought I’d pop by and let you know,’ he said in a light tone, then he thrust his face close to Dottie’s, his breath stale and stinking of beer and cigarettes, ‘I don’t appreciate being told how to do my job, and I don’t appreciate being told who can visit my prisoners at all hours of the day and blasted night!’ He gestured to the warder who was waiting in the doorway. ‘Take her back to the cells.’ He turned on his heel and left.
The warder unlocked Dottie’s cuffs from the chair and led her back to the cells. The whole time, Dottie had a sense that the woman wanted to say something, but she never spoke a word, completing the short journey in silence. She was less rough than before, Dottie noticed. That was at least something. The warder held the cell door open and waited for Dottie to go inside, instead of shoving her in as before and slamming the door almost on her.
Dottie huddled on her bench once again, shivering. It was a relief that the other two occupants were either asleep or pretending to be asleep. If they had jeered at her now... But the only sounds were the rain and the soft sound of her fellow inmates’ breathing.
She had hoped the inspector might accede to Monty’s demands and allow the Mandersons to visit her. The disappointment was worse for coming on top of the brief flare of hope.
But she comforted herself that she wouldn’t be here for much longer. It was chilly and damp in the cell, the air was stale, but if Monty was right—and she trusted him utterly—this would be her only night in the cell and in the morning she would be a free woman once more. She felt excited at the prospect, but a little afraid. What if Monty couldn’t persuade the magistrate? What if there was some kind of evidence that looked more convincing?
No. She must hope for the best. This time tomorrow she would be with her family again, and she would be sleeping in a proper bed. And before she went to bed, she would have a hot bath. And before that she would have a lovely hot dinner.
Dottie fell asleep on her bench dreaming of the bath she would have, with the bubbles and the fluffy towels and her own clean clothes to put on afterwards. Oh it would be such bliss.
Although it was almost half past eleven by this time, Monty and Hardy spent half an hour talking about Dottie’s case in a slightly less noisy corner of the pub, the raucous laughs and scraping of benches and chairs covering their conversation which was almost as private as if they had been in Sir Montague’s own chambers at Lincolns Inn.
They ordered food: steak and kidney pudding, a sea of rich gravy rippling across heaped fluffy mashed potatoes, and their conversation stopped being just about work and became far more pleasant. Half a glass of beer to wash that down, and Hardy began to relax for the first time that day. The pub was empty now, the landlord had locked the doors, and everything was quiet.
Monty hadn’t known Hardy had been up at Oxford studying law, before his father’s illness and death made earning a living essential. Monty had been a close personal friend of several of Hardy’s tutors. They exchanged anecdotes and memories.
Over the rum baba dessert, they talked more generally. Hardy was surprised to find he was letting his guard down, telling Monty about his family. Monty condoled with him on the loss of his mother the previous year, and heard all about the married sister, the young sister who was courting, the younger brother still at Repton. By the time they had finished their coffee, they were firm friends; Hardy felt as though he’d known Monty for years.
‘Did you know that Dottie—Miss Manderson, I mean—was not the Mandersons’ own daughter?’ He felt able to ask such a question now. Monty had lit a cigar and was reclining in his chair, completely relaxed after the meal.
‘No.’ Monty shook his head. ‘I never had the slightest suspicion. If not for this current crisis, I doubt anyone would have ever guessed she was not their own delightful child. There’s never been the slightest indication, to my knowledge.’
‘Hmm.’ Hardy sank back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
‘Back to work?’ Monty asked.
‘Sorry?’ Hardy blinked at him. The food had made him start to feel drowsy. He shook himself and sat upright. It wouldn’t do, to fall asleep like this. ‘Oh yes, work. Yes, I’m thinking about this wretched affair again. I’m anxious to get Miss Manderson out of that jail cell.’
‘I feel dreadful, actually,’ Monty said. ‘I promised Dottie I’d have her out of there first thing in the morning. But when I left her just now, that idiot Woolley told me the coroner’s inquest was planned for nine o’clock. So the poor child will probably have to stay there a little longer than I’d hoped.’
‘I shall be at the inquest. It’s going to be in the church hall just al
ong the road,’ Hardy told him. ‘What I don’t understand is, why did Mrs Cowdrey’s children all declare that they actually saw D—er—Miss Manderson killing their mother when it had to be perfectly clear that she was doing no such thing?’
‘It’s all right to call her Dottie,’ Monty said with a paternal smile, ‘I shan’t think it a liberty in the least. Well, it seems clear there was an obvious motive for them to do that.’
‘Yes. In any case, it’s difficult to see that anyone but one of the family could have a motive,’ Hardy said.
Monty nodded. ‘Exactly. One of them—if not all of them—must have some guilty knowledge. They know something. Perhaps not everything. But something.’
Hardy sighed. ‘And it was easier to let the relative stranger take the blame. Perhaps they didn’t even mean for her to be kept in custody, let alone actually charged. But I find it hard to believe they would have really risked so much. Just imagine if she had been convicted.’
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Monty agreed, looking closely at Hardy and wondering if the young fellow liked Dottie as much as he suspected. Monty had heard the odd rumour, of course. Herbert Manderson had even confided his hopes of a match before the year was out. But yet...
‘What do you know of this Parfitt fellow?’ Monty asked suddenly, impulsively.
Hardy’s response was that of an angry, jealous lover, Monty decided. Hardy said, ‘He’s an out-and-out bastard. Rotten to the core: rotten, plausible, pompous, relies on people being awed by his importance—of which he never fails to inform everyone he meets—and he loves the sound of his own voice. Treats Dottie like some kind of pretty accessory to his own ego.’
Monty winced. ‘Ouch. And I presume those are just his good qualities? So apart from not liking the man, do you know anything to his discredit?’ His eyes were sharp over the glowing tip of his cigar.
‘I might.’
The two other women were released in the morning. Dottie was surprised how lonely and afraid she felt in the cell without them, and how vulnerable, considering she had been quite nervous of them while they were there with her. The night had dragged. The cell had been cold yet airless, and she had sat rigid on the bench, scratching now and again: she was certain the cell or one of the women had fleas, and these were looking for fresh meat. No wonder people confessed to all sorts of things they hadn’t done, Dottie thought, I’ve never felt so miserable or alone.
