The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  ‘Yes, Dottie—Miss Manderson—missed her drawings. I had all the staff in my study, and I told them straight I wouldn’t stand for petty thefts. I asked that the items be returned immediately.’

  ‘And were they?’

  ‘Not so far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Didn’t you think of reporting the matter?’

  ‘No. Didn’t seem terribly important, plus, you know, didn’t want to get caught up in a police investigation.’ He had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

  Imogen came back into the house. It was a bare minute before midnight, and frost peppered her hair.

  Guy, pausing at the foot of the stairs, said, ‘Where on earth...? Have you been outside all this time? And without an overcoat? My word, Imogen, you’d better hop upstairs and get yourself into a scalding hot bath before you catch your death.’

  Without a word she went right by him and into the billiard room. She shut the door. Guy hesitated. Should he just quickly go and check that she was all right? She was acting damned queer, even for Imogen. But he shook his head and continued up the stairs to his room. His thoughts quickly drifted elsewhere. How much longer...?

  In the billiard room, Imogen pulled back the curtains. She hauled one of the tall seats right up to the glass and perched herself there as if on watch. Yet even now, she knew it was a waste of time. It was over. She stared out into the night, desperate for any sign.

  Ten minutes later she couldn’t sit still any longer and went to put on her coat. She took a torch from the kitchen and went back outside. She would wait until he came. He had to come. He just had to.

  Hardy had only been asleep for half an hour or so when the pounding on his door woke him so abruptly that he fell off the narrow lumpy mattress and onto the floor. Stumbling to the door, he threw it open, ready to give whoever was there an earful. Then he saw it was the landlord, there to summon him to the telephone.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Hardy asked the second he picked up the receiver.

  ‘You’ve got to come. We’ve—I can hardly believe I’m saying this...’ Guy Cowdrey took a breath. ‘We’ve just found a chap named Norris Clarke dead in the grounds.’

  At the other end of the line, in the study at St Martins, Guy sank back in the chair and closed his eyes. He shook his head. ‘What’s happened to us?’ His voice was almost inaudible.

  ‘I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. I’ll meet you at the front door, and you can show me the way.’ Hardy hung up the phone.

  He was as good as his word. When he arrived at the house, the front door was open and Guy Cowdrey stood there waiting for him.

  ‘Don’t you want to ask me questions?’ Guy came forward.

  ‘Perhaps you could show me where the body is first.’

  ‘Of course. It’s this way,’ Guy said and led Hardy around the side of the house.

  As they went Guy told Hardy what little he could. Hardy heard that Norris Clarke was in the habit of meeting Imogen for secret rendezvous two or three times a week. Usually they met in the rose garden, but if the weather was overcast, he waited under the better cover of the trees at the edge of the lawn. Imogen had waited for him in the rose garden as agreed, but when he had failed to show up, she had gone looking for him amongst the rhododendrons, beech and chestnut trees. There she had quite literally stumbled over his body, it being a cloudy, moonless night. Her hysterics had woken Lewis Cowdrey who had in turn woken the staff, his son, and the Mandersons.

  They went through the drizzle in the direction of the rose garden, along its slightly overgrown and muddy path to the lawn, and slipping slightly on the wet sloping grass, across to something oddly hunched at the foot of a small chestnut tree surrounded by rhododendrons. The something proved to be the body of Norris Clarke.

  Hardy dug in his greatcoat pocket for his electric torch. He stayed where he was for a moment, checking the condition of the ground near the body. Finally he turned his attention to the body itself. At that point he could have kicked himself for failing to do the most obvious thing first. Because the light from his torch showed him that Norris Clarke’s chest was moving.

  ‘For God’s sake, get an ambulance. He’s still alive!’

  Without hesitating, Guy turned and ran for the house.

  Once Norris had been removed to the hospital, police constables carried out a search of the immediate vicinity, and as soon as it was light, would extend this search to conduct a sweep of the entire estate. As yet, no weapon had been found, but Hardy did not expect to find anything, and especially not during the hours of darkness, with what was now a persistent rain falling. He now knew, though, that they were looking for something solid and slightly curved, a handle or club of some sort would be his guess. Now he had to deliver to the household the news that Clarke was still—just barely—alive.

  Three hours later, Hardy finished the bacon and eggs and steaming mug of tea the Cowdrey’s cook had provided him with by way of breakfast, and thanked her with real gratitude, ‘That’s the best bacon I’ve had in twenty years.’

  Unconcerned by his rank of police inspector, the blushing cook flapped a grimy oven glove at him and told him he was a caution. He grinned and bid her goodbye for now.

  A minute later he was sitting behind the desk in the study. He glanced through his notes. Not much to go on so far. He had no serious concerns about the residents of St Martins House. No one had seen anything much to tell him—and this didn’t particularly surprise him. If there was a perfect time of year to commit a violent attack, it had to be in the middle of the night, in the middle of the country, in midwinter.

  He sighed. It was still rather early to expect Imogen Cowdrey to be back from the hospital, and that was really all he was waiting for. Mr and Mrs Manderson had taken her in their car. The early report from the doctor who had attended to Clarke was not an encouraging one.

  ‘In conclusion, Inspector,’ Montague Montague said, taking his monocle and polishing with a large pink handkerchief, ‘It’s time to put up or shut up, as they say in the common parlance. Let Miss Manderson go. Whilst I realise she was a useful suspect for you, and represented the kudos of an early conclusion to this sad affair, you and you alone will be the one to be vilified in the press for your victimisation of a young, and very photogenic woman. It will of course, destroy your career. But on the other hand, you may feel it’s better to go out on a high note. However I can assure you that your lovely wife, Mrs Woolley—or Beatrice, as she kindly permitted me to call her—is very much looking forward to spending her later years in a delightful holiday villa at Hopton-on-Sea with her sister and brother-in-law, and she will not welcome a notorious husband who will be the talk of the East coast. Quite a temperamental lady, your dear Beatrice,’ Monty said with the suggestion of a wink at Dottie. ‘I imagine she has some theatrical blood. A temper like that can be trying to live with on a daily basis, of course, but such fire, such passion is only to be admired in such a lovely lady.’

  Inspector Woolley stared at the papers in front of him on the desk. His foot beat a tattoo on the floor. His hand trembled a little. It was a full two minutes before anyone said anything. The clock ticked loudly. Dottie gnawed her lip, hardly able to keep her seat. William Hardy and Sergeant Palmer exchanged a smile and nod. Montague Montague, satisfied his monocle was perfectly clean, replaced it, folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, fixing his gaze on the inspector.

  Yet still the inspector hesitated. Very softly, M’dear Monty said, ‘Don’t make me run to the magistrate again. Think how badly will reflect on you, man.’

  Inspector Woolley seemed to give himself a little shake, rather like a dog coming in from the rain. Then, appearing to return to reality, he scooped up his papers in a decisive manner, and cleared his throat vigorously.

  ‘Miss Manderson, during a routine review of my evidence and case notes, I find that there is insufficient cause to suspect you of this crime. Therefore I am happy to tell you that the police no longer consider you a suspect in the death of
Mrs Cecilia Cowdrey and that, as a consequence, you are free to leave. I am sorry for any inconvenience. I wish you a pleasant journey home. Good day to you.’

  He stood up, feeling he’d made the best hand of it he could. At least old Monty now knew he wasn’t the only one who could make a pretty speech.

  The inspector headed for the door, halting whilst Sergeant Palmer belatedly opened it for him. As he went out, the inspector thought, bloody Hopton-on-Sea. How Bea did go on about it. Mind you, the fishing wasn’t bad over that way. He went to telephone his superiors.

  Hardy came forward smiling. He held out his hand to shake Dottie’s, but she mistook him and went into his arms, hugging him tightly. Almost immediately she remembered they weren’t alone. Or in love, she had to remind herself of that too. She stepped back awkwardly and turned to smile at Sergeant Palmer and Monty.

  ‘Thank you so much! I really didn’t think...’ She felt herself getting emotional and made herself shush.

  M’dear Monty gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I’m only glad I was able to help, m’dear.’

  The sergeant said, ‘Well miss, if you’ll come with me, we have your belongings, and your mother is here with a change of clothes for you. The clothes you had on when you arrived are still in the evidence safe.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Plus, you know, they’re a bit smelly from the lake.’

  Dottie didn’t care. Feeling almost lighter than air, she followed Monty outside, glancing back over her shoulder to see Hardy dip his head and turn away.

  An hour later, lunch was over and they were bidding Monty and Mr Manderson goodbye outside the pub. Mr Manderson had already apologised a dozen times for having to leave them. But he had business in London, and it was convenient for him to take Monty back with him as Monty had his own commitments.

  ‘Now remember,’ Monty said for the third time, ‘if you need me again, just call. I can be back down here in next to no time. I’m in court for most of tomorrow, but then after that I’m free until I’m due to leave for Paris next Thursday.’

  Dottie kissed his cheek and thanked him yet again for all his help. Monty bent over Lavinia Manderson’s hand, then Mr Manderson said goodbye to his family, kissing his wife’s cheek, shaking Hardy’s hand, and after a tight hug and whispering, ‘Take care, sweetheart,’ to his daughter, Herbert along with Monty got into the Manderson’s car and drove away, on their journey back to London.

  Dottie and her mother headed off to St Martins house courtesy of Palmer and a police car.

  Dottie’s first thought was to have a bath. And to change her clothes again. She was convinced the fresh ones her mother had brought her already smelled prisony. She had to change. She and her mother went down at a little after four o’clock,

  Everyone looked up as they came into the room. In fact they all looked up, then away, then back again, this time in astonishment.

  ‘Dottie!’ Guy was the first to seize the opportunity. He leapt to his feet and rushed over, hugging Dottie and kissing her cheek. ‘How wonderful!’

  Lewis added, ‘Let you out, have they? About time too. You’re lucky they didn’t hang you. Bunch of plodding fools.’

  To Dottie’s amazement, her mother simply said, ‘Oh do shut up, Lewis. We don’t want to hear such things.’ She swept across the room to the little table, poured herself a cup of tea, then sat next to Imogen who was staring, her mouth hanging open. ‘Do ring for more hot water, Imogen,’ Mrs Manderson said, ‘There isn’t much left in the pot.’ Imogen hastily complied. ‘Dorothy, dear, do sit down,’ Mrs Manderson added.

  With a sense of walking in a dream, Dottie made her feet obey her, and found she was sitting on the other side of Imogen.

  ‘Mother told me about Norris. How is he, Imogen? Is there any news?’ Dottie asked Imogen, taking her hand.

  Imogen smiled bravely. ‘He’s all right, I suppose. I mean they said there’s nothing much they can do. It’s just a question of waiting. Oh he looks awful, Dottie, his face is so bruised and cut.’

  ‘We’ve got to hope for the best, dear,’ said Mrs Manderson.

  Guy came over with plates and offered them various sandwiches. ‘Frightfully good to have you back, old girl. I hope they weren’t too rough with you. Never thought you’d done it myself.’

  Dottie stared at him, almost unable to believe what she was hearing. She still bore the bruises on her upper arm from when he’d marched her up to the house and put her in the cloakroom. But she said nothing, leaving him to his lies.

  ‘Oh no!’ Imogen piped up, ‘we never for a single moment thought you’d done...’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Leo roared. He got up so quickly his wife spilt her tea. ‘Come along June, we’re leaving. I’m not sitting here like this, taking tea with my mother’s murderess!’

  The door opened, the maid entered, in response to the ring of the bell, and Mrs Manderson asked her for fresh tea to be brought up. She bobbed to Mrs Manderson and left.

  Leo stormed from the room. With a tiny handkerchief, June dabbed apologetically at the damp patch on the sofa caused by her spilt tea. At his repeated, ‘June!’ she jolted, shot them a smile, grabbed her bag and scuttled from the room.

  Mrs Manderson just tsked and shook her head. Dottie was amazed by her mother’s poise.

  Lewis said he would take his tea in his study, that he had something to see to. Guy and the three ladies remained in the drawing room.

  Imogen immediately said, ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Our friend from Scotland Yard came down here to take over the investigation. The local fellow isn’t very happy about it, but he has the backing of some high-ranking officials in the police force,’ Dottie’s mother said.

  ‘Do you mean Dottie’s beau, Gervase? Oh, I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘Erm...’ Dottie didn’t know how to respond to that. Once again, Imogen was like a little girl pleading for a present. Dottie hated to disappoint her. But her mother spoke:

  ‘The Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire, as I’m sure you realise, has been kept informed regarding recent circumstances. But of course he cannot put his personal concerns ahead of his duty, nor has he any jurisdiction here, whereas local police officers are bound to cooperate fully with an officer from Scotland Yard. Inspector Hardy is not only an excellent officer, he is also a very dear friend of our family.’

  ‘Oh!’ Imogen’s eyes were round with excitement. Even Guy looked mildly interested.

  ‘I remember he was the one who cracked those dinner party robberies a few months back. It was in the newspapers. He called here to ask us some questions. He’s younger than I expected.’

  Dottie didn’t really want to discuss William Hardy any further. Or Gervase if it came to it. She sipped her tea and wracked her brain to think of something to say to steer the conversation away.

  Guy got up to carry over the cake-stand. The ladies made their selections. He set the stand down and chose one for himself, and taking half of it in one enormous bite, he said, ‘Good thing you know people, Dottie. I shudder to think what might have happened.’

  ‘I’m afraid the investigation is still ongoing,’ Dottie said. ‘And Inspector Hardy will be coming out to speak to us all again after dinner. I’m to ask everyone to stay at home this evening.’

  Guy looked alarmed, as did Imogen. Guy said, ‘Well I hope he won’t be late, or keep us too long, I’ve an appointment at nine o’clock, and I can’t miss it.’

  Dottie was fairly sure he meant ‘assignation’, but she said nothing.

  Mrs Manderson said, ‘I’m sure Inspector Hardy won’t mind talking to you first, Guy. That shouldn’t ruin your plans.’

  The door opened and the maid came in with a fresh pot of tea.

  ‘William!’

  She had almost forgotten he was coming to the house again. She had gone to the morning room for a few minutes’ solitude. Unlike her, he wasn’t caught off-guard. He grinned at her.

  ‘William? Surely you mean Inspector Hardy?’

  She blus
hed, but he smiled and said, ‘Not that I mind at all. How are you, Miss Manderson?’

  His voice was gentle, the ‘Miss Manderson’ said completely without irony. She felt suddenly overwhelmed. Again. Tears prickled, and she turned to the left then the right, flustered and unsure what to do or say, unable to escape.

  She didn’t hear him move. His arms came about her. She fell against his chest and sobbed. After a few minutes, a white neatly pressed handkerchief appeared in front of her. As she wiped her face and blew her nose, she became aware his hand was stroking her back. It was warm and reassuring. For a few more seconds she leaned against him, her eyes shut.

  But it wouldn’t do. She had to pull herself together. She blew her nose again vigorously and blotted her cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry I keep doing this. It’s all been rather... I’ll let you have it back as soon as it’s been washed,’ she promised.

  He laughed softly. ‘It’s all right. It can join your collection.’

  She managed a little rueful laugh. ‘I do have several of them now. I promise I really will make sure you get them back.’

  Rather awkwardly they stepped apart. Dottie pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  William remained standing. He said, ‘Please don’t bother about it. Anyway, how are you? I hope there aren’t any lasting effects from your incarceration. It must be a relief to be out.’

  ‘It is rather,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t know how criminals stick it. It’s the boredom as much as anything. Just sitting there all day.’

  He nodded. ‘So I’ve heard.’ He didn’t really know what else to say, so he said, ‘Sergeant Maple sends his regards.’ Maple had done no such thing, though no doubt he would have, given the opportunity.

  ‘That’s very kind of him,’ she said. ‘Please thank him for me next time you see him.’

  ‘I will.’ This was inane, he thought, this pointless exchange, when only a few moments ago she’d been in his arms, and he’d wanted nothing more than to kiss her. Why in Heaven’s name hadn’t he done exactly that? Perhaps because he doubted such a thing would be welcomed by her. It was a comfort to know they were friends again. Or at least, almost friends. An idea came to him—a real life-saver. With relief he used it now, ‘I understand you’ve had some property stolen since you’ve been staying here?’