The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  Early in the morning, she was once again summoned to the interview room upstairs. Inspector Woolley, flanked by Palmer and the warder, came in and the inspector sat opposite her. Hope flared in Dottie’s chest once again. She held her breath to hear what he was going to say. Would she be released? Was she free?

  ‘Tell me again why you came to visit your aunt—or should I say—your mother.’

  Her hopes plummeted to the floor. So they weren’t letting her go after all. She daren’t think what that might mean. For the umpteenth time, she went back to the previous summer and told him all about her mother’s revelations, and the subsequent invitation to go down and spend a few days in the house to the near stranger she had always thought of as her Aunt Cecilia. She explained about the mix-up over the date she should arrive, and that the invitation had actually come secretly from Imogen, and her aunt had not heard about it until the day Dottie arrived and found no one at home.

  The inspector kept interrupting, or jeering at her, and firing questions at her, clearly trying to confuse her or make her contradict herself. She was almost in tears of frustration when, he angrily grabbed his papers and got up to leave. The warder came forward to unlock Dottie’s cuffs and was about to take her back to the cell, when Woolley, pausing in the doorway for effect, said casually:

  ‘By the way, you’d best stay put. You’ve got visitors.’ He turned to the warder, ‘Come with me, I need a quick word. Palmer, stay here and keep an eye on our guest.’

  As soon as the other two had left the room, Sergeant Palmer came over to unlock the handcuffs. He said gruffly, ‘He’s going to the coroner’s inquest in a minute. He should be gone a while. But you never know, so behave yourself, or you’ll get us both into trouble.’

  Dottie thanked him profusely and massaged her bruised wrists. There was a sound outside and a single rap on the door. A constable let someone into the room.

  It was her mother and father. Dottie’s heart swelled with emotion. ‘Mother! Father!’

  The police sergeant, soft-hearted but wary of his boss, took Dottie’s arm and pulled her away to the table and chairs. ‘Now then, miss, I shall need you to sit down here and stay put. Otherwise, I’ll have to ask these people to leave.’

  ‘Of course,’ Dottie said.

  Her mother, wiping her eyes, drew out the seat opposite her and sat. Her father, looking as if he wanted to punch someone, remained standing.

  ‘I’ll leave you to talk in private, but I’ll be right outside the door.’ The sergeant patted Dottie’s shoulder. The kindly twinkle in his eyes glittered suspiciously brighter than usual. ‘I can only let you have five minutes, mind, not a minute more, so be quick. If the inspector comes back and sees you out of them cuffs, we’ll all be for it.’

  They thanked him. The door banged behind him, and Dottie heard the sound of the key turning in the lock, less terrifying now that she wasn’t alone.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Well, Dottie,’ said Mrs Manderson, and to Dottie’s mind that seemed to sum up this impossible situation perfectly.

  ‘Thank you for coming, I’m so grateful,’ Dottie began but her voice croaked on the last word and she fell silent.

  ‘Silly girl, of course we came.’ Lavinia Manderson said it briskly, afraid her anxiety would betray itself too much. She was here to comfort and encourage, as well as to talk to Dottie about what had—or hadn’t—happened. ‘I’m only sorry we didn’t get here sooner. We didn’t hear anything about it until lunchtime, when Leo telephoned.’

  Her mother’s brisk tone, so normal, so her, was reassuring. When Dottie spoke next, her voice was perfectly steady. ‘Did you manage to speak to Gervase?’

  Her mother pressed her lips together so tightly the skin around them blanched. Her hands gripped the edge of the table. She leaned forward. ‘Oh my dear, I’m afraid his manner was rather odd. Your father and I are not at all happy.’

  Dottie’s brow furrowed. She looked from one to the other. ‘Why? What did he say?’

  ‘Well, we explained what had happened, or rather your father did—it was he who spoke to Gervase. Gervase said a few choice words, apparently, which I suppose is hardly a surprise given the circumstances, and gentlemen do seem to use expletives when surprised or upset. But then he said, ‘Please keep me informed about the outcome.’’

  Dottie stared at her. ‘He said what?’

  ‘‘Please keep me informed about the outcome’. Then he rang off. Gervase, not your father. Didn’t he, Herbert?’

  ‘Absolutely he did, the...’

  Dottie shook her head, bewildered. ‘What on earth?’

  ‘Your father was furious. I even had to speak to him about his language. I have to say, Gervase has gone down a good deal in our estimation. I had hoped he’d leave at once to join us here.’

  Dottie had been hoping the same thing, although of course she’d been quite sharp with him when she’d last seen him. All the same... Could he possibly still be sulking over her refusal to further their intimacy? ‘So he’s not coming? At all? Not even at the weekend? I mean, I know that he’s busy, but all the same...’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘We rang him again this morning. We thought it would be a good plan to give him overnight to consider things. He thanked us and again asked us to let him know what was happening.’

  Dottie stared at her mother. Her parents stared back.

  ‘So Gervase is not coming?’

  ‘No, Dorothy, dear, he is not coming.’

  ‘Surely he can’t think I actually did this? He couldn’t possibly believe me capable of such a terrible thing?’

  Her mother shook her head but made no reply. Dottie, her voice rising with emotion, cried out, ‘You and Father don’t think that, do you? You know I would never...’

  ‘Of course not...’ Her father was on his feet, but wary of the sergeant outside, sat down again. He reached across the table to pat Dottie’s arm. ‘Of course not, my love,’ he said again, softly.

  ‘Calm down, Dorothy, darling,’ her mother said, gently but firmly, casting a look at the door. ‘We don’t think any such thing. And Monty is going to prove it. Along with Inspector Hardy, of course.’ She couldn’t help slanting a quick glance at Dottie’s face, though it was hard to tell if her daughter had heard her. ‘Now dear, are you getting enough rest? I know it can’t be easy, but you must try. And make sure you eat properly. You need to keep your strength up, as I’m afraid it may be a day or two yet.’

  Dottie nodded. ‘Yes, I realise that. Monty said something about seeing the local magistrate, but I can’t imagine they would just let me walk out without someone else to put in my place. I’ll be all right. Especially now that you’re here. Mother, I’m so sorry about Aunt Cecilia...’

  Her mother bowed her head and took a moment before she said, ‘It’s very sad. I hope the police will stop wasting time with this ridiculous case against you and get on and find the real killer.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the house. I insisted on staying. Lewis wasn’t happy about it, but that’s too bad. Imogen has been in a state, as you can imagine, poor child, so I’m glad we’re there to take care of her. But we’ve seen almost nothing of Lewis and Guy. Which could be a blessing.’

  ‘But Mother, surely one of them must be Aunt Cecilia’s killer? It had to be one of them. I don’t want you to stay at St Martins, you’ll be putting yourself in danger!’

  ‘Nonsense, Dorothy. In any case, I have your father with me, at least for the next few days. Here’s got to go back to London with Monty at the weekend, of course. But it won’t have been a member of her own family who did that to Cecilia. It’s clearly the work of some madman or passing tramp who attacked her.’

  ‘That’s what people always say, but it’s ludicrous.’ Dottie reflected that if passing tramps did half of the murders they were accused of carrying out, they’d be very busy people indeed. She consoled herself that it would only be for a few nights and that the police were
surely carefully watching the household.

  The door opened. The sergeant came in, a jangling bunch of keys in his hands.

  ‘Time’s up, everyone.’

  They had a quick hug, whilst the sergeant protested, ‘Come on now, the inspector will be back in a minute. He’ll have my guts for garters if we get caught. Let’s get these cuffs back on you, missy.’

  ‘Tell Imogen how sorry I am about her mother, and tell her I didn’t do it, of course. You will look after her, won’t you?’ Dottie was saying as she was led away. ‘She must be devastated.’

  Her parents assured her they would take care of everything, and reminded her to eat and take some rest, her mother adding, ‘We’ll come and see you again later today, or tomorrow.’

  Dottie was returned to her cell. The cell door slammed shut and the key turned in the lock.

  Monty arrived a little later, and told her about the inquest.

  ‘My dear Dottie, I didn’t realise they hadn’t already had it,’ he said. ‘Or I would never have got your hopes up last night about being released in the morning. I’m so sorry, but I believe it might be another twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Oh that’s all right,’ Dottie said, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter a bit.

  ‘The local chappie wanted to have you set down as the murderer, but luckily the coroner overruled him in the light of Inspector Hardy’s submission that the case warranted looking into in greater depth. Of course it helped that the pathologist stated that he found almost no water in the lungs of the deceased, so she had been dead before she went into the water, and that death was caused by a heavy blow to the temple some hours prior to the previously assumed time of death. So there we are. More time to investigate the case, and I have an appointment later to speak with the magistrate.’

  Dottie nodded, taking all this in.

  Monty said, ‘Hardy said you told him about seeing someone outside the night your aunt was killed?’

  ‘Well yes I did, but not enough to tell who it was. It was really only a blur of a face amongst the trees. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.’

  ‘That’s all right, dear. And what time was that?’

  She wrinkled her nose up. ‘Let me see. About half past eleven? Perhaps a little later. I went upstairs about half-past ten. Imogen came to my room to talk. She went downstairs again. At least, I assume she did. Then I went down too, to try and catch her.’

  ‘To suggest she didn’t telephone this Mr Clarke after all, Hardy seemed to think?’

  ‘That’s right. Then I heard the arguing coming from the morning room and I went back upstairs. I waited for a while, thinking Imogen might come to my room and when she didn’t, I went along to hers.’

  ‘But she was asleep?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I didn’t check,’ she said. ‘I stood just inside the door and listened. It was dark so I couldn’t see her in the bed, but I called her name and there was no response. I assumed she was sleeping. I thought I could hear her breathing, but I’m not certain. I just assumed she was there.’

  Monty looked pleased, as if she’d given him something useful.

  ‘I’m almost sure she was there,’ Dottie said. She didn’t want to think what it might mean if Imogen had not been in her room.

  In the cells it was dark, but not silent. Beyond the now-familiar walls of Dottie’s tiny room were voices and banging, and the occasional shout or sound of laughing. Next door, the drunk who had been brought in an hour earlier was on his fourth chorus of Onward Christian Soldiers, which he was alternating with a slightly muddled version of The Old Rugged Cross. Clearly, Dottie thought, he had been under the care of the Salvation Army at some point. And doubtless would be again.

  But within the four walls where Dottie was confined all alone on her bench, there was a sense of peace. Now that she was no longer anxious about her own welfare, she was using the solitude to think.

  Mrs Christie, who had taken the world by storm with her detective novels during recent years, had created an odd little gentleman investigator who advocated the employment of what he famously termed ‘the little grey cells’: the brain cells that held all the information about a crime and that could, given sufficient opportunity, solve the crime simply by examining and thinking about that stored information.

  Dottie wriggled her shoulders as she attempted to reach an itch in the middle of her back. That minor problem dealt with, she settled again into her corner and tried to discover what her own little grey cells knew.

  At first she thought that she knew precious little. But after some moments it occurred to her that she knew the people of the ‘case’. She began to think about each person involved or affected by Cecilia Cowdrey. She ticked them off on her fingers.

  There were the staff, of course. Drysdale and the cook had been with the Cowdrey’s for a number of years, whereas the maids came and went with regularity, with greater emphasis on the ‘went’, and often were either not paid or kept waiting for their money. That the staff were overworked was beyond doubt, but they were probably not treated any worse than most others.

  But could any of them really gain anything by killing their mistress? Dottie couldn’t see that anything other than lashing out in a blind rage would be likely. Surely no one who had only worked at St Martins for a matter of mere weeks or months would be bothered enough about the place to lash out in a rage? In Dottie’s limited experience, these days, staff had more choice of employment and a great advantage over the many employers who offered work. Most staff would just shrug their shoulders, say something unflattering, and move on, usually to a factory or large business where the money was better and the working day shorter.

  The touted murderous insanity, of lashing out in a blind rage, was only in books, or almost only in books, Dottie thought. Most people needed a real, pressing reason for killing someone. And as Mrs Christie’s books showed, murder was almost always done by someone close to the victim. You had to really know someone to feel that the only way out of a situation was to kill them.

  Which really only left the family.

  It was one thing to know this with your mind, a completely different sensation to know it with your heart. A member of the family. Someone so close to Cecilia she had held them in her arms as a baby, or as a loved one. Someone who had sat with her at her table, who had taken a cup of tea from her, or a coffee in the drawing room. Who had walked in her home or gardens.

  This realisation filled her with fear for a moment. That kind of person—the kind who knew you yet nurtured a deep hatred, deep enough to plot and carry out your murder—that was a person who would stop at nothing, who cared not a jot for your life, your well-being, who strove to achieve their aims no matter who had to suffer—that was someone truly terrifying. In the dark cell, Dottie shivered.

  She pulled the threadbare, fuzzy blanket over her and up to her shoulders. It smelled of dog, a fact that still puzzled her, and was horribly itchy, but it was all there was, and she was too cold to be proud. Warmer now, she continued the horrifying thread of her thoughts.

  It was awful to remember that her aunt was dead. Her aunt. Her mother, really. No longer moving about her home, conversing with her friends and family, making decisions about meals or entertaining.

  I never did get to know her properly, and I shall never be able to think of her with affection, Dottie thought. Certainly she had no affection for me. But I’m sorry she’s dead. She didn’t deserve to die. No one deserves to die like that. She hadn’t wanted Dottie to visit, that had been all Imogen’s doing. Poor Imogen, Dottie thought. How was she coping with all that had happened? Dottie could only hope that Guy, Leo and Lewis, and her own parents of course, were comforting Imogen.

  Cecilia had not welcomed her, and definitely had not welcomed her curiosity, her ability to defend herself from criticism and to even hand some criticism back. Yet after her own peculiar fashion, she had allowed Dottie into the family hom
e and had tried to entertain her. She had even tried to make Dottie stay there.

  ‘But why?’ Dottie asked the darkness.

  The slot in the cell door opened and the fierce warder’s voice said, ‘You all right, Manley?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Good.’ The slot was closed with a snap.

  Dottie sighed. The warder had been a little kinder since Inspector Hardy arrived. She hadn’t shoved or pulled, shouted at Dottie or slapped her. But even though the warder knew her name wasn’t Manley, she persisted in calling her that. Why did people do such things?

  Why had her aunt resented her so much yet attempted to make her stay? She’d said she wanted Dottie to keep Imogen company, and to pressure Imogen into doing what Cecilia wanted, particularly in regard to keeping her away from Norris. She’d wanted Dottie as an ally. She wanted to control her daughter—or daughters—and keep them at home. But why, when she took no pleasure in their company, in their achievements or happiness? What was this urge to control?

  Out of nowhere Dottie had a mental image of the geese that sat on the grass at St Martins. Controlled. Unable to do what geese naturally do and fly away to warmer climes in the winter, not able to move to other grazing or roosting places. Completely controlled and living an artificial life. The geese who had given away St Martin’s hiding place, according to legend. A constant reminder of how they had failed him. It was Imogen who had told Dottie about that.

  What did Imogen remind Cecilia of? An unhappy marriage? The old triumph of snobbery and desire for status over true love and mutual care? Was it a punishment to Cecilia to see her daughter’s face every day and remember how she had compromised her heart and taken the man who had her parent’s approval, rather than the man who offered her devotion?