by Caron Allan
‘His baby brother.’
Dottie smiled. ‘How unfortunate to have two robberies in one family and just a few weeks apart.’
‘Isn’t it?’
She began to read. He watched her closely as she did so. Her hair fell forward to curl about her face. He had to resist the urge to brush it back, to stroke her hair and feel the silky strands between his fingers.
‘Is this...’ she looked up, a frown making a crease between her brows. ‘Is this a pattern?’ she asked. ‘Is this how they do it?’
He nodded slowly. ‘I think it could well be. I’ll bet it’s not the same person every time. It can’t be, because your Mrs Gerard wasn’t at this particular one, though she was at one or two of the others. But here, you see, what this witness says about another lady who was there.’
Before he could continue, she read, ‘‘Mrs Smedley-Judd was, luckily enough, in the bathroom the whole time, so she was the only one of us who wasn’t robbed, and didn’t have a gun pointed at her. I was just concerned they might search the house and find her.’ But that’s exactly what... oh no, it couldn’t be! Not Mrs Gerard! She’s our friend! I was so worried the robbers would find her and hurt her, or take her jewellery, and yet all along...’ Tears filled her eyes.
He stopped resisting, and swept her into his arms to hold her tight, hugging her fiercely and sneaking a sly kiss onto her cheek. ‘Dottie! Don’t be upset!’
She kept her face pressed into his shoulder. They sat like that in the silence of the kitchen for some time, until, pushing him gently away, she went upstairs to the bathroom to wash her face and repair her make-up.
When she got back, he was busy at the sink, washing their cups and saucers. The spell was broken. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry, but it was for the best, she knew that. How easy it would be to just let go of responsibility and abandon herself to his arms, especially now that there was no one else in the house to intrude on their privacy.
On returning to the kitchen, her first words were, ‘I’m afraid I must go now,’ and she said it rather formally. And only when she’d said it did she realise he was speaking too.
‘I really think it would be best if I walked you home,’ he was saying.
And on a rather shaky breath she laughed and said, ‘My mother would never approve of me being here alone with you in the evening.’
She put on her coat. He fetched his own on the way to the door, and they walked through the streets of London, hand in hand, and on the steps of her house, he contented himself with a quick kiss on her cheek before wishing her goodnight. He watched her safely inside then went back home. His heart was light. He felt like singing, not a sensation he was prone to. William Hardy was well and truly in love.
Chapter Seventeen
‘HOW MANY PEARL NECKLACES does Mrs Gerard own?’ Hardy asked. The maid had been nervously twisting the edge of her apron between her fingers, but when she heard his question, her nerves left her, and she relaxed immediately. She treated him to a scornful look.
‘Why just the one, of course. Don’t you know how much real pearls cost? And a lady such as Mrs Gerard, she ain’t going to have no truck with artificial ones.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘No, I don’t suppose...’
‘Why, she’d never hear the end of it if she did, and never be able to hold up her head in public again for the shame of it, poor love.’
‘Indeed. Well, I just wanted to check...’
‘The very idea...’
He held up his hand to prevent a further onslaught. ‘Please.’ He made a note in his notebook. ‘And has Mrs Gerard had her pearls damaged or replaced, or has there been any time in the last three months or so when they weren’t available for her to wear?’
The maid thought about it. ‘Well, the catch was loose a while back. That would be about the middle of February, I remember as she only came back from abroad just a day or two before. She couldn’t wear them for a week or so, as they’d gone for the catch to be mended. And then, almost as soon as they came back, she broke the string and they had to go off to be restrung, and so again, she was without them for a week or so.’
‘Did you have to send them off for the catch to be mended? Or did Mr Aitchison do that?’
‘Oh no, Mrs Gerard attended to it herself. She doesn’t mind doing little things like that.’
He took her through the dates, and was elated to find they matched the dates of two of the robberies, the Ian Smedley-Judd one in Kensington, and the robbery a week later in Hemel Hempstead at Mrs Foster’s. Next he asked, ‘And did you see her break the string? I expect you had to help her pick up the beads. It’s always so hard to find them all, isn’t it, they roll all over the place.’
She didn’t even need to think about it, just shook her head and came straight back with, ‘No, her nephew was here. He got them all up for her. I offered to count them to make sure they was all there, but she said they’d already done it.’
‘Her nephew? The honourable Cyril Penterman?’ Hardy hated the sight of Cyril Penterman, after his brief flirtation with Dottie before Christmas.
‘What? No, he’s in New York with his new wife. No, the other nephew.’
‘Ah,’ said Hardy, feigning realisation. ‘The short, dark-haired gentleman?’
The maid laughed. ‘Er, no! Some detective you are, Inspector. Her nephew Mr James. He’s as tall and fair as Mr Cyril, but oh so good-looking, like a Hollywood film star. And with that lovely Scottish accent. He’s ever so classy. All the girls are mad about him.’
‘Ah, my mistake. I imagine Dr Melville visits often?’ He was holding his breath. If the maid corrected him now, his conjectures would be wholly without foundation.
She didn’t. Giving just a slight nod of agreement, she continued, ‘All the time. In and out several times a week, he is, but then, she’s so fond of him, and it does her good to see him, otherwise she’d be quite lonely.’
‘I expect he’s wonderful company for her. Did he go with her to Mrs Foster’s in Hemel Hempstead? A few weeks ago, that was?’
‘Yes, I think so. Oh yes, he did, definitely. They drove there together in Mrs Gerard’s car, he was doing the driving though, and I remember she told him to make sure he looked it up in the AA book to be sure he knew the way. ‘I don’t want to miss my dinner,’ she said. She makes me laugh the way she goes on at him. Like a music hall act they are, sometimes.’
Hardy smiled and thanked the maid. As he left the house by the servants’ door, he felt the thrill of knowing his case was all coming together at last. He had spotted the discrepancy, Dottie had confirmed it, though of course, he hadn’t mentioned any names. But now it was clear. The pearl necklace, bracelet and earrings Mrs Gerard had were her only set. Even the very wealthy wouldn’t have large quantities of pearl sets of jewellery. So how had she managed to have three identical sets stolen at the parties she attended? By pretending they were broken, of course, and gone for mending.
Muriel Carmichael was sleeping. Her large form was comfortably swaddled up beneath her blankets and an ancient counterpane made by her own fair hands as a young girl learning her craft. It adorned her bed more as a trophy than a practical ward against the cold night air.
Every night when she pulled back the counterpane to get into bed, she felt the old thrill of achievement and victory over her inauspicious beginnings. On the three occasions every year when the counterpane was sent to the Chinese laundry for specialist cleaning, the upset to Muriel Carmichael’s routine made it difficult for her to sleep. And the following day she snapped and grumbled at everyone who crossed her path, from Pamphlett her maid to the mannequins at the warehouse. Then, on the return of her counterpane, her usual jovial mood, like her routine, would be restored.
As Muriel Carmichael slept, snoring softly in her warm nest, a long thin stick was inserted between the two panes of the front room window downstairs and the flimsy catch pushed aside. The stick—a broken garden cane—was withdrawn and dropped on the ground and afte
r a short pause the lower window pane was slowly and gently raised. It squeaked slightly in the frame, but no one seemed to hear the sound. After another short pause, the window was pushed upwards again until a large space, sufficient for a man to pass through, was achieved.
The figure was clad all in black to blend into the shadows and escape the notice of any insomniacs or night workers out and about in that part of London at three o’clock in the morning. He put one foot over the sill, found a secure footing on a long low wooden chest inside, and quickly slipped into the house.
He’d made no sound at all apart from that one small squeak of the window. He felt pleased with himself. He made a good crook—efficient, daring and with not a moment wasted. Turning, he carefully lowered the window again. This time the window made no sound at all.
He crossed the room. He knew the layout of the house, having visited on more than one occasion, and besides, his eyes had quickly adjusted to the low level of light coming in from the street.
From the bottom of the stairs, he could hear the sound of her snoring. Smiling to himself he picked up the vase from the hall stand and carried it up the stairs with him.
At the top, he went over to her door, and looked inside. It was darker here, but after just a few seconds he could see the gleaming white pillow and make out the head covered in tiny prickly curlers, the generous form of her making a large mound under the bedclothes. He knocked the bed frame with his knee, just enough to disturb her, and her snoring hitched and paused. He sprinted silently on rubber-soled feet back to the head of the stairs, lobbed the vase down to smash on the floor below, then smartly stepped back into the shadows as the woman, just in her nightgown, came hurrying from her room, shouting, ‘Who’s there?’ He’d known she wouldn’t remain timidly quaking under her blankets until morning.
It was the work of a moment to step forward and plant both hands into her back and shove with all his might. She didn’t even turn, had no suspicion he was there. She plummeted downwards in the dark, too surprised even to scream, sleep-addled and unable to fathom what had happened.
She crashed into the hall stand. There was an earsplitting sound of glass, wood and bone splintering and snapping, then silence. But no human sound. She had said nothing since that first, challenging, ‘Who’s there?’
Upstairs the maid was already getting out of bed and hurrying across the hall. He stepped back behind the door of the guest bedroom, as she snapped on the light and ran down the stairs, screaming at the sight of Mrs Carmichael’s prone figure. Pamphlett, her hair plaited in a severe braid down her back, her nightgown concealed beneath a gentleman’s burgundy silk smoking jacket of huge proportions, threw herself on her knees beside her mistress’s body, uncaring of the pool of blood coming from the wound on the old woman’s head. She felt for a pulse, found none, and whispered a short prayer. She dashed the tears from her eyes and went into the back parlour to ring for the priest and then the ambulance, in that order.
While she was gone, he hastened down the stairs, stepped exultantly over the body of the one who had threatened his freedom. He was out of the front room window within a minute and safely down the road and away. Elated, he cheered to himself. It was done.
It was still dark when Hardy arrived at Mrs Carmichael’s house. A number of neighbours were either standing in the street, or peering from behind curtains and blinds. Several uniformed constables were in the street in front of the house to make sure no one got too close.
Pamphlett was sitting on a dining chair in the middle of the street, being comforted by a neighbour with her hair in curlers and holding a bottle of gin.
Hardy had already been briefed by Maple in the car on the way there. He felt a deep sense of anger. Dottie would be devastated, he knew, she had been so fond of the old girl. And he himself had been hoping, once his workload had lightened, for a further conversation with Mrs Carmichael about his father. Now that would never happen, and her knowledge and her secrets would go with her to the grave.
But now it seemed unlikely that this was just a simple domestic accident. True, many of the sudden deaths that occurred every day could be attributed to accidents, misadventures or carelessness either in or around the home. But from what Pamphlett had said, he couldn’t help but feel it was suggestive...not conclusive, though, just... Was there anything to reinforce the possibility it was not an accident?
He found it almost immediately. Pamphlett had repeated her story of the squeaking front room window, and the unsecured catch. He took a look for himself, and found the catch was indeed pushed back. Using his own handkerchief and Maple’s too to avoid obliterating any fingerprints, he lifted the lower sash, and it rose easily enough with only a soft squeak, just as Pamphlett had said. Not enough to wake the street, but loud enough if you were lying in your bed half-asleep. Probably during the daytime hustle and bustle no one would even notice the sound, but in the dead of a fine night the sound would carry. He had no doubt the sound would carry within the house and be heard clearly by people already awake.
Then he spotted the short length of bamboo cane. He carefully picked it up with his handkerchief and passed it to Maple, who held out a large envelope to receive it.
‘Get that looked at, Frank. There’s just a chance we might get a print off it if he didn’t wear gloves, the main part of the stem is so smooth and shiny, it makes an ideal surface. It’s the perfect tool to push back the catch on the lower sash—it slides up between the two panes very neatly. When the fingerprint fellow gets here, get him to take a look at the window frame too, would you? Especially on the inside. You never know, we might be lucky.’
Maple hurried away to call the fingerprint department at the Yard. As he went he called over his shoulder, ‘When you go inside, watch yourself. They said there’s broken glass everywhere inside the door, and it’s sharp enough to cut right through your boot-leather.’
Thus cautioned, Hardy went into the house. He’d known, of course, that Mrs Carmichael’s body was still there in the hall. And by now he’d seen a number of corpses, but it always gave him an initial jolt when he first saw the victim lying where they had fallen in death. This occasion was no exception. And for the second time in less than a fortnight he was looking down at the dead body of someone he had known in life.
The medical examiner was on the point of leaving. He was putting his things away in his black bag. Just like the one the maid Ellen had mentioned, Hardy reminded himself. He exchanged a ‘Good evening’ with the doctor, even though it was in fact fast approaching breakfast-time. Maple came in as the doctor went out and tipped his hat.
‘The fingerprint chappie will be here in about half an hour. Apparently, it’s been a busy night. The other bods have already been called out to other crimes, so we’ve got to hang on for someone else to cover. He’s just having a spot of porridge before leaving home,’ Maple told Hardy, adding, ‘He’s Scottish, so that probably accounts for it. I don’t think I could face porridge on an empty stomach myself.’
‘A bowl of hot porridge would do me a treat right now,’ Hardy said, aware of the early spring pre-dawn chill eating through his coat and jacket and settling in his bones. ‘I suppose you’re a bacon and eggs bloke.’
‘And kidneys. You can’t beat fried kidneys to set you up for the day. And Janet does fried bread a treat too.’
‘I’m not sure I needed to know that,’ Hardy said. ‘But I assume she’s just fattening you up for an early heart attack and a nice fat police pension.’
‘Have a heart, mate. A bloke’s got to eat.’
Hardy stood as close to the foot of the stairs as possible, in view of the fact that Mrs Carmichael’s own feet were in the way. ‘And get something to cover the poor woman,’ he snapped, suddenly angry at how carelessly she had been covered. ‘Give the woman some dignity.’
Maple hurried away to get the tablecloth from the dining room table, and he draped it over Mrs Carmichael’s body.
‘What d’you think?’ he asked Hardy, waving a h
and wide at the scene.
‘I think she was pushed,’ said Hardy. He turned to go up the stairs. Maple followed. Hardy went into the bedroom, saw the covers pushed back.
‘She heard a noise, but I was wrong, it couldn’t have been the noise of the window, or she’d have caught him as he came up the stairs. So she heard some other noise, and she got out of bed. She didn’t bother with her dressing-gown or her bedroom slippers. So, she was in a hurry, then. She heard something, and she rushed out to see what it was.’
He went back into the hallway, carefully skirting the top of the stairs, not easy in the dim narrow space. The door leading to the attic floor stood open. Next to that was the little guest bedroom. That door also stood wide open. Hardy went in, careful not to touch anything.
‘Can you get the fingerprint chappie to look at this panel of the door, and the one on the other side as well. I think our fellow came in here to wait for Mrs Carmichael to come out, then he’d be perfectly placed to pop out and shove her straight down the stairs. It would take no time at all. So whatever noise she heard him make, he made it deliberately, to lure her out. He came here to kill her, not to rob the house.’
Back on the landing, he stood looking down the stairs. It was all coming together in his head. ‘If the man came up from the front room, he’d have gone past the hall stand. That vase—that’s how he got her out here. He collected that on his way past, and threw it down the stairs from up here. That’s why the top of the vase is right up there by the front door. He threw it with all his strength. There’s no possible way she could have fallen down the stairs and smashed into the hall stand in such a way that the top of the vase could break off and end up right by the front door, a good twelve feet away, in front of her. She was murdered.’
His sergeant nodded in understanding; it took someone with Hardy’s own special way of looking at things to bring the crime to life. That was what he admired about Hardy, he was an instinctive investigator. ‘Now all we need to know is why,’ Maple said.