by Caron Allan
Everyone came forward one at a time to shake Norris’s hand. The bandage around his forehead lent him a noble air. His left hand gripped Imogen’s as if he was afraid to let go.
‘I’ll telephone you tonight at Norris’s flat. And you must remember to write to me as soon as you get back,’ Dottie whispered as she kissed the blushing bride.
‘I will,’ Imogen promised. ‘Thank you so much for lending us your car. I’ll send a postcard from Devon.’
‘They’re having two weeks in Paignton, thought it will probably be at least a week before Norris gets the doctor’s approval to go,’ Leo said. ‘When they return, I shall help with the removals. I’m letting them have a cottage on the estate. Oh, not a worker’s cottage,’ he amended, seeing Dottie’s doubtful expression. ‘No, it’s one we used to let out to guests here for the hunting season. It’s very nice, actually. Very cosy. It’s one of a few that have been modernised, so it should be just the ticket. We had a long chat about it. Norris is going to let out the flat above the shop; it will give them a little extra income. What with one thing and another, they will have a comfortable life together.’ After a pause, he sighed.
‘It sounds perfect.’ She put a hand on his arm. He patted her hand.
Dottie sensed his sorrow. ‘I’m so sorry, Leo, for the way things have turned out.’
‘Not your fault, old girl,’ he said gruffly. ‘And while we’re at it, I was an absolute swine to you. I’m very sorry. What we put you through, what we—what I—let you suffer. So very sorry, my dear. But this whole mess, you know. It started years ago. People marrying out of duty and not love. Against their inclination. So much bitterness.’
‘True. Let’s hope it’s all over now. What will you do next?’
‘I’m closing St Martins. Might even try and sell the place. Not sure. Give it a few months to make up my mind. I’d like to leave our place too, the memories, you know, but I’ve got to live somewhere, and at least Imogen will be nearby. Sir Stanley and I have always got on well, in spite of... He’s going to need me over the next few weeks and months. No doubt you can understand what a shock this has all been for him. Well, and for myself, for that matter. And well, hopefully, given a bit of time...’
‘Of course. Well do take care of yourself, Leo,’ Dottie said. To her surprise he hugged her briefly.
‘You too, dear. Sorry once again...’
‘Oh it’s all right, Leo. You did what you thought was best. It can’t be helped now.’
Mrs Manderson came forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Leo dear, your uncle and I shall of course return for your mother’s funeral next week. In the meantime, if your uncle can be of any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask. Come and see us, a few days in London now and then would do you the world of good.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ He waved one last time and got into his car. As he rolled it away across the cobbles, he smiled and beeped the horn.
‘Time for us to go too, Dorothy.’
Dottie smiled. Only her mother called her Dorothy. She put her hand through her mother’s arm. ‘Come on then, let’s go and find William. I think he’ll be in the pub.’
Mrs Manderson looked concerned. ‘I do hope he’s sober.’
Dottie laughed. ‘He and Sergeant Palmer are taking tea.’
They drove away, leaving St Martins behind. Through the back window of the police car, Dottie watched the house recede, and vowed to never set foot in it again.
She hoped Leo would be all right. She made a mental note to telephone him as well as Imogen to let them know they had arrived safely. Imogen was moving into Norris’s flat. She didn’t want to be at St Martins, and being in the flat would be both more convenient for the hospital and give her a chance to rest.
And when the new Mrs Clarke was back from her honeymoon, Dottie planned to ring Imogen regularly, and visit whenever possible. Dottie was thrilled that in spite of the situation, and having so very nearly lost him, Imogen had suddenly thrown aside her fears and taken the opportunity to marry the man she loved. Who knew, perhaps in a year or two, Leo might meet a nice lady who would make him happy. She hoped so.
Another person she wanted to get to know better was Sir Stanley—she still couldn’t bring herself to call him Father, not even the privacy of her thoughts. But he seemed like a good person, and his sorrow over the recent events had taken their toll. She hoped to see him again in happier circumstances.
Dottie was so thankful to finally be going home. Yet there was one thing—one overwhelming truth—she struggled to accept. As she sat in the back of the police car, squashed between the suitcases and hat boxes, catching snatches of the stilted conversation taking place in the front, this one thing pushed its way into her thoughts.
It was William Hardy who had come to save her. William who had set aside everything and arrived when she needed him, needed his help.
In view of the fact that she had been arrested for murder, she didn’t think she was being melodramatic in believing that he had saved her life. The unimaginable consequence of being found guilty of the murder of her mother’s sister had loomed all too large, and she had been almost helpless. Certainly for three days, she had been near friendless.
Gervase had turned away from her. William Hardy had not. William Hardy had come to save her. Gervase Parfitt had remained in hiding behind his desk and had not lifted a finger to help the woman he supposedly loved.
Dottie had not expected that Gervase would ring people—important people—up in the middle of the night and demand her immediate release. It would have been nice if he had, she thought, and there was no denying one small, frightened part of her had wanted him just this once to use his precious name and his position to bend rules and to beg favours, for her, the woman he claimed he wanted to marry.
‘Well, he’s had that,’ she said, ‘I’m not marrying him now.’
‘Did you say something, dear?’ her mother called over her shoulder, raising her voice to counter the engine noise.
‘No, mother,’ Dottie replied. Glancing up she met William’s eyes in the driver’s mirror. Then he looked back at the road.
How could I have been so wrong, Dottie thought. She shivered. She felt cold inside. She had done something terrible, she saw that now.
Gervase had said she was naïve and too idealistic. ‘No one can be perfect,’ he’d declared, rather pompously she admitted now, ‘and if you expect your husband to be perfect, well my dear, you’re setting yourself up for a fall.’
This brief lecture had fallen on her because she’d told him that ‘a friend’ had let her down by failing to reveal private knowledge that affected her family. She hadn’t wanted to say too much, and although Gervase had assumed she was referring to a male, he hadn’t insisted on knowing the man’s name. Another fact he claimed credit for, adding,
‘If this person had gained the information by being in a place of confidence, then how could they reveal what they knew without the confidante’s permission? One never betrays a confidence, it’s a matter of honour.’ When they’d first met, she’d told him about Diana, grief-stricken as she was by the final outcome of that situation, and he’d been sympathetic, full of concern. But she had never told him how she came to be in Scarborough in the first place. Never mentioned William’s slip on the train from Scotland.
With an inward sigh, she watched it all play itself through her head again, like a newsreel at the cinema. William, proposing, her thrilled acceptance, their blissful moments, the kisses, the foolish promises, the sheer heady wonder of feeling overwhelmed by love. And then—those fateful words, the lurching disappointment, the fear, the sense of betrayal and loss. The numbing doubt: was he really the man she thought he was? William, angry, upset. Herself, rejecting him, getting off the train, cold.
Naïve. And too idealistic.
Dottie felt swamped with shame. So much had happened since the summer.
The car bumped on the road, and Dottie steadied herself by clutching at the back of the
driver’s seat. Her hand was inches from his shoulders and neck.
She liked his shoulders; she always had. When he’d put his arms around her, she’d felt as if she were being hugged by an enormous bear of a man. It was the shoulders that gave that impression.
She liked his hair too. She was glad he didn’t Brylcreem it down smooth all the time as most young men did. She knew that was probably a habit dictated by lack of money, but she approved it. Until recently he’d been rather hard up, and old habits had a way of hanging on. Fair hair. Thick and wavy. Like Gervase’s, though different too. Gervase’s hair was straighter, thinner, and had a tendency to flop once it grew a bit. How had she ever mistaken Gervase for William that first time she’d seen him? They were nothing like one another.
Then there were the cheekbones. Quite high, with a natural emphasis, that she thought vaguely Scandinavian. Coupled with that hair, it was a devastating combination.
And his eyes. Blue. Not cold, but expressive as the sea. They could be disconcerting, she knew, seeming to look right through you, making you feel you couldn’t back away. And what man had any right to have long thick eyelashes like that?
His eyes flicked up to the mirror again and met hers. He slowly winked at her. Such a small thing, but it made her heart sing. They were still friends! She beamed at him.
If her mother had not been in the car, Dottie would have liked to touch the back of his neck. Unless she looked in the mirror, that was all she could see of him. There was a gap of perhaps two inches between the top of his collar and the start of his hair, very short and very fair at the nape. She wanted to put her fingers there, stroke the skin, feel the bristles of the short hairs against her fingertips. Perhaps push her hand up a bit so that her fingers could really tangle in his hair, draw him in closer to her, close enough to...
There was a muffled curse as the car suddenly veered wide and he had to bring it back to the right side of the road. He mumbled an apology, just as her mother said sharply, ‘Really, William, dear!’
As he reached up a hand to adjust the mirror, Dottie wondered, when had her mother started calling him William, let alone dear? It was exactly the way her mother addressed George, Dottie thought, almost as if her mother thought of William as a member of the family, like a son. The penny dropped. Oh. Not a son. But a son-in-law.
Dottie glanced up, but the new angle of the mirror defeated her attempt to catch his eye. Feeling disappointed she went back to looking out of the window. Her heart was soaring. William had come down to Sussex intending to save her and save her he certainly had.
They stopped for petrol after an hour, and whilst the young garage assistant was filling up the tank, Mrs Manderson turned in her seat to speak to her daughter.
‘I told Janet and Cook to leave us out some sandwiches and a flask of coffee. I imagine we’ll be very glad of a hot drink when we get home.’
Dottie nodded absently to these domestic arrangements and glanced in the direction of the driver.
Hardy got out of the car and stretched. Not that they’d been travelling for long, but he felt he’d done nothing but sit for the last few days; his back and shoulders were cramped with knotted muscles.
He exchanged a few words with the young fellow filling up the car, then leaned inside the car to ask Dottie to pass him his wallet from his jacket pocket.
She did so, her fingers finding the familiar worn-smooth leather of his old wallet, the one she’d discovered when nosing about his room back in those summer months that felt so long ago. As she passed it to him, their fingers briefly touched, she felt a tremble go through her and her eyes looked into his. Her heart did a little flip of joy.
His grip tightened on the wallet and he snatched his hand away as if she’d burnt him. Too quickly he straightened and bumped his head on the car roof, swearing instinctively and at the same time, dropping the wallet in a puddle.
Mrs Manderson immediately said, ‘Language, William dear!’
He apologised. He shook the water off his wallet, paid the attendant, then there was nothing for it but to get back into the car. He let off the brake and they rolled back out onto the main road. Dottie saw that the back of his neck was flushed as red as his face.
As the countryside and villages rolled by, Dottie’s thoughts returned to their previous theme and expanded on them. I’ve wasted six months, she told herself. Six months when I could have been William’s fiancée, perhaps even his wife by now. Or perhaps a Spring bride. I could—she gulped. She was only saying the words in her head, but even so she almost choked on the emotion. I could have been his wife by now, living with him in Mrs Carmichael’s old house, choosing curtains and china with him, making it a home.
They came to a junction and he glanced in his mirror. It had somehow reverted to its previous position, although she hadn’t noticed him move it. His eyes found hers again in the glass.
‘How is your sister getting on up in Matlock?’ her mother was asking him, whilst Dottie was staring at him, and thinking, I could have lain in his arms every night.
Her mother added sharply, ‘Oh, do be careful of that car, William. I’m sure you’re not fully attending to the road.’
He apologised and moved the mirror again. Which was probably just as well, Dottie thought as she leaned back in the seat, her chin propped on her hand. As the scenery flashed past, her thoughts ran in circles, unable to move beyond her knowledge of having done something incredibly foolish on the train all those months ago. She dashed away a tear, glad he had not been watching her at that moment.
They stopped again for a late lunch six miles from London. Conversation was general, with William and Dottie avoiding looking at one another or speaking of anything other than the weather and the good time they had made and the lack of traffic. Mrs Manderson politely failed to notice that there was any tension.
For the last section of the journey, they had all lapsed into complete silence. It was growing dark by the time they reached Scotland Yard. William went inside for a moment to drop off his papers and to call a cab for the ladies.
Mrs Manderson kissed his cheek, an act that astonished her daughter. Dottie would have liked to kiss him too, but he held out his hand to her in an unmistakably distancing manner. She shook his hand and thanked him politely for all he’d done. As if they were strangers again, she thought. The cab arrived. William helped the driver to put their luggage inside.
They hesitated, looking at one another awkwardly. Mrs Manderson simply said, ‘Goodbye dear, thank you for everything you did. We’re all so grateful. Do come and see us next time you’re free for dinner or tea.’
‘I shall, Mrs Manderson, thank you. Give my regards to everyone.’
He turned to look at Dottie again.
‘Can we drop you anywhere?’ she asked. ‘How are you getting home?’
‘Oh, I’m waiting for...’
Just then there was the sound of a car horn, and they stepped back as a vehicle swept to a halt beside them, perilously close to mounting the pavement.
‘Ah this is my lift,’ he said. He looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, goodbye, Dottie.’
She wanted to hug him or kiss his cheek. But he gave her a quick wave, opened the door of the newly arrived car and got into the passenger seat. To Dottie’s dismay, she saw a woman behind the steering wheel. A young, blonde woman. As William got in, she leaned over and directing a glance straight at Dottie, she tilted her head and kissed William full on the lips. They drove away and Dottie stood there wondering what had just happened to her heart.
‘Dottie?’
With a sigh and a shrug Dottie got into the cab. ‘Oh Mother. I’ve been such a fool. And now it’s all too late.’ She leaned against her mother’s shoulder, fighting back the tears.
‘Nonsense, dear. It’s never too late unless you give up entirely.’ Mrs Manderson rapped on the glass. ‘Drive on, please.’ She leaned back to put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders.
The driver let off the brake, and the car gent
ly rolled out to the main road to join the evening traffic.
At least, Dottie thought, I’m going home.
THE END
About the Author
Caron Allan writes cosy murder mysteries, both contemporary and also set in the 1930s. Caron lives in Derby, England with her husband and an endlessly varying quantity of cats and sparrows.
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Also by Caron Allan:
Criss Cross – book 1 of the Friendship Can Be Murder trilogy
Cross Check – book 2 of the Friendship Can Be Murder trilogy
Check Mate – book 3 of the Friendship Can Be Murder trilogy
Night and Day: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 1
The Mantle of God: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 2
Scotch Mist: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 3 a novella
The Last Perfect Summer of Richard Dawlish: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 4
The Thief of St Martins: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 5
Easy Living: a story about life after death, after death, after death
Coming Soon – 2020
The Spy Within: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 6
Rose Petals and White Lace: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 7
Coming soon: 2020
