by Caron Allan
‘Of course she did, women never go anywhere without their bag. I want it found. Send some men to knock on doors, we need to know if anyone saw or heard anything. I know there aren’t many residences just here, so they might not get much, but we’ve got to try.’
‘Sir.’
The strand of beads she had worn when he last saw her had been snapped. Small red beads lay all over the alleyway. A young beat constable almost fell over as his boot slid on one. He cursed and kicked it aside. ‘Hey!’ Hardy yelled at the youngster. ‘I want all those beads picked up and put in an envelope.’ He knew they weren’t likely to be important to the case, but in any case he wanted it done. Luckily few were foolish enough to challenge a detective inspector, especially one in a bad mood early on a Monday morning.
‘Yes sir, straight away,’ the lad responded immediately.
The doctor arrived with his assistant, and between them they quickly erected a small screen to shield the cold remains of Daphne Medhurst from the public. Hardy was glad they did so, he did not know how much longer he could stand there and look at her corpse. He had seen enough dead bodies in his short police career, some of them horribly mutilated, some of them in advanced stages of decomposition, but never had his involvement felt so personal. He gladly stepped back from the scene, allowing the doctor to begin his preliminary examination.
Maple stepped back with him, and in a low voice said, ‘You obviously knew her, Bill. Is there anything you think I should know?’
‘Got any cigarettes?’ William Hardy asked him. Maple handed one over, greatly surprised.
‘Never seen you smoke,’ he observed. As a reply Hardy struck a match, lit the cigarette and took a long slow drag, leaning back against the building wall, his eyes closed, his faced turned up towards the thin morning sunshine. After a moment he said,
‘I took her out last night. I met her at the Mandersons’ dinner on Saturday night, I suppose I thought I quite liked her, though I wouldn’t have spent any more time with her. On closer acquaintance, she wasn’t really my type. Rather too free and easy, a bit too pushy. I had lunch with her yesterday, and before I knew what was happening, I was committed to taking her out last night. She wanted to go to the pictures. That new Arabian romantic thing.’
He exchanged a look with Maple, who tried to stifle a laugh. ‘Don’t see you in the back row, snogging and trying to cop a feel.’ Catching sight of Hardy’s face, he hastened to apologise. ‘Sorry sir. Didn’t mean to be irreverent. Just—you know—a sudden mental picture of what courting couples usually get up to in the cinema.’
Hardy couldn’t help a short laugh. ‘It’s all right. No, I’m afraid we fell out. I lacked enthusiasm for the young lady’s charms, I’m afraid. It feels horrible saying this about her but she was a bit, er...’
‘Cheap?’ suggested the ever-helpful sergeant. Hardy shook his head.
‘We shouldn’t say such things, and after all, I hardly knew her... She’s dead, the poor woman.’ He threw down the cigarette butt and ground it under his heel. ‘And now I’ve got to tell her father. Poor blighter.’
‘Want me to come along?’
‘No. I want you to go the picture-house, the one on the Avenue, see if anyone there noticed her leaving. Obviously she met up with someone, somehow, somewhere. I lost sight of her at the kerb outside the place. See if there are any pubs between the picture-house and here, she might have met someone in a pub, or outside. It was closing time, someone may have seen something.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Right then...see you back at the office.’
Clearly there was something in Hardy’s appearance that warned Major Medhurst that his visitor was no longer a prospective suitor but a police officer bearing bad news. Medhurst disappeared back into the house on seeing Hardy, leaving him standing at the open front door.
Hardy stepped into the house, and closed the door behind him. In doing so, his fancy was that he had shut out the noise of the outside world and entered a house already in mourning, even though the grim news had yet to be delivered. The house felt hushed, as if waiting.
Hardy went into the sitting room and found the Major there, standing by the window looking out, his thin shoulders heaving with the weight of his grief. There seemed nothing to say. Hardy’s very presence told him everything. Hardy stood in the doorway and wondered what to do next.
‘How?’
Hardy cleared his throat, and said softly, ‘I’m afraid it appears she was hit over the head.’
Medhurst nodded. After a pause he said, ‘These little hats the girls all wear nowadays, no protection.’
‘No indeed,’ Hardy replied, belatedly remembering to remove his own hat. He took a seat. The chessboard had been set up again, a match was already in progress. No doubt a new game had been started after he had taken his leave the previous evening.
‘When can I see her?’ Hardy was startled when Major Medhurst spoke suddenly right beside him. Tears ran unchecked down the man’s face. He was wringing his hands, his fingers restless and trembling.
‘Not today,’ Hardy said. He shook his head gently as he said it. Didn’t want to tell the man it would take time, that the pathologist would have to cut her open first, that her body had to be scrutinised and taken apart, the last shreds of her character torn away by the procedures of investigation.
‘I must. I must see her. I must see my little girl.’ Medhurst collapsed sobbing into the armchair. He swept his hand out and sent the chessboard crashing to the floor, pieces scattering. A bishop went underneath the chair, Hardy noted, and a pawn broke in two as the elderly gentleman stepped on it with a tatty bedroom slipper.
Hardy still had no idea what to say. In Medhurst’s place, he would no doubt feel exactly the same. He remained silent and waited for the sobs to subside.
Chapter Twelve
‘WHAT ON EARTH IS MOTHER up to at the moment?’ Dottie asked her father over lunch the next day. ‘She’s hardly ever here. She’s always rushing off.’
‘I know,’ said her father, and his tone indicated he wasn’t too worried about the situation. ‘Some new charity or welfare thing, I don’t doubt. You know how she’s always got the bit between her teeth about some cause or other. This one’s with your friend Mrs Gerard.’
‘Hmm.’ Dottie picked at her food, she had no appetite at the moment. She sighed too, and loudly.
Her father watched her closely for a while and then, with uncharacteristic insight he said, ‘Something on your mind, dear?’
‘It’s just this terrible thing about Daphne. Janet had it from Sergeant Maple this morning, as you know they are walking out together. No doubt it’s still supposed to be kept quiet, but he seems to tell her rather a lot of secret police business. But... poor Daphne. I mean, I never really liked her, but...’
‘I know, dear. However, I can’t pretend I liked the girl. Rather fast, I always thought. No doubt that’s not what you youngsters call it these days.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And she was trying to be fast with your young fellow, from what I can make out,’ Mr Manderson ventured cautiously, still watching his daughter closely over the edge of his newspaper. She recoiled slightly at his words, which told him all he wanted to know. He reached out to pat her hand. ‘Don’t fret, my love, he’ll be back.’
‘I don’t care what he does!’ she declared, shoving back her chair with a crash and running from the room. He heard her run up the stairs, across the landing and into her room. Above his head there came an almighty crash as she slammed the door with all her might. The whole house seemed to shake with the force of it.
Alone at the dining table, Herbert Manderson pushed away his empty plate and, setting aside his newspaper, reached for the domed dessert dish, his mouth already watering. Lifting the lid, he found nothing inside apart from a note from his wife. ‘No Dessert, Herbert—You Are On A Diet!’ This was all heavily underlined to press home her point. He set down the lid rather loudly. Herbert Manderson felt an urge to copy his daughter and shove back his chair and run upstair
s, slamming doors as he went.
Instead he went to his study and settled himself at his desk with a whisky and a box of biscuits. He reflected on his younger daughter’s behaviour. Mentally he began to calculate the likely cost of a wedding for her. ‘Not this year,’ he told himself, ‘so definitely next.’ He made some notes in his diary.
After the business of the meeting of the Daughters of Esther was over and dealt with, and refreshments were being enjoyed, Mrs Manderson found herself seated beside the leader of the group. It was clear the woman had something on her mind, which she quickly laid out for Mrs Manderson, ending with,
‘My dear Mrs Manderson, I hope you know I would never ordinarily ask you to do such a thing, but as the saying goes, ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’.’
Mrs Manderson clutched her cup and saucer tightly and regarded her companion thoughtfully. In her mind, she was beginning to put together several seemingly insignificant occurrences which, taken as one, assumed a greater importance. With the practise of many long years, she quickly controlled the anger she felt. She said nothing; her eyes remained steadily fixed on the woman opposite her.
Clearly sensing what she took to be an inner resistance, Mrs Manderson’s companion tried a new tactic: a direct plea. She set down her cup and saucer and leaned forward, dropping her voice to a confidential pitch.
‘Mrs Manderson, may I be frank with you? We are both women of the world, we know what matters in life, and what may be termed ‘set dressing’. I know your daughter’s welfare is of the first importance to you, as it would be to me, in your situation. This is a circumstance where we can help one another. Allow me to take this worry from your shoulders, and in return you have the power to relieve my mind considerably. I need that scrap of material, it may prove to be very important.’
‘You said earlier,’ Mrs Manderson replied, ‘that your agents had tried twice to acquire this item you need, and without success. How did you even know my daughter had this–this thing?’
‘Your daughter showed it to a friend, who being a very loyal friend, told me what she had seen. I recognised immediately that it was something of significance.’
‘Mrs Gerard, do you imagine I can succeed where he—or should I say, they—have failed?’
‘A mother can always exercise authority over her child...’
There was a lengthy pause. Finally, Mrs Manderson asked, trying but not entirely succeeding in keeping her voice neutral, ‘And was it one of your ‘agents’ who hit her, knocked her to the ground, left my daughter injured and defenceless? In the street? Was that part of your ‘enquiries’, as you put it?’
Her companion was wise enough to realise this was a make-or-break situation. She assumed a pained expression, and leaned forward once more, this time to pat Mrs Manderson’s hand. ‘My dear Mrs Manderson, Lavinia, if I may, words cannot...I can’t lie to you. It was one of my agents who was responsible. I’m truly sorry for what happened. It was never part of our plan to allow any harm to come to dear Dottie, pardon me, to Dorothy, in any form. He admitted to me that he tugged a little firmly at the bag, and that she fell and bumped her head on the pavement. He panicked, it’s true, I’m afraid, and he fled instead of summoning help. He said he assumed the passers-by on the street would help her. And believe me, no one regrets more than I... and we were so relieved to find that her injuries were mercifully slight. This is another reason why perhaps your own intervention in the matter is so desirable.’
Mrs Manderson’s only reply was a tight nod of her head, and with that her companion had to be content.
Mrs Manderson went to sit beside a vast figure swathed, like herself, like all of them, in black wool.
‘My dear Muriel,’ Mrs Manderson said softly, ‘I hope you weren’t surprised or inconvenienced by Dorothy’s absence from the warehouse recently. But really it’s hardly unexpected, considering.’
Mrs Carmichael regarded Mrs Manderson from the shadows beneath her capacious hood. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said in her habitually blunt manner. ‘What happened to Dottie?’
‘She was attacked in the street. She’d just been having tea with Flora at Lyons’. In fact, in many ways, I’m thankful that it was Dorothy who was attacked. I dread to think what might have been the outcome if it had been Flora... and in her delicate condition.’ She allowed her voice to fall away and waited for Mrs Carmichael to sip her tea and consider.
‘Are you saying Dottie was deliberately targeted by an attacker?’
‘Oh, I think it’s quite clear she was singled out, don’t you? I’m sure no real harm was intended, but when a young woman’s bag is snatched, the young woman in question is bound to put up a fight, isn’t she? These girls today have so much spirit. Not like in our day when we just meekly handed over anything we were told to.’
‘Someone snatched Dottie’s bag?’
‘Indeed.’
‘What did they want?’
‘Well, it couldn’t have been money, she never carries a lot about with her. The police haven’t yet recovered the bag.’
‘Sounds like a pointless crime.’
‘And yet we know, don’t we, that there could have been a real point to it. A very small, scrap of a point. It seems she showed something to a friend, and that person told someone else,’ Mrs Manderson, copying her companion, also sipped her tea. ‘I think I shall be resigning my position here. One likes to do one’s bit to assist the unfortunate, but in doing so one expects, even relies upon, the loyal support of one’s sisters in the organisation.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Carmichael. She said no more. She was looking across the room at another figure. Her voice sounded thoughtful. Mrs Manderson felt she had achieved her aim, and murmuring pleasantries, she withdrew.
‘Muriel Carmichael here,’ said Mrs Carmichael with little pretence at patience. ‘Yes, I know it’s very late. I don’t care about that, tell Mrs Gerard that I want to speak with her. If she doesn’t contact me immediately, I shall have no choice but to go to the police and tell them everything I know. I can’t have my own friends being attacked in the street and injured. Not to mention the inconvenience to my business when they can’t come to work because of those injuries. I’m not going to stand for it. We’re supposed to be doing good, not attacking people. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. So you can tell her from me, I’m don’t want to be involved any longer. It’s all gone too far.’
She slammed the receiver down, feeling better for letting off a little steam. It would do Mrs Gerard—and the others—good to know they couldn’t have things all their own way. Especially not now, not after this.
At the other end, the butler had been on the point of asking her to wait whilst he went to fetch Mrs Gerard, but Mrs Carmichael, Muriel, as he remembered her from their young days, hadn’t given him the chance.
He hung up the telephone and went to the drawing room. He knocked once on the door and went straight in. Mrs Gerard was seated at her writing table by the window. She was already dressed for bed but had come back downstairs to make a few notes in large spidery writing on a long, yellowed sheet of paper. Her notes were scattered about the page, linked by carefully ruled lines. He ahemmed politely, and waited while she blotted her page. She turned to him.
‘What is it, Aitchison?’
‘Mrs Carmichael telephoned, madam.’
She nodded. ‘And?’
‘She was greatly agitated, madam. She spoke of talking to the police.’ He then proceeded to repeat everything Muriel Carmichael had said before slamming her receiver down.
When he finished speaking, Mrs Gerard was pale, and her mouth set in a firm, straight line. She said nothing immediately, and Aitchison waited patiently whilst she mulled it over. At length she said, ‘Kindly telephone to my nephew and tell him I’d like him to join me for tea tomorrow afternoon.’
Aitchison nodded and withdrew. Mrs Gerard opened the drawer of her desk and took out her rosary. She bowed her head in prayer.
That
Tuesday morning, Hardy arrived back at the police station, exhausted and grim. Maple and a good many more officers were still out. There was a message on Hardy’s desk saying that the chief superintendent wanted to speak with him. Hardy groaned inwardly but went straight upstairs.
His interview with his superior officer was mercifully short. A mere fifteen minutes later, having assured Chief Superintendent Smithers repeatedly that everything was being done to find the culprit, he returned to his office and shut the door, hoping that would keep everyone out.
He sat in silence for several minutes. His thoughts went round and round in his head. Every avenue of thought, every remembrance of the crime scene, of the evening before the murder when Daphne was very much alive, it was all played and replayed in his mind. Was it a simple mugging gone wrong? Or was there more to it than that? He should have stayed with her... And time and again his reasoning came back to one single thought: where was Daphne Medhurst’s handbag?
Hardy stared into space. Only a sheer effort of will restrained him from leaning forward and burying his head in his hands. What a mess it had all turned into, he thought. He was no further forward on the robberies, and he hardly knew how to begin the investigation into Daphne Medhurst’s murder. There were papers everywhere: reports, interviews, memoranda to remind himself what he needed to do, what to look into or find out about, and for the moment he had no idea how to sort out any of it in order to make some headway. A certain proverb about woods and trees came to mind.
On top of everything, even though he knew, absolutely knew, deep down that he was not to blame, he could not shake off the sense of guilt he felt over Daphne’s death. He felt it was the result of some terrible failure on his part to deliver her safely home to her father.
Would she still be alive if he had been a little more giving, a little less strait-laced during their evening out? He felt like a prudish spinster now. He had told Maple all about it, and had seen how his friend tried to disguise his smile. Hardy felt humiliated, and even ridiculous for his missish response to Daphne’s overtures, but couldn’t see any way he could have responded differently. He hadn’t been attracted to her, had no desire to be in any way intimate with her. And he wasn’t the sort of man to indulge in careless, meaningless sex. But certainly they shouldn’t have fallen out. Not that they had exchanged angry words, but fall out they had certainly done, with that cold angry silence stretching between them. If they had left the picture-house talking and laughing as other couples had done, arm-in-arm, he could have taken her to supper then seen her home afterwards. And she would still be alive.