by Caron Allan
It was clear that he wasn’t expected to linger. Pausing, Hardy said, ‘If I might just ask, sir, what about Inspector Longden?’
‘Who? Oh Longden? Yes, well you know. Retired. Put out to grass.’
A sobering thought, Hardy decided.
And with that, the superintendent was extending his hand to shake Hardy’s whilst simultaneously propelling him towards the door. A last vigorous hand shake and a ‘Jolly good show,’ and Hardy was in the outer office and the door was already closing behind the superintendent.
It took a few minutes for the superintendent’s assistant to put the finishing flourish to the great man’s signature then neatly blot, fold and envelope the letter before handing it to a dazed William Hardy with a smile and a brief, ‘Congratulations, old chap.’ There was a larger, brown envelope of other papers.
Hardy was back in the crowded room he shared with several other sergeants less than ten minutes after leaving it. He sat at the desk, glad to take his weight off his trembling legs. It couldn’t possibly be true. His fingers shook as he drew out the letter, unfolded it, and nearly choked when he saw the salary. Any pity he felt for Longden faded. This would make a huge difference to himself and his family. And possibly to someone else too.
After a moment, he went in search of his pal from the beat, Constable Maple.
‘Here, Frank, got much on at the moment?’
‘Bill. No, just got this drunk and disorderly to finish off. Why, need a hand?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
*
On his way home from work that evening, Hardy decided, quite on impulse, to take a detour and go to the Dunnes’ home. It wasn’t very late, after all. As the evening was cool but fine, he decided to walk.
It was almost an hour later when he finally knocked on the door. If no one had answered, or he had been denied admittance, he wouldn’t have been particularly surprised, but as it was, the maid opened almost immediately and he was invited to step into the drawing-room.
Susan Dunne, still clad in that one black suit that seemed to be the only clothes she possessed, looked up from a magazine. In a rather bored than annoyed tone she said, ‘What is it, Sergeant?’
‘I wonder if you recognise these?’ And he drew from his inside pocket the small jewellery box, opened it and held it out for her to see the earrings and the dress ring. She looked. And he caught a flicker of surprise and possibly something else—fear? Then she turned back to her magazine.
‘Yes, they were my husband’s. One would have thought he would give his family heirlooms to his lawful wife, but no, he gave them to his mistress. Is that all, Sergeant?’
Her tone pricked him and he said, rather curtly, ‘No, Mrs Dunne, that’s not all. It is now Inspector Hardy. And I may have further questions to put to you at a later stage, therefore I would ask that you kindly keep yourself available.’
Her gaze shifted but she didn’t look at him. She said nothing. Clearly she considered him less than human. He didn’t, couldn’t understand the woman.
He left the room without another word. The maid was hovering in the hall, uncertain whether she was needed or not. Hardy ignored her, and turned to the front door. He took out the latchkey that had been in Archie Dunne’s pocket, and attempted to insert it into the keyhole. It didn’t fit.
*
Hardy opened the front door, and as he came into the hall, his mother called out, ‘We’re in the kitchen. You’re rather late. A cup of tea, dear?’
He paused outside the kitchen door, thrust the bouquet of flowers around the jamb and waited. He smiled when he heard her gasp, heard her hurrying steps and then she grabbed the bouquet with one hand and put the other up to his cheek.
‘Oh William! Dearest! They’re beautiful!’
He bent to kiss her. ‘Happy birthday, Mother.’
‘Oh William.’ Tears filled her eyes. She put her nose deep into the midst of the flowers and inhaled the scent.
‘Oh William!’ she said again, tearful yet smiling. ‘Darling, you shouldn’t have. How can you afford...’
‘Ah now!’ he said, putting up his hand to stop her, and he kissed her cheek again. ‘It’s your birthday, after all.’
His sister came over from the stove, her apron covered in the various blobs and smudges she had acquired during the preparation of their dinner. She looked at William, surprised by the extravagance, and puzzled by his enigmatic smile.
‘Something smells good,’ he said with a nod towards the stove. ‘unless that’s the laundry.’
‘Beast!’ she laughed, punching his arm.
‘These roses reminded me of the ones on the terrace at our old house,’ he said.
His mother nodded, her eyes cloudy with the memory of her beloved home of over twenty years. She gave a sigh, set her shoulders back, as if pushing the memories away, and in a brisk voice, said, ‘Yes, dear, they were lovely. And these are lovely too, but it’s really very naughty of you. Now then, your tea.’
They all sat around the kitchen table, and she poured his tea and set a plate of rock buns within reach. Then, before anyone could say anything else, Hardy put his hand over his mother’s and said, ‘I don’t want you to be upset, Mother, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to move from here.’
She looked at him, and there was fear in her eyes. ‘Oh, William, I don’t think...’
‘I’m sorry, Mother. I know that you’ve got settled now, and you’re used to this place, and I know that it wasn’t easy for you. But it really can’t be helped. You’re going to have to make up your mind to it, I’m afraid. We shall be moving to a four-room house with a daily maid. I’m sorry.’
She stared at him, they both did. He felt some compunction at seeing the tears start into his sister’s eyes, at seeing their confusion and dismay. Gradually they realised he was teasing, and confusion and fear gave way to hope and a tentative joy.
‘Four rooms? Are you mad?’ Eleanor said scornfully, but she began to smile at him.
‘A maid? Daily?’ Mrs Hardy said, and at the same time, Eleanor said again, ‘Bill, what on earth are you talking about?’
He pulled the letter from his pocket. ‘Read that.’
They read it. Twice. His mother looked up, tears again in her eyes.
‘Oh—but...William, it says here that you’ve been promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector.’ Her voice fell away to a whisper.
‘With immediate effect!’ his sister added, her eyes round with excitement. ‘My goodness, look at that salary!’
‘Yes, and I shall have my own desk in my own office; my name shall be on the door—eventually,’ he told them, and then setting aside his teasing manner, took their hands again and said more soberly, ‘Things have been difficult, we all know that, and the two of you have been through so much. And I’m so proud of how both of you have just got on with things and adjusted to our new lives, without the slightest complaint. But things are going to get better for us. I’ve been given a substantial pay rise to go with the promotion, and the sooner we get out of this damp, dreary hovel, the better I shall like it. And I’m perfectly serious about the daily maid and the four rooms. We shall find a lovely home in a nice area, and we will all be much more comfortable. And if at all possible, you shall have roses in the garden.’
‘Oh William!’ his mother said yet again, her eyes glistening.
*
The rain had finally stopped by the time they arrived at the rather grand Moyer family seat in Hertfordshire on the evening of Muriel Moyer’s engagement ball. Privately, Dottie was still rather astonished that the ball was going ahead in the light of the recent family bereavement. As they entered the galleried reception hall and stood with the other guests waiting to be greeted by the betrothed couple and the bride-to-be’s parents, she couldn’t help wondering if Susan Dunne herself would attend. Surely she wouldn’t? She couldn’t, could she? Dottie told herself Archie’s widow couldn’t possibly attend but felt a frisson of excitement. What if she did attend? Wh
at would that say about her marriage, about her relationship with Archie? Would it be a scandal, or not? Was society so inured these days to the breakdown of marriage or to a lack of observance of the traditions of mourning?
Dottie had put on the new cloak in view of the cold evening and the long journey, and was pleased to find it delightfully warm and the colour was every bit as vibrant and cheering as she had hoped.
‘She’s here!’ Flora, two steps in front of her, turned to hiss at her.
‘No!’ Dottie craned her neck to see, and thought she caught a glimpse of a bony, black-clad figure. The sea of bodies swayed and parted, and sure enough there was Susan Dunne, pale as ever but smiling as she shook hands with guests, standing between her parents and the affianced couple.
Dottie whispered in Flora’s ear, ‘I really hadn’t expected to see her...now I don’t know what to think.’
‘Nor I,’ Flora whispered. ‘Mother will be scandalised when I tell her.’
‘I’m quite scandalised myself,’ Dottie whispered back, and her sister nodded in agreement. And then they were being introduced, and the ladies all smiled and bobbed and the gentlemen shook hands. George, handsome in his evening attire, shook hands with Colonel Moyer and the beaming groom-to-be.
Susan Dunne took Flora and Dottie’s hands and, with animosity gleaming in her eyes, she leaned forward, much to Dottie’s surprise, to kiss each of them on the cheek as she had the ladies before them. Her lips, barely grazing Dottie’s cheek, were cold. Was the woman never warm?
‘So nice to see you again,’ Susan murmured, but her eyes were already scanning the next arrivals.
‘And to see you too,’ Dottie responded with feeling. Susan’s eyes came back to her from the horizons, and surveyed her with distaste. Dottie added, ‘How marvellous to see you so well recovered.’
‘One must keep up appearances,’ Susan countered with a certain amount of frost. She turned to speak to the couple behind them and they were thus dismissed.
Fortunately, Muriel was very excited to see them. They were introduced to the tall young man who looked considerably younger than she, although in actuality he couldn’t have been much younger, Dottie calculated, as Muriel was only twenty years old, and clearly they both had to be old enough to marry. Nor was it to be expected that her parents would permit her to marry a penniless student, although in any other setting Dottie would have put his age at fifteen or sixteen. Periodically he ran a finger around the inside of his collar as if it irked him. Clearly formal wear was a new experience for him.
‘This is Clive,’ Muriel said, a giggle in her voice. She clutched his arm with the possessiveness of a limpet and appeared to be in her element. Dottie and her party congratulated the happy young lovers and moved on, but then, a thought suddenly occurring to Dottie, she darted back to take Muriel by the arm and led her to one side.
‘Muriel,’ she began, ‘I hate to ask on such a happy occasion, but do you have any idea when poor Archie’s funeral will take place?’
Muriel stared at her for a few seconds, and Dottie began to fear she had given offence, but then Muriel said, ‘Oh but...you didn’t know? The funeral was yesterday. It had to be, or Susan wouldn’t have liked to come this evening. Had you wanted to attend?’
Dottie found it almost impossible to hide her surprise. She shook her head to try to pull herself together. ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘we specifically asked Susan’s—er, excuse me—Mrs Dunne’s maid to let us know. When we called on her, your sister was—er—somewhat unwell and had to retire to her room. So Flora particularly asked the maid to let us know about the arrangements.’
‘Susan was unwell?’ Muriel asked in surprise. She glanced back to where her frosty sister was offering a cool reception to another young couple.
‘Yes, I’m afraid she became upset. I expect it was too soon for her to be having visitors. But the maid...’
‘Oh dear. Well I’m afraid Leonora is not terribly reliable. I suppose she simply forgot to pass your message on to Susan. I’m so sorry you missed it, although of course it was hardly a happy occasion.’
‘No of course not. Very sad. Well, congratulations again, I’d better not keep you any longer from your guests. Thanks so much for inviting us this evening. Can’t wait for your special day!’
Dottie hurried back to Flora and George. Flora immediately said, ‘And what was all that about?’
‘Tell you later.’
For Dottie it was a long and tedious evening. She was neither in the mood for dancing, nor for making witty conversation, nor for toasting the future of the happy couple. It seemed as if the evening would never end. On two occasions she attempted to get close enough to Susan Dunne to engage her in conversation, but both times, Susan mysteriously seemed to get lost in the crowds and reappear on the other side of the room, Dottie’s aim frustrated.
She managed to catch Muriel on her own towards the end of the evening. ‘Congratulations once again, Muriel, I’m so happy for you. Clive is such a sweet man.’
‘Thank you Dottie. I feel terrible about not inviting you to the party until your friend reminded me. I blame Mother, I left her to do the invitations. I do hope you’ll forgive me and promise to come to the wedding, we used to be such chums at school.’
‘Of course I shall! I’m looking forward to it. How we have all grown up in these last two years.’
‘Indeed. Who would have thought I, of all people, could be so responsible. When I look back on all the scrapes I used to get into at school. Look, about Archie’s funeral...’
‘It’s all right, you don’t have to...’
‘It’s just...forgive me for being blunt, Dottie, but we used to be such close friends, and naturally I wouldn’t dream of saying anything to Susan if you didn’t want me to...it’s just—well, you didn’t know Archie at all, did you? I mean, if you and he knew one another...’
Dottie took Muriel’s hand and looked at her straight in the eye. ‘I swear to you, Muriel, I had never seen him before the night he died. I had been at the theatre with Peter St Clair St John that evening and was on my way to Flora’s when I found Archie. I didn’t even know who he was, it was George who recognised him.’ She paused and bit her lip. She could see Muriel believed her. She went on, ‘Flora thinks that Susan thinks that I was somehow involved with Archie. Please believe me, it’s not true at all, it’s all just a horrid coincidence. Please tell Susan that. When we visited her, we really did only want to offer our respects.’
Muriel patted Dottie’s hand. ‘I’ll tell her,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ Then they were joined by Clive, and the subject was abruptly changed.
At long last Dottie, and almost everyone else it seemed, was claiming her outer garment from the long table in the upstairs gallery that had served as cloakroom. As Dottie wrapped her cloak around herself, once again enjoying the soft feel of the golden stuff, a voice behind her hissed in her ear,
‘You show your colours openly, sister.’
But when Dottie attempted to turn in the throng to look about her, her heel slipped and she stumbled, and by the time she turned, the only people nearby were women she didn’t recognise and she had no way of knowing who had spoken, no one was looking at her or speaking, there was nothing to say the words had existed outside her own imagination. But it shook her all the same.
‘What on earth?’ she muttered, but had no more time as Flora hurried her away to the entrance hall and out to the car, George having taken his leave of their hosts.
It was raining once more, and Dottie longed for the light clear evenings of summer when you could come out in the evening and look about you. Everywhere there were shadows. She felt the eyes of the darkened windows of the upper reaches of the house staring down at her. She was on edge, feeling as if she were being observed secretly from behind some wall or tree. George shielded them as best he could with an umbrella, as the three of them ran the short distance to the vehicle.
‘We’re giving old Evesham a lift, girls, hope you don’t
mind. Sit in the back, will you, Darling?’ Flora replied in the affirmative and just then, the heavens appeared to open that little bit more.
Dottie shivered and pulled the cloak’s folds still closer about her, and immediately felt something sharp prick her arm.
George held the door open and Flora got in, sliding across the seat to make room, and glancing back to see what was taking Dottie so long.
‘Your dressmaker left a pin in my cloak,’ Dottie protested, and quickly shrugged the garment off and jumped inside the car. ‘Old Evesham’ turned out to be an attractive young man in his early thirties. He slid into the passenger side and slammed the door against the elements, uttering an oath as he did so. He turned to beam apologetically at the ladies behind him. George hurried round to the driver’s seat and leapt in and started the engine. Dottie was still rummaging amongst the folds of her cloak.
‘What?’ Flora said, then, ‘no silly, look—that piece of paper—looks like an admirer has been leaving you love-notes pinned inside your cloak. How awfully romantic! George darling, you never do that for me. Mother said a young man once secretly pinned a note to her shawl at the end of her coming-out ball. What does it say? Perhaps we ought to let George read it first, in case it’s something not suitable for a young lady’s eyes.’
‘Shut up,’ Dottie said and she stooped to gather up the scrap of paper from the floor. She unfolded it, her fingertips at once divining by the tiny holes that the paper had indeed been pinned inside her cloak. ‘How very melodramatic!’ then she added, ‘it’s no good, it’s too dark to see what it says.’