by Caron Allan
Satisfied now that her sister hadn’t actually come to any harm, and with a smile playing about her lips as her imagination leapt ahead to what appeared to be a foregone conclusion, Flora sat back to enjoy watching her sister wrestle with the memory of that evening.
‘Or, or...’ Dottie floundered to a halt.
Flora wasn’t going to let her sister back out now. ‘Exactly what I would have done myself, dear,’ she assured her, adding, ‘Do go on.’
‘Oh good. I felt rather...Anyway, finally I found William in his bedroom, dead drunk and passed out in a chair.’
Flora hid her smile of anticipation behind her tea cup. ‘Yes?’ she enquired mildly.
‘Well I’m afraid I lost my temper. Seeing him drunk like that, and his mother only just laid to rest! Before I even knew what I was going to do, I was across the room and I gave him the most almighty slap! The poor man couldn’t have known what hit him.’
‘Literally,’ said Flora, enjoying herself immensely. She couldn’t wait to get home and tell George everything. Both he and she harboured hopes of a romantic intrigue between Dottie and the handsome inspector. And, in Flora’s view, a good hard slap delivered spontaneously by an angry young woman was a reassuring sign of emotional attachment to the victim of the slap.
On the verge of tears of shame, Dottie narrated the rest of the story and ground to a halt, too miserable to enjoy any more of her food. She pushed her plate away and added as a codicil to the main story, ‘And so I doubt if he will ever talk to me again. Which is a terrible shame because on the night of the robbery, after my dinner with James Melville, William was absolutely wonderful to me. Even though I accidentally kissed him, which I think he was very annoyed about, because he left immediately. And to think he went home that night to find his mother had passed away. And this is how I repay his kindness!’
Her eyes brimmed over, she fumbled for a hanky which was supplied by her sister, who added in a bracing voice, ‘I wonder if he’s back at work?’
‘He went back the day before yesterday. It’s not very long, is it, a few days to mourn his dear mother and sort through everything. No wonder it was easier just to drink himself oblivious.’
‘Hmm. I just hope he doesn’t make a habit of it.’
Dottie had nothing to say to that.
Flora leaned forward. ‘So tell me more about this ‘accidental’ kiss that occurred when he came about the robbery.’
She waved Flora off in a cab—George was using their car—and she gathered the folds of her coat about her, glad of their protection against the chill of the wind that swept the length of the street, its icy fingers snatching at her hat and sending the ends of her long woollen scarf into the air like a kite in front of her. Locks of her hair were driven out from under her little cap—a nonsense of a thing in this weather—and she could hardly see where she was going as she attempted to control all these rogue elements, with her eyes now streaming too because of the cold. Ducking her head to try to minimise the impact of the weather, she turned to hurry away towards home and the warmth of the fire. It was almost pitch black, the low heavy rainclouds bringing an early end to a miserable day. Would the winter never end?
She felt a slight tug on the strap of her bag, and as she began to look down to see what had happened, half-turning her head, she heard a noise, was aware of a flashing pain searing her brain, and somehow she was on the ground, bumping both her shoulder and temple as she connected with the wet pavement. Someone ran off down the street, disappearing from sight. She managed to open one eye in time to see a man’s legs and feet, but that was all.
She couldn’t get up immediately. Pain seemed to fill her being, and she couldn’t catch her breath. It hurt too much to open her eyes. The dim distant streetlamps were like bright needles piercing the back of her skull. There didn’t seem to be a soul about, no one heard her whispered pleas for help. The street seemed to be empty yet her mind echoed with the sound of those running feet, though whether that was a real memory or the creation of her imagination, she couldn’t understand. It felt very dark and lonely here. She had to move.
After a few moments her confusion lessened, and the pain in her shoulder and the side of her head dulled to a continual throb. Common sense was able to assert itself once more. Lying on the pavement was not a good idea. Gingerly she raised herself into a sitting position, and felt about her for her bag. It wasn’t there.
Her head was pounding. She felt she needed to hold it. That seemed to help. With one hand, she pulled herself onto her feet, aided by a sturdy fence-post. Once upright, she waited for waves of nausea to subside, clinging desperately to the fence-post until she was able to marshal her thoughts and decide on a course of action.
She had been mugged, she realised finally. That was a crime, and she needed to tell the police about it. The police station was—she was almost sure—just along the street, around the corner and down a little bit further.
Rather like a drowning man clutching at driftwood, she fixed her thoughts on the help she would get once in sight of the blessed blue lamp of the police station. Infinitely slowly she began to make her way along the street.
It seemed to take her hours to reach the front desk. People had passed her on the street and she’d been vaguely aware of them tutting and shaking their heads over her dishevelled appearance, no doubt thinking she was drunk or destitute or worse. She mused on this as she concentrated on negotiating the steps up to the front door, unable to think what might be worse than being drunk or homeless. The steps were almost too much for her but at last here she was, gripping the counter-top and trying to make herself heard above the pounding of her head.
‘Inspector Hardy,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The desk sergeant frowned at her, and she could tell he thought she was some disreputable character fit only for a night in the cells. She fixed him with a pleading look.
‘Help me. I was attacked. My bag... Please, please, I need to speak to William Hardy. I’m a friend. At least, I think I am... tell him it’s Dottie. Please.’
Not entirely believing her but nervous of the alternative if it turned out she was telling the truth, the sergeant nodded and emerged from behind his counter to march off down the long corridor.
Dottie stood there, swaying unsteadily and gripping the counter, knowing if she let go she would fall. Her head swam, she felt nausea from the pain threatening to overpower her, but in her imagination she followed after the sergeant, down the length of the station’s main corridor, through some doors, down some steps, along the twists and turns of the hallway, until she arrived at the door to William’s office. How lovely it would be to be swept up into his arms and just carried away to a place of safety and quiet, away from this noisy place where all she could hear was the clattering of running feet and the sound of exclaiming voices. And this strange floating feeling she was now experiencing.
‘I am not drunk,’ she announced, suddenly concerned that people might think she was. There was a warm hard pillow at her cheek, and even though it wasn’t soft, it comforted her.
‘Where’s her bag?’ she heard a voice demand. I know that voice, she thought, and a smile spread across her face.
‘Oh William!’ she murmured happily against the hard pillow of his shoulder, and closed her eyes.
‘She said something about it, sir, but I couldn’t make it out.’ That was the nice sergeant. She liked him because he’d brought William to her.
‘Get the duty doctor here immediately. I’m taking her to my office. And bring hot sweet tea and a glass of water.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Dottie, bloody hell, what happened?’ he asked a moment later as he set her down on the only chair in the office that was halfway comfortable.
‘Language, darling!’ she reproved gently from what seemed like a great way off.
The sergeant arrived with the doctor in tow, as well as a tray with tea and water.
‘Been mugged, clearly,’ Dr Garrett said. ‘Slight concu
ssion, nothing too serious. Get her to bed, a good night’s sleep, and a couple of days’ rest, and she’ll be fine. Isn’t this the same lovely young lady I attended outside the house where that murder-suicide took place a few weeks ago?’
‘Yes, it is.’ Hardy’s tone was grim. He didn’t want to think about that night.
‘Feature in all your investigations, does she? Rather a lovely young lady. Is she walking out with anyone, do you know?’
‘I’ll kill him if she does,’ Hardy’s voice was, if possible, even grimmer. The doctor laughed.
‘So that’s how it is! Then I wish you luck. Let me know when to order the gravy-boat.’
At last they had all left, and he was alone with her. He felt an unreasoning rage at the sight of the bump on the side of her head, the bruise on her cheek, the chalk-white complexion. He pulled a seat over and sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder and shaking her gently. ‘Dottie.’
She stirred, leaning in to snuggle against his shoulder once more. Her hair tickled his nose and her scent filled his senses. He gave himself a mental shake. They couldn’t stay here like this.
‘Dottie,’ he said again, more insistently. ‘Are you ready to go home? The doctor’s seen you and he says I can take you home now. I’ll go and get a car and drive you.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. Then a moment later, like a child belatedly remembering her manners, she added, ‘Thank you, William darling.’
He sighed. When she remembered this later, she’d be furious with herself. And probably with him too, though he couldn’t really see how any of it was his fault. If she remembered this.
Her mother was beside herself with anger and anxiety in equal measure when he finally helped Dottie into the house half an hour later. Whilst Mrs Manderson and Janet helped to get Dottie upstairs and into bed, Hardy explained to Dottie’s father what little he knew of what had happened.
Mr Manderson, who liked the young man immensely, poured them both a Scotch, inviting Hardy to take a seat. Soon they were in a deep discussion about their hopes for the coming cricket season. Their peace was broken ten minutes later by the return of Mrs Manderson, with an odd appraising look in her eye as she said,
‘My daughter asks me to apologise for her behaviour earlier. She is afraid she has caused offence by some careless remarks.’
Hardy, blushing, resumed his seat and assured Mrs Manderson that there was no offence, adding, ‘I’m afraid that much of Miss Manderson’s speech was rather indistinct due to her injury, so it wasn’t possible to make out what she was saying.’
Mrs Manderson, accepting the small sherry offered by her husband, made herself comfortable on the sofa, and set herself to the task of being pleasant to the young man who had not only come to the aid of her younger daughter, but was clearly the object of her affections. Grudgingly she admitted to herself that the fellow was attractive and had a pleasant way with him, in spite of his lack of position. Her older daughter had recently told her that William Hardy was perfect for Dottie, and that he was gallant. Now, in denying whatever indiscretions Dottie had committed, he was proving himself to be a gentleman in character, if not in rank.
‘I was so sorry to hear about your dear mother, Inspector. She was a delightful person, I’m sure she will be sorely missed by all who knew her.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Manderson, I...’
‘I hope you will come to dinner on Saturday evening, we would so enjoy seeing you and your charming sister again.’
This surprised him. He accepted a little diffidently, excusing his sister who was away, and adding, ‘I hope Miss Manderson will be recovered by then.’
‘I’m sure she shall, thanks to your prompt care and attention.’ Mrs Manderson smiled at him. He reflected it was the first time he had seen her really smile. It took years off her, and he was surprised to see how young she suddenly appeared, and how very like her younger daughter.
Chapter Nine
‘RIGHT, WHAT WE HAVE is this,’ Maple was saying. It was Saturday morning, and he was standing in front of a schoolroom blackboard he had set upon an easel, his hands and suit jacket covered in chalk dust. He looked more like a pupil writing lines than a teacher. There was even a smudge of chalk on his chin. Nevertheless, Hardy was impressed by the work the sergeant had put into organising the main points of the robbery cases. Being organised was never Hardy’s strong point. They made a good team, as their little chat with Wilfred Walter Wotherspoon three days earlier had shown.
‘Help me flip her over, Bill,’ Maple said. Hardy stepped forward to help turn the board over. On this side Maple had created a list of all the venues of the robberies, five of them that they knew of so far: one in Oxford at the home of a Mr Norris Smith taking place in the first week of January; one in Hitchin, Hertfordshire, at the home of Gareth Smedley-Judd the week after the Oxford one. Next there was a gap of almost a month, then came the robbery at the other Smedley-Judd brother’s home, Ian, at his home in Kensington and taking place in the middle of February. This was followed by a second robbery in Hertfordshire, in the town of Hemel Hempstead where a Mrs Emmeline Foster lived; this took place in the third week of February. Lastly there was another London-based robbery, this time in Highgate, where a Gerald Radleigh had hosted a small dinner to celebrate his elevation to the college of bishops, and which occurred while Hardy was off due to his mother’s death just before the end of February.
‘Very good, and now turn it back again,’ Maple said. They did so, and he continued to show Hardy what he had done. ‘On this side, the right-hand column is a list of all the items stolen. It’s all the usual stuff you’d expect this type of criminal to go for: small, portable, easy to fence. And that’s how we managed to collar Wotherspoon, he had this bracelet and earrings set from the Oxford party, and a couple of other bits and bobs, a couple of rings and a cigar-case if I remember correctly, we’ve got them all in the evidence room. And this section on the left is the little bit of useful information we have from the witnesses. As you can see there’s not much. Basically, it amounts to: five perpetrators, all male, and a tattoo on the wrist of a tall chap. That’s pretty much it. Hopefully we’ll be able to add a bit more information to that.’
‘It’s a terrific help to have it displayed like this, so thank you Frank, that was a brilliant idea.’ Hardy said. ‘How did you come up with it?’
Maple preened. ‘Saw it in a report about new procedures at Interpol.’
‘Interpol? Interesting. If I’m not careful, they’ll be poaching you for some grand job at the Met. Now this wretched case. The thing that I keep coming back to is this,’ Hardy said, ‘As we already know, once everyone has been safely herded into the dining rooms, the next step is for two of the gang to hold everyone at gunpoint, and another one is stationed in the doorway to stop anyone from leaving, while the other two go off around the houses. We originally presumed that was with the intention of picking up a few more useful valuables.
‘But we now know, from the maid in Hertfordshire, and from our friend the helpful Mr Wotherspoon, that although they go off, presumably to search the house, they always seem to return empty-handed. Why is that? What are they doing?’ he asked. ‘I feel if we can work that out, we will make some real progress.’
‘Are they looking for something in particular, or just checking for hidden guests who might raise the alarm? Or else what are they doing? It don’t make sense.’ Maple leaned back against the blackboard, his arms folded across his chest. Their discussion continued for a few more minutes. When he eventually moved away to fetch them both a cup of tea, the back of his jacket was even more badly smudged with chalk dust and there was a clean patch on the blackboard. Gone was their meagre description of the robbers. Hardy smiled and shook his head.
As soon as Maple returned, Hardy pointed out the smudging. And the clean patch on the board. It was a good thing Maple was walking out with Janet, the maid from the Mandersons’. She’d be able to brush that suit down and have it looking smart again in no time.
How he envied Frank his easy-going approach to life, not to mention the illicit union he was enjoying with the attractive young woman. So long as everything went smoothly, they should be fine. Of course, if Frank got the girl into trouble, there’d be the wrath of Mrs Manderson to face, and doubtless a hasty wedding.
Hardy began to wonder if that would be so bad. Perhaps that was the best way to do things? No one would quibble over relative stations in society, over wealth, prospects, or the suitability of the home on offer, if a child was on the way. The wedding would go ahead as quickly as possible and with the least possible fuss. The cavemen had it simpler, he thought. If only he had his own cave, he could have dragged Dottie into it weeks ago.
‘Never mind about me jacket, I got some biscuits too, before that lot from Beat 17 got hold of the lot.’ Maple said, his voice ringing with triumph as he sent the office door crashing back into the frame with a well-aimed kick. ‘Get that down you.’ He handed Hardy a cup of tea, sloping the hot liquid all over his hands and desk as he did so, causing Hardy to curse at the heat and fish out his handkerchief to mop himself and the desk top.
‘You know, Frank,’ Hardy said, mindful of his thoughts of a moment before, ‘you need to be careful with Janet. If you get her into trouble, it won’t be you who has to face Mrs Manderson, it’ll be Janet. I don’t envy her that one little bit.’
‘It’ll be fine. In any case, the worst that will happen is she loses her position a bit sooner than we’d planned.’
‘You’re getting married?’ Hardy was more relieved than surprised.
‘Talking about it. Not actually set the date yet. But you know, it’s not all just about the how’s-your-father. I really like her.’
Hardy smiled at him, and somewhat awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m pleased for you both. She’s a very nice girl.’ He sipped his tea, grimaced at the stewed taste then turned back to the blackboard. ‘One thing puzzles me.’
‘Only one? There’s about a hundred things what puzzles me!’ Frank chuckled. He came to prop himself, cup in hand, beside the inspector. ‘Go on then. What is this one thing what puzzles you?’