Night and Day

by Caron Allan

  ‘You made it up,’ he stated in a dangerous tone. Dottie flashed him another brilliant smile to which it seemed he was sadly immune.

  ‘Not exactly...I mean, not to say...well all right, yes we did.’

  ‘You were under oath in there.’ He pointed back to the door behind them.

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘You were giving evidence in a court of law, namely a coroner’s inquest. I could have you charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. Or at the very least, with perjury.’

  ‘Yes, but you see, having told Susan Dunne that Archie sent his undying love, obviously I had to carry that through or she would have known something was fishy.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘I didn’t even know you were acquainted with Mrs Dunne.’

  ‘We were at the same school,’ she said, and attempted another bright smile to appease him.

  ‘Of course you were,’ he said, and began to walk away. Dottie thought he looked and sounded very tired. He turned back and called, ‘Do me a favour—don’t make up anything else. Understand?’

  Blushing, she bit her lip and nodded. She hoped no one had heard him. He turned on his heel and stormed off.

  Flora hurried over to grab her arm. ‘You know, I think he likes you. George says he’s a perfectly decent chap. They were up at Oxford together.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dottie’s expression was one of studied indifference. ‘What a small world. Rightio, I must get home. Got to make myself ravishing for dinner with dear Peter tonight. Wish me luck!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling, we’ll drop you. You can’t go home on a bus. Mother would have a fit, and think what the neighbours would say!’

  ‘I always go by bus, it’s perfectly all right,’ Dottie grumbled, but when the heavens opened and the rain began to pelt down, she shrieked and raced with Flora to the car.

  *

  ‘Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry if I’m disrupting your evening, there are just a few quick questions I need to ask.’

  ‘Of course, Bill, old chap. Er—I mean—Sergeant Hardy,’ George hastily corrected himself.

  Flora offered Hardy a drink, which he declined. They sat on sofas on opposite sides of a large rug and stared at one another for a few moments, the silence broken only by the occasional sound of a voice or a motor car from the street.

  ‘Erm—look, I do hate to ask you this, but I’m sure you understand that in a police investigation, we are bound to ask questions of a highly personal and sensitive nature.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ Flora murmured, and George nodded, but Hardy fancied they both appeared a little more wary. A distance appeared to grow between them. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Er—so, if I could just ask you about your sister, Mrs Gascoigne. I don’t suppose Miss Manderson—that is to say—was Miss Manderson at all acquainted with Mr Dunne?’

  They exchanged a look then Flora immediately said, ‘No, she’d never met him.’

  ‘You’re quite certain?’

  ‘Quite certain.’

  ‘She couldn’t possibly know him, without you being aware of the fact?’

  ‘I’m quite certain she didn’t.’

  ‘I see.’ He paused, feeling breathless, as though he’d run upstairs. ‘And did she know Mrs Dunne at all?’

  ‘Not really. Susan Dunne went to our school, but she was in a different year. We both knew her by sight, nothing more.’

  ‘And Miss Manderson had never spent any time with Mr Dunne, didn’t know him, didn’t know his wife, in fact had no relations with the couple whatsoever?’

  ‘None,’ said Flora, looking mildly irritated now. There was a protracted and uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Well, thank you. That’s all I needed to know. Thank you for your time.’ Hardy got to his feet, his trembling fingers struggling to fasten the buttons of his jacket.

  George also stood up, ready to see Hardy out. Hardy turned at the door.

  ‘Do you know anyone, possibly a young lady, whose name begins with either a D or a V?’

  They’d both shaken their heads before Flora added, ‘Well of course there’s George’s sister Diana.’

  ‘And is she acquainted with the Dunnes at all?’

  ‘Oh no, Sergeant, she went to a completely different school to the one Dottie and I attended. She went to Blackheath. We went to Lady Margaret’s.’

  Chapter Seven

  When the Honourable Peter St Clair St John arrived at the Savoy on the evening of the inquest, all the staff snapped to attention and vied with one another to give him the best possible service. He was known as a generous tipper. Dottie, observing his arrival, wondered if his arrival had the same effect as that of the visitation of Kings or Popes in the past. It seemed to her that everything was polished just that little bit shinier for his advent, and the flowers were just a little fresher, the smiles on the faces of the waiters and doormen just that little wider and brighter. The Honourable Peter smiled and beamed and nodded at all who appeared on his horizon. Dottie sighed, and rose from her seat in the foyer to go to meet him. Let’s not pretend, Dottie my love, she told herself, Peter is a dear, but he enjoys seeing himself adored by others far more than he adores you!

  The Honourable Peter greeted her with pleasure, smiling and hugging her and kissing her gloved hand. And that was the end of his adulation. He glanced about in a calculatedly bewildered manner and immediately the maître d’hôtel was at his elbow, craving to know where the esteemed gentleman would prefer to be seated. Peter waved a vague hand and tables were rearranged, other diners moved, and all was rendered perfect for the Honourable Gentleman.

  Almost at the last minute, Peter remembered to wait until Dottie had been seated before taking his own seat. She felt like an amused onlooker as Peter and the maître d’ went through the rigmarole of selecting dishes before the discussion of appropriate wines took place. At no point was she consulted about her choice so she was at liberty to sit back and watch the performance rather as she had done at the theatre. Clearly whenever she went out to dine with the Honourable Peter it would become a grand spectacle, and she hadn’t minded too much that she was so greatly overshadowed by his splendour.

  Previously.

  Tonight she felt a little irked. Possibly it was the way Peter leaned slightly to the left so as to catch his own reflection in the mirrored wall. Or it may have been the way he smoothed his hair down and ran his tongue over his teeth. She felt a little petulant, and resisted the urge to clear her throat very loudly to get his attention. There was no point, she realised. He just wouldn’t understand. To him, she was only slightly elevated above the charming floral table decoration between them.

  Eventually, having approved the wine, he turned to her and said, ‘So I hear you stumbled quite literally on a dead body last week?’

  It was not a topic of conversation that she wanted to revive, as it seemed as if no one had wanted to talk of anything else since it happened. But she obliged him with the bare bones of the story.

  ‘Archie Dunne. Poor old sod.’

  Dottie did not approve of what her mother termed ‘language’, especially not in a smart setting such as the Savoy, therefore she treated him to a frown, which he did not notice. The Honourable Peter went on to say, ‘I was at school with him, you know.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think everyone was,’ she responded. ‘Flora’s George was too.’

  ‘Oh yes, George Albert Gascoigne de la Gascoigne, yes I remember dear Georgie. A weaselly little fellow.’

  ‘So you’ve said before. He’s certainly turned out jolly nicely since then, I’m happy to say.’ She didn’t know why she wasted a perfectly good snap on him, because once again, he simply didn’t notice, and she had been the only one to hear the annoyance in her tone. He lounged an elbow on the table-cloth, and failed to notice her withering look. In her mind, during the course of just three evenings, Peter had slipped from nice chap and excellent dancer to utter bore. Inwardly she sighed in disappointment.<
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  ‘Old Archie was a bit of a rum sort, though, what? Very bookish. Very bookish,’ he added again, as if he’d enjoyed hearing himself say it. ‘Didn’t know the wife. Bit dowdy from what I’ve heard. And very rum too, by all accounts.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dottie said, ‘but no one seems to know what it is that makes her so—erm—rum.’ She despised these common phrases, but hoped that the idea of ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ would pay off in further information.

  ‘No, can’t say as I know.’ Peter agreed.

  ‘But why was he so odd? Apart from being bookish,’ she quickly added, seeing he was about to repeat his new favourite phrase.

  ‘It was just he was always reading some old philosophy or stuff like that. It was all about thoughts and ideas. History. Dusty religious tomes. All airy-fairy stuff you couldn’t get hold of.’

  ‘And her? Susan?’

  Their first course arrived and she was afraid her attempt to get information out of him would be frustrated by the commencement of the meal, but as soon as the waiter had slipped away with an ingratiating smile, Peter turned back to the topic.

  ‘From what I hear, she was a bit the same. Old Archie always used to say we were living in an artificial way, that it was time for mankind to get back to their true lifestyle, to a better, more real time. Got to return to our natural order.’

  ‘Natural? How so?’

  ‘Search me, Dot, like the primitive tribes, I suppose, all hunter-gatherer stuff. Living off the land and close to nature. Moon tides. Midsummer Eve. Communing with the seasons, and all that rot. Have you seen the new show at the National?’

  ‘Gallery or theatre?’ she asked waspishly. She abhorred being called Dot.

  ‘Theatre, you idiot, you can’t have a show at a gallery.’

  Inwardly she sighed yet again, and outwardly she put on a smile. ‘No, Peter, I haven’t seen it. Have you?’

  ‘Rather! Excellent stuff, farce you know, terrifically funny. Want to go? I wouldn’t mind sitting through it again.’

  She didn’t really want to, but couldn’t think of an excuse so she agreed. Perhaps next time he wouldn’t seem such a fool. ‘Perhaps we could invite George and Flora to make up a four?’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘If we must. You know, old George is as dull as ditchwater.’

  ‘He is not!’ she said hotly.

  ‘If you say so. Only I think I’d know as I know lots of the top people, been rubbing shoulders with them since I was born, and so I can pick out a dull one as easy as anything. But I suppose your sister chose to marry the chump, so...’

  ‘Yes, she did,’ Dottie said, and clenched her fist in her lap so as not to hit him with it.

  ‘She could have had my brother,’ Peter pointed out.

  Ah yes, Viscount Greenwood, Dottie thought. Now there was a man who could bore for England, but she smiled again and remarked that the restaurant was very quiet this evening. She began to realise that it would always be like this. She had so looked forward to seeing Peter, and in fact she had begun to adore him at first, but now she could see that he was quite simply an idiot, and she was unsure of making it to the end of the meal without screaming at him or throwing something at him. It just went to show that having the best of everything including education, could not buy good manners, common sense or intelligence.

  Peter stated that they were not interested in dessert, and would go straight to the cheese and port. Dottie, who detested port and wasn’t overly fond of cheese, called the waiter back, and said she would very much like some dessert, and a coffee to follow. It was difficult to know who was the most surprised by her temerity: Peter, the waiter or Dottie herself. The waiter actually looked at Peter for confirmation, and Peter gave a shrug, which the waiter took as approval and hurried away. As she looked across the table at her companion, the man she had so recently harboured romantic hopes of, she saw his little bloodshot piggy eyes as if for the first time, the hint of future high blood pressure in his red face and thickening waistline, and in his previously-admired confident manner, a future overbearing pompous bore, and she told herself, remember this, and next time he invites you, turn him down. Flat.

  Eventually he took her home. She briefly wrestled with him on the doorstep again and sent him away irritable and feeling unloved. She went inside and leant against the door, eyes closed, and breathed a sigh of relief. She would have to invent some excuse not to see him as she had agreed. She couldn’t bear the thought of another evening in his company. That would be the farce, they’d have no need of going to the theatre.

  ‘Dorothy? Is that you? Didn’t the Honourable Peter want to come in for a night cap? I hope he won’t think we’re being inhospitable. He’s always welcome in this house, even without an invitation,’ her mother yelled.

  Not quite as honourable as one might think, from his behaviour just now, Dottie decided. She went to join her parents in the drawing-room. ‘No Mother, I’m afraid not. He said he had to get home for an early start in the morning.’

  Her mother frowned. ‘I’m beginning to think his intentions are not serious at all.’

  In spite of her gloomy mood Dottie had to laugh at this. ‘No, I don’t think they are. Which suits me perfectly. I don’t think he’s quite my type.’

  Her father rustled behind his newspaper. ‘Bit of a chinless wonder if you ask me.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t ask you, Herbert,’ her mother said waspishly, ‘and as for you, young lady, you’re proving to be far too particular. You could hardly hope to land a better catch than an Honourable.’ There was a calming pause, then her mother said, ‘Well. Then, goodnight dear, I only stayed up to see you when you got home.’

  Dottie kissed her mother’s cheek and said goodnight. Once her mother was safely upstairs her father emerged and offered Dottie a whisky and soda. She declined but he poured a generous one for himself.

  ‘So he’s not your type, eh? Glad to hear it, my love.’

  ‘I wish I could find a nice chap, Father, someone a bit like George. Peter dismissed George as weaselly and a bore but I think George is terribly sweet. One can always turn to him in a crisis. And he and Flora are so madly in love—unlike most of the couples one meets.’

  ‘Ah well,’ her father said, ‘George and Flora do two things that guarantee they will be happy forever.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Dottie asked in surprise. This wasn’t the sort of thing her father usually came out with.

  ‘They treat one another with respect, and they have time apart from one another.’

  ‘Gosh. So they do.’

  *

  Several miles away, in a different part of London, Sergeant William Hardy sat down to dinner with his mother and sister.

  In the relatively short time since Major Garfield Hardy had died and left the family practically penniless, Mrs Isabel Hardy had acquired skills she had hitherto never needed. She had also ensured that her daughter had also learned useful, practical accomplishments that had once been considered unnecessary to her future. Mrs Hardy had expected her daughter Eleanor would go to a respectable finishing school in Switzerland, and then come home to marry well. Now, Mrs Hardy thought as she looked across the small table at her seventeen-year-old daughter, she was more than a little concerned about the class of young man her daughter might nowadays suit.

  They dined on a clear soup, followed by pork chops with roast potatoes and then apple pie with custard.

  ‘That was delicious, Mother,’ William Hardy said, as his sister removed the dinner plates and brought in the apple pie.

  Isabel reached across to pat her son’s hand. She gave him a smile. At night, when she was alone in her room, she wept, still, over the necessity of her eldest son giving up his studies and having to work for a living at what she considered a menial job. That he had provided for his sister and her in this way, kept a decent if humble roof over their heads and food on their table was a source of great comfort to her, and she was immensely grateful, but it hurt her very much that
he, and his sister, had been so abruptly denied the lifestyle they had been used to living, and the loss of a small but profitable, and eminently respectable private estate.

  Eleanor seated herself and cut the pie and served a slice to each of them. ‘I’m getting quite good at pastry, too,’ she said with a grin, ‘I believe this one will be almost edible!’

  ‘I shall reserve judgement,’ Hardy laughed, and took a piece. He pulled several faces of disgust and revulsion before saying, in a teasing voice, ‘It’s very good, Ellie. Very good indeed. Even Mrs Jeffries didn’t used to give us such a good pie. You’ll make some lucky chap a wonderful wife one day.’

  Eleanor beamed with pride, and their mother managed a smile, though said nothing, but kept her eyes on her plate. It was true. Her daughter was becoming a good little housewife. A good cook. A hard worker in doing the housework. Less inclined to be concerned about her lack of fashion or connections or parties or inability to dine out or go to shows. Very much the suitable life-partner for an office worker or a policeman, or—and fighting back the tears—Mrs Hardy ran through the list in her mind of occupations that would not mean too harsh a life for her daughter. Mrs Hardy dare not think too much about the future and what it might bring.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘So how are things coming along, Hardy?’ Superintendent Edward Williams asked, the morning after the inquest. He indicated a chair.

  Hardy sat, and, unsure of the correct way to proceed, pulled out his notebook and quickly outlined the results of his enquiries to date. After a few minutes, the superintendent’s eyes seemed to be dulling over slightly and Hardy felt sure his words were falling on deaf ears.

  As soon as he paused, Williams took the opportunity to say heartily, ‘Excellent work, very good. Clearly you are making progress. Well, I must tell you that we have been talking, the higher-ups and I, about the fine job you’re doing with this investigation. I want you to know we have every faith in you, and as a result of our deliberations, we have decided to award you with a promotion to the rank of Detective Inspector, with the concomitant raise in salary, with immediate effect. You’ll need an assistant, I’ll let you choose a chap for yourself, someone reliable, make sure he’s a good fellow, someone who’s got your back. And completely beyond reproach, goes almost without saying, I should hope. If you don’t know of anyone, we’ll fix something up for you. See my assistant on the way out, he’s got a few other bits and pieces for you, and a letter of promotion, of course, keep things official. Well, well, I won’t keep you, but congratulations, young fellow, very well done.’