by Caron Allan
‘Come away, old girl, nothing we can do for the poor fellow now,’ Mike said.
‘You don’t understand!’ she cried, turning to face the lot of them. ‘None of you understand. I loved him! We were going to be married!’
Then she fell down in a dead faint upon the floor.
Chapter Two
JUNE 1934, YORK.
The power of a random word or phrase to come out of nowhere and to destroy everything, Dottie thought, as she edged forward in the throng of people leaving the platform. Behind her, she heard the train puffing out of the station, carrying William with it, and the ashes of her dreams.
‘Change at York for all stations to Scarborough.’ That had been the guard.
‘George’s sister Diana is staying there for a while. She’s been ill.’ Dottie herself had said, and how she wished she’d said nothing, just said nothing at all, then everything would still be all right.
‘I’m not sure we could still consider pregnancy an illness in this day and age,’ William had then replied. And in those few words, he had revealed, quite unwittingly, his prior, privileged knowledge.
Everything seemed to recede around her now as she ran through it all again, what had happened between them just a few minutes ago. How close she had been to complete happiness, promised to William forever, kissing him, holding his hand, feeling his arm strong and protective about her, then that one little phrase had come out of nowhere and had set off an avalanche that had brought her world crashing down.
Diana wasn’t married, that was the problem, and she had been having an affair with a married man, one that resulted in his death. Now Dottie had discovered, completely by chance, that Diana was pregnant. She had been sent away to have her child in secret then give it away to strangers to bring it up. Like Dottie’s recently deceased friend and mentor Mrs Carmichael, Diana would never see her baby again. But she would always wonder, Dottie felt certain, and always hope. And William—he had known. All this time. And he had said nothing. Even the recent events in Scotland had not loosened his policeman’s tongue. Dottie saw with clarity now all the years ahead of them, her and William, if she married him, and all the secrets he would keep from her, all the silence, the unspoken thoughts and quiet knowledge. Part of him that would never be hers.
‘This ticket’s for London, Miss,’ the ticket collector told her. Dottie focussed on him with difficulty. He smiled at her kindly, seeing a tired, upset-looking young woman standing in front of him, jostled by the crowd, looking fit to drop. Quarrelled with her sweetheart, no doubt.
She said in a faded kind of voice, ‘Yes, but I’m staying here for a few days, or possibly a week.’
‘It’ll still be valid in a week’s time, Miss, or if you decide not to travel back for a while, you could apply for a refund on the unused portion.’
‘Thank you, I’ll think about it.’ She took the ticket and followed everyone else out into the street. She stood there, dazed, a bit frightened to think too closely about what she had just done. No, she knew what she had done. Her head had told her to hold back, not to speak out, not to act rashly, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself, passion and shock causing her to blurt out her hasty words. And so it had happened. The end.
‘The world’s shortest engagement,’ she told herself with an unsteady laugh which very nearly gave way to a sob. She bit her lip and hefted up her suitcase. Now what? She forced herself to be practical. She needed somewhere to stay. She had said she would go to the Station Hotel in Scarborough, but she really didn’t feel as though she wanted to go anywhere right now. She would stay in York overnight and travel on to Scarborough in the morning. She was exhausted, even though it was only mid-afternoon, but the last week had been busy and emotional, and she had left Scotland early that morning. In the station yard there was the ubiquitous Victorian-era hotel, a lovely old building, and she made for that, hoping they would have a room.
‘Then tomorrow,’ she told herself as she went, ‘I can get the train to Scarborough and get a room at the Station Hotel and wait for W—for Inspector Hardy, I mean—to telephone with Diana’s address. And I must telephone to my parents, they’ll need to know where I am.’ It was a relief to deal with practical matters. She went in the front door of the hotel and up to the desk.
‘Yes, Miss?’
‘I’d like a room, please. Just for tonight.’
‘Of course, Miss.’ And the clerk took her through the rigmarole of checking-in, then summoned another young man to carry her suitcase up wide shallow stairs, thickly carpeted, to a room overlooking the side entrance and a brick wall.
The youngster hovered, disposed to talk, but Dottie cut him off with an imperious, ‘Thank you, that’s all for now.’ He left, with a look of unsatisfied curiosity, something he wouldn’t have dared had she been with her parents or a husband, or if she had just been a little older than her twenty years. The door closed behind him and she was at last alone with her thoughts.
She sat on the bed. It was high off the ground, and even she, tall for a woman, couldn’t reach the floor. Her legs dangled like a child’s; she leaned back on her elbows and looked around the room.
How had it happened? She couldn’t seem to stop that question arising time and time again. She fell back on the bedclothes, giving in completely to the misery that had engulfed her as soon as she’d stepped off the train.
‘Oh William!’ Dottie clutched the pillow to her face and wept.
Finally, exhausted by the emotion, she slept. When she awoke, she felt better. More resigned. She would compose herself and get on with her life, she decided. Nothing was so bad that one couldn’t recover from it with time and by keeping busy. She washed her face, brushed her hair, repaired her make-up and changed her dress. Then she went down to dinner, pausing at the desk to arrange a telephone call to her parents.
Dining alone was no fun, and she ate quickly and with little regard for what was put in front of her. Her head was full of ideas as she mentally sketched the conversation she was about to have with her parents. She returned to the reception area, still not sure how much she would say or leave out.
The telephone for the use of guests was concealed in a little booth at the rear of the lobby. Dottie went in and pulled shut the jerky sliding door. These things never closed properly, she thought. She made herself comfortable on the little padded butler’s stool and waited for the call to come through. It was a relief, though hardly a surprise, to hear her father’s voice, not her mother’s. In a few short words she told him she’s decided on an impulse to overnight in York before setting off for Scarborough in the morning to visit George’s sister Diana, leaving out the fact that she had yet to obtain an address for Diana.
If her father thought any of this seemed peculiar, all he said was, ‘You sound a little odd, dear. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, Father, I’m perfectly all right.’
‘Do you have enough money?’
Bless him, she thought. Aloud she said, ‘Er, well, no not really. I have enough ready cash, if I could leave the bill at this hotel and the one in Scarborough to you?’
‘Of course, my dear, I’ll sort those out for you,’ he promised. She just had time to thank him and assure him once again that she was all right, and to ask after her mother and her sister Flora, who was expecting her first child. Then the operator ended the call. She left the telephone booth and followed the direction of the discreet sign that indicated ‘sitting room for hotel’s clients’ and found herself in a dowdy, slightly dusty room, full of sofas and easy chairs, each one looking as if it was at least a hundred years old. An elderly lady sat at a tiny desk in the corner, writing letters. She turned to stare at Dottie through her lorgnettes then looked away.
Not wanting to stay in that dreary place, Dottie went back to her room. On the stairs she passed a fair-haired man. And just for a moment... But the chap went right on past her with only the slightest smile and nod, and she saw it was not William Hardy at all but a complete strange
r.
She sat by the window looking out at the busy streets. It was rather early, too early for bed, but she couldn’t think of a thing to do other than brood. She wondered what time William would be likely to call. It was then that she remembered. She had told him she would be in Scarborough. And here she was still in York. And—she looked at her watch—he probably wouldn’t be home yet, in any case. The train should have arrived in London about an hour ago, and then he would have to go straight to his office and find the address to give to Dottie. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps he would—out of spite or anger, or simply because he was tired—perhaps he would wait until the morning and the resumption of his duties before looking out that information? Which meant that Dottie would not be likely to see Diana tomorrow. For a moment she had the panicking thought, what if he didn’t ring at all? What if he was so angry with her, so resentful, that he simply ignored her request for the information, or rejected it on the grounds of police confidentiality, or some such thing, and he never called her. What would she do then? For a bleak moment her thoughts ran aground on this awful possibility, but then she mentally swept it away with a brisk, silent, ‘Nonsense!’ There was no point in considering such a devastating consequence until it happened—if it happened.
Her father would by now have spoken to her mother about what Dottie had said. Then her mother would doubtless convey the information to Flora and thus to George. So if Dottie didn’t hear from William by tomorrow evening, she could telephone Flora and ask her to ask George to ask his parents for the address of the old nanny with whom Diana was staying in Scarborough. Until then Dottie would just have make her way to Scarborough and while away the time there as best she could until she had the information she needed. It felt good to have come up with a plan.
But she had not told William—Inspector Hardy—that she was still in York. She didn’t want to speak to him, but there was another way. She ran back down to the reception desk and asked for another telephone call to be put through to her parents’ home. Her father would certainly have a large telephone bill to pay when he settled her account here. She was relieved that Janet answered the phone. The maid Janet was walking out with Sergeant Frank Maple, Hardy’s most regular assistant. Cutting through Janet’s chatter and enquiries, Dottie said, simply, ‘I need you to tell Your Frank to let Inspector Hardy know that I am at the Metropolitan Hotel in York. I had told him I’d be in Scarborough, but I’m staying here tonight and won’t be going on to Scarborough until tomorrow. In case he asks.’
If Janet was surprised by either Dottie’s tone or the way she called William ‘Inspector Hardy’, she said nothing, assuring Dottie only that she would get it done straight away, then adding, ‘Are you all right, Miss? You sound a bit queer?’
Dottie told her she was just tired, and in need of a good night’s sleep. She thanked Janet, said goodnight and hung up the receiver. She went back to her room, gathered her things, and went along the corridor to the bathroom for a deliciously hot bath, then felt it was a reasonable hour to turn in.
She slept fitfully, tossing and turning, and waking from horrid but already-forgotten dreams. She knew she had called out William’s name at some point, as the sound of her own voice woke her, sweating and trembling, from the dream, and it took over an hour to go back to sleep. Somewhere around dawn, she had a passing thought: I’d almost forgotten I’m Mrs Carmichael’s heiress. The girls at the warehouse must be wondering what’s going to happen to them. I must go back next week and start sorting everything out.
Finally, she fell deeply asleep and woke at nine o’clock feeling reasonably refreshed.
It was a good thing she stayed in the hotel after breakfast, for William’s phone call came at eleven-fifteen. The clerk directed Dottie to the same booth at the back of the reception hall that she had used the previous evening. As she stepped inside and pulled the door closed, her heart was pounding. Her hand shook as she took up the receiver.
‘Hello?’ At least her voice sounded more or less normal. After a short delay, there was William’s dear voice coming down the wire to her.
‘Dottie? It’s William,’ said William, from his desk in London. In York, Dottie rolled her eyes. Well, of course it was, Dottie thought, who else would it be? He continued in what she thought of as his policeman’s voice, officious and to the point. ‘Are you all right? Look here, darling, this is madness, you can’t simply...’
But Dottie wasn’t having any of that. As coolly as she could, she said, ‘Inspector Hardy, how kind of you to call. I hope you have that address for me?’
At the other end of the line, she heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a very bad word indeed. When he spoke, it was as if through gritted teeth. ‘So that’s how you want to play it? I see. Well in that case, Miss Manderson, here’s your information. Bessie Brown, 71 Seaview Terrace, and much good may it do you!’ With a loud bang, he slammed down his receiver and left Dottie with the echo of it going round and round in her head. Fighting back tears, she told herself she deserved that.
She ran up to her room, repeating the address under her breath, afraid she would forget it before she wrote it down.
Slamming the phone down did not relieve William Hardy’s temper at all. He was aware only of a deep sense of grief. Something vital—Dottie’s heart—had been irretrievably lost.
He had been at his desk at eight o’clock to catch up on the events of the past week. He had an appointment with his superior officer at 4pm. Until then, time hung on him like a pall. He decided he would take an early lunch. A very early lunch. The clock in his office at the police station showed 11.20. He made his way to Mr Bray’s office, and spent far longer with the solicitor than he’d anticipated.
Mr Bray, a middle-aged bachelor who took a great interest in the lives of others, especially with regard to their romantic involvements, had been looking forward to seeing Inspector Hardy. He had hoped to see the lovely Miss Manderson too, but it quickly became clear, as the young policeman began to explain what had happened in Scotland, that there had been a falling out. Mr Bray felt a huge wave of disappointment but tried to give William his full attention.
William ended his rather long account with, ‘So you see, there’s still quite a lot to do if my half-brother is to be exonerated and the real killer brought to justice.’
‘And that is...?’ Mr Bray pressed, though he felt sure he already knew the answer.
‘Well, there’s no clear evidence either way, which is part of the problem. It is either Mrs Louise Denholme, the dead man’s wife, or her mother, the novelist Miss Millicent Masters. Both women are of small stature, which fits perfectly with the position of the wound on the body, and both women had the opportunity of committing the crime. And both women wanted the man dead. I’m absolutely certain in my own mind that Mrs Denholme is conducting a romantic involvement with the local procurator fiscal, and that he used his position to ensure evidence was either lost or ignored. Again, I’m convinced it was he who fixed on my half-brother to take the blame, but theories are not proof. However, I have a meeting with my superiors this afternoon to discuss what may be done.’
Mr Bray’s eyes lit up with interest as he listened to all this. William went on,
‘I shall lay everything I know and have discovered before my superiors, and I have every hope that at the very least, we might be able to force an inquiry into the conduct of the procurator fiscal and the possibility of him abusing his position. This could lead to a re-evaluation of recent criminal cases. But otherwise, it’s out of my hands...’
‘Hmm, yes of course. Mr Hardy—excuse me, I mean, of course, the other Mr Hardy—will need to keep out of sight for a time. I suspect these matters could take quite a while to be resolved, if in fact, it is possible to resolve them at all. Well, do please keep me informed. That seems to be all for the moment. Now if you will just sign here.’ He indicated a place at the bottom of a form he now set in front of William. William duly signed the papers without taking to time to read them
. ‘And here—thank you—it gives me great pleasure to hand over to you the remainder of the monies which were your fee for going to Scotland and tracking down your own brother. I apologise, incidentally, for the deception, but I’m sure you would agree that, had I been explicit about your task, you would have declined to undertake it.’ He cast a look at William, who gave him a brief nod in reply, his expression inscrutable. ‘This envelope contains the £250 we agreed. And this other envelope contains some papers and a set of keys. These are also for you, and left to you by Mrs Carmichael as one of her bequests. Her only proviso being, that if your half-brother should ever need shelter, you would provide it.’
‘Well I’m in lodgings at the moment, so there’s no room. But in any case, I couldn’t do that while he is a wanted man; as a police officer I’m prohibited from any involvement with criminals. Even if they are waiting to be proved innocent.’
‘Quite so, well if he should turn up to beg a bed for the night, do send him to me, won’t you?’
But William wasn’t listening. He was looking at the small bunch of keys that had fallen out of the envelope. ‘What...?’
‘Ah. Those are the keys to Mrs Carmichael’s residence, which she has left entirely to you. The papers you so trustingly signed without reading just now relate to that property. The envelope also contains the deeds, of course. You may take possession immediately, or whenever convenient to yourself. So you see, you shall have room for a guest if someone should turn up on your doorstep late one night. I’m so sorry to hurry you, but I’m afraid I have another client waiting.’
Mr Bray got to his feet. He didn’t add, I had thought it would be the perfect first home for you and the delightful Miss Manderson. He suppressed a sigh of disappointment and extended his hand. ‘Goodbye, Inspector Hardy. Thank you for your assistance. I hope we won’t have to wait long for a happy conclusion to the events in Scotland.’