by Caron Allan
It had been fabled between the two sisters that their mother had drawn up a list of acceptable potential sons-in-law whilst they were both still in the nursery. Luckily Flora had quickly met George, so she had avoided that particular torture, but clearly although still not of full age, Dottie had run out of time. At the head of the list was the Honourable Peter St Clair St John.
‘Well we can scratch him, straight away,’ murmured the drowsy Dottie. She got no further. In the morning her mother found her there sleeping, the list still clutched in her hand. It was sufficient to convince her that Dorothy was taking her efforts to find her a suitor seriously.
‘Darling girl,’ Lavinia Manderson whispered and she bent to smooth Dottie’s hair out of her eyes, then dropped a soft kiss on her hair before clearing her throat briskly and, in a no-nonsense manner demanding that Dottie get up at once and go upstairs and dress.
*
‘What you need,’ Flora said to her sister upon hearing about Dottie’s interview with their mother the previous evening, ‘is a sort of progressive type, but one with pots of money.’ They were having coffee at the Lyon’s Corner House.
Dottie wrinkled her nose. ‘Progressive?’
‘Well you don’t want some stuffy old club-bore conventional type.’
‘Hopefully he won’t be old at all,’ Dottie said, ‘but I’m only nineteen, why can’t I just be left alone to enjoy my life? Why do I have to be married off?’
‘You just do,’ said her sister. ‘It’s the only way to get away from Mother, and she would die of shame if you simply went and shared a flat with some girls. It may be very modern and all, but you know Mother doesn’t approve of girls who are independent. And with you not getting your trust fund until you’re twenty-five or married, it’s better to give in now and enjoy the money as soon as poss.’
‘I earn enough from my modelling. In fact, Mrs Carmichael is really quite generous.’
‘I’m surprised you get away with it. If I’d ever wanted to do that sort of thing Mother would have had forty fits. She was far stricter with me than she ever was with you.’
‘It’s because I’m the baby,’ Dottie said smugly. ‘I’m the one who was spoiled rotten. You were the one raised when she still had noble ideals about how a young woman of a good family should be brought up. You were the gold standard, I’m the product of disillusionment and compromise. I’m the one who usually finds a way to not do as she’s told.’
‘You’re certainly the bad egg. So let’s have a look at this list then. I told you she would have one.’
‘I really didn’t believe it, not until last night, but as soon as I saw the paper in her hand, I just knew...Peter’s at the top, obviously.’
‘Obviously. Oh God, not Gerald Billington! You certainly can’t marry him, he can’t dance to save his life. And Algernon Stamford-Hughes is a bore. Very old school. George’s father detests him.’
‘George’s father is very astute when it comes to young men. Perhaps he should be the one to fix me up? I might suggest it to Mother.’
Flora snorted and cackled loudly. Heads turned in their direction. Then she became very serious. ‘Darling, remember, this is really only a list of guests to invite to the Christmas bun-fight, you don’t actually have to marry any or all of them. Just ask yourself if you can bear any of them for one evening. That’s really all Mother requires.’ Then she said, ‘Oh my goodness, she’s even got Montague Montague on here.’
‘I don’t think...’ said Dottie screwing up her face in an effort to remember.
‘You do know him—the limp, the monocle, the shooting stories—all blood and guts and stuff. Hideous man. Even his own mother cringes when he starts in on one of his interminable anecdotes.’
‘Oh not M’Dear Monty!’ Dottie said. ‘How could I have forgotten?’ She finished her coffee and felt business-like. She pushed away the crockery, produced a pencil and handed it to her sister. ‘Right let’s sort this out once and for all. Then perhaps Mother will leave me alone. Cross off everyone who is boring, stuffy, antiquated, bald, has bad teeth or calls everyone M’Dear. Oh and if they can’t dance, they’ve got to go, too. I must at least get a dance now and then.’
With a number of decisive strokes, Flora went to work. After thirty seconds, she surveyed her handiwork.
‘Who’s left?’ Dottie asked.
‘See for yourself.’ Flora said, and Dottie saw that she was laughing. She took the paper, glanced at it and groaned.
‘Really? Only Peter? He may not be bald and I know he can dance, but really, surely, marriage should be the bringing together of two loving souls, not three. There’s no room in a marriage where the man loves himself even more than you do.’ By the time she’d finished, Dottie was quite angry. Flora took her hand, surprised by her sister’s sudden emotion.
‘Don’t fret, Dottie dear, it’s only one evening. Look I’m sure there are lots of nice men we could invite, and you know, some of these might not be so bad once you get to know them...’
Dottie took a few deep breaths. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I get so cross. I mean even though I don’t want to be pushed into marriage, neither do I want to end up on the shelf, as a lonely old spinster like Miss Havisham, all bitter in a smelly old wedding dress and no one to marry and piles of mouldy food.’
Flora ordered some more coffee. ‘Let’s have another drink, and try to think of someone. Another cake?’
Dottie took her third petit-fours. ‘And a fat Miss Havisham, at that.’
‘Nonsense, you’re skin and bone. With fabulous limpid fairy-pool eyes. And hair. Lovely hair, Darling, any man would love you just for your hair. When I get home I’ll ring up George’s mother and get her to have a think about someone nice to invite. And there’s always George’s cousin Francis. I know he’s a bit on the portly side but he’s terribly jolly and fun, and very generous and sweet. And he adores dancing.’
‘Yes he’s lovely, but,’ Dottie dropped her voice, ‘I don’t think he likes ladies if you catch my drift.’
Flora looked at her in surprise. ‘Really? Are you sure? Hmm, yes, you could be right, thinking about those silk handkerchiefs he always has in his breast pocket, and how they have to match his tie. He is quite careful about his appearance...’ she paused for a moment’s thought then nodded, ‘Yes, so probably not Francis then. I’m sure we’ll think of someone. You’ve got years of dancing and dining yet, you’re not quite on the shelf. And when you are too old to marry off, you can always come and live with us, you can be a governess to my children.’
‘Thanks a million! Give me that list.’
‘Good afternoon Miss Manderson, Mrs Gascoigne.’
Dottie and Flora glanced up to see the man who was addressing them. Dottie felt a wave of irritation go over her.
‘Oh for goodness sake, Sergeant! Can’t you see my sister and I are having coffee? What is it this time?’
The policeman looked quite taken aback. He performed an odd stiff bow and said, ‘Please excuse me, I was passing by on my way to a table and saw you sitting here. I thought it would be rude to ignore you completely. I see that I was wrong.’
Dottie flushed red to the roots of her hair. Flora covered her mouth with a gloved hand and concentrated on her plate.
‘I-I’m so terribly sorry, Sergeant, for a moment I thought, I-I...’
He nodded and walked on, taking a seat at a table further towards the rear of the room. His companion was a well-dressed young woman who leaned in to say something to him, her eyes fixed on Dottie. Dottie saw him say something to the woman, and the woman bit her lip in the same way Dottie did when she felt a need to prevent herself from laughing inappropriately.
‘Oh I feel terrible,’ Dottie said to her sister, who was still smiling.
‘You’re definitely a bad person. That poor man! Honestly Dottie,’ Flora teased, ‘How could you?’
‘Well in my defence he has crept up on us several times now. I thought it was another of those times. Should I go o
ver and apologise, do you think?’
‘No dear, you’ve already apologised, I’m sure he wants to forget the whole thing.’ Flora changed the subject and for a few minutes they conversed about her and George’s plans for the Christmas season.
As they waited for their coffee to arrive, Flora pulled the list over for another look. ‘Now look at this. At the bottom of the list. The Honourable Cyril Penterman. Why do I know that name?’
‘One of the women who had some of that gold-coloured material was a Mrs Penterman. The saleswoman at Liberty’s told us she was a friend of Susan Dunne’s.’ The policeman completely forgotten, Dottie looked at Flora in excitement.
‘Hmm. Perhaps it’s the same family. It’s hardly a common name. Perhaps we should get Mother to invite him, then we can try and get something out of him.’
‘If she’s a friend of Susan’s,’ Dottie said, ‘she may have been at the engagement party the other evening.’
‘Yes, and it may even have been her who hissed in your ear, or who pinned the note to your cloak—anxious to preserve the fabric for her sole use. Or rather their sole use, as they’ve both got some. I think you should suggest him to Mother.’
‘You crossed him off as unsuitable.’
‘Only because I didn’t know him and he was the last one on the list so I thought he may as well go too.’
‘Well you didn’t cross off Peter,’ Dottie pointed out irritably. ‘I suppose you think he’d make me a fine husband!’ A shadow fell across their table and she glanced up to see the police sergeant and his companion were walking past. The sergeant nodded curtly and his companion smiled at them.
Dottie put her head in her hands. ‘He heard me, didn’t he? He’ll think I’m a gold digger or something. Oh Flora it’s a nightmare!’
Flora frowned at her. ‘What’s the matter? Why does it matter what he thinks? He doesn’t even know you.’ She hesitated a moment, staring after the retreating couple. Her eyes came back to rest on her sister thoughtfully. ‘You like him. You...’
‘No, I most certainly do not,’ Dottie said hotly, and got to her feet. ‘I’m going to the cloakroom. When I come back I think we should not only change the subject but you should take me home.’ She hurried away without waiting for a response, leaving her sister watching her with a knowing look.
Chapter Ten
‘What do you think?’ Maple asked. He tugged at the front of his waistcoat and straightened his tie.
‘Very smart. Brother-in-law?’ Hardy tried to hide a smile but failed dismally. Maple’s enthusiasm was not to be dented, however.
‘In a way it’s lucky he died when he did,’ Maple said with a broad grin. ‘Otherwise what’d I wear for this new job?’
‘I don’t suppose your sister is able to take quite such an optimistic view of things.’
‘Every cloud,’ Maple said with a shrug. ‘At least she’s getting a little bit of insurance. And with what she’ll save with him not being out every night down the boozer, I think she’ll be all right. In fact, she only sees him a little bit less since they buried him than she did before, and at least he doesn’t come home at all hours and frighten the children.’
‘The suit is very smart,’ Hardy said, ‘How many did you get?’
‘Just the three. But she says I’ve got to save the dark grey one for best, so that leaves me two for work. Should be enough.’ He did a little pirouette as he tried to see himself from every angle in the glass of the office window. He stopped, aware of Hardy’s look, and added, ‘I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what you said, but you must of made me sound like bloomin’ Sherlock Holmes. So thank you, Bill. It means the world to me, I wouldn’t have got this chance without you.’
‘No need for that, they asked who I thought was ready for promotion and I told them, in all honesty, that I thought you would be excellent for the job. I need someone I know I can trust.’
Maple held out his hand and Hardy shook it. It was a solemn moment broken only by Maple belching then saying, ‘Must be time to get down to the pub.’
‘You’re buying,’ Hardy told him.
‘Steady on, I haven’t had me pay rise yet, you know.’
*
The following week Flora and George collected Dottie in a taxicab and took her to the theatre. The sisters had hatched a plot to see Gay Divorce yet again, but this time they were going to pay careful attention throughout, just in case they were able to spot a previously unseen connection with the dead man.
‘Although,’ Flora remarked as they waited for the curtain to go up, ‘perhaps it’s just the whole divorce thing—we’ve already been told they were not happily married—what if she’d actually threatened or even begun divorce proceedings? What if it’s just the word divorce that is the key to this?’
‘From what we’ve heard she’d already threatened to leave him a dozen times before,’ Dottie hissed back. The orchestra struck up with enthusiasm, the curtain rose and the audience applauded wildly.
‘Perhaps she paid someone to do him in?’ George suggested with relish, leaning across his Beloved to talk to her sister.
Throughout the first part of the show Dottie ruminated on his suggestion. At the interval, George found them seats at the last empty table in the corner of the bar-lounge, and was then dispatched to procure the drinks he’d ordered when they first arrived at the theatre, knowing the waiters would take too long to get to them.
‘Gosh it’s warm,’ Flora commented and flapped her programme to cool her face. They talked about the show, agreeing that although it was wonderful—even after seeing it four times already—nothing really struck them as being relevant to Archie Dunne’s death, nor especially noteworthy.
‘What is taking George so long? I’m absolutely gasping. And it’ll be time to go back to our seats soon!’ Flora complained.
A minute later Dottie spotted him pushing his way through the throng, cocktails bounced madly in his hands, his elbows out to fend off anyone who got too close and a broad grin on his face. Dottie recognised the look. ‘He’s found something out,’ she told her sister. They watched his approach, it was clear he was excited about something. He looked like a schoolboy bursting to tell a secret.
‘You’ll never guess what!’ he said at the top of his voice when he was twenty yards away.
‘Good evening, Miss Manderson,’ a voice spoke, much closer to hand. Dottie jumped half out of her skin and turned to see William Hardy standing there.
‘S-sergeant, I’m afraid you startled me. Do you always sneak up on people like that?’ she said, giving herself a few seconds to recover her poise. ‘Erm...of course you know my sister and her husband, Mr and Mrs George Gascoigne. Here comes George now.’
‘Coming through!’ George called cheerily as he negotiated several plump ladies, and set the glasses in front of Flora and Dottie. He quickly shook hands with the inspector, not that any of them were aware of his promotion as yet. To Dottie’s intense amazement, George gestured to the policeman to join them at the table.
Dottie couldn’t think of anything to say, and it seemed she wasn’t the only one as no one spoke for a full minute. George pulled a glass from the pocket of his evening coat, and then a small bottle of something strong from the other, and proceeded to put together his own drink. The ladies occupied themselves with taking dainty sips of their cocktails and making appreciative sounds.
‘So what brings you here, Bill, old chap? Or should I call you Sergeant? Are you on duty or just taking a well-earned night off?’ George asked. Dottie, still recovering from her annoyance at having the policeman sitting next to her, recalled then that George and the sergeant had been up at Oxford at the same time. It still felt a little strange to think of Hardy as a real person who did normal things such as going to university or to the theatre. He was so annoying, and the policeman persona tended to eclipse all else. The policeman in question fidgeted and replied to George,
‘No indeed. I’m here in pursuit of my enquiries, trying to obtain inf
ormation pertaining to the case.’
‘Oh by Jove, so are we!’ George said, and Dottie was tempted to kick him under the table to make him shut up, but decided against it, as she knew he wouldn’t understand what she meant, and she was worried about the possibility of kicking the wrong person. Not that she wouldn’t like to kick the policeman sitting next to her like a sack of potatoes in that horrid old overcoat.
The inspector observed them through narrowed eyes, and seemed about to say something repressive or cautionary when the bell rang for the end of the intermission, and unable to stop herself, Dottie snatched up her evening purse, pushed back her chair and said in an overly bright voice, ‘Oh good, time to get back! I can’t wait for it to start again!’
And grabbing her sister’s arm, she hastened back to their box, leaving the two gentlemen scarcely enough time to stand up as they hurried away. The men followed at a more leisurely pace, parting at the head of the stairs, and George followed the ladies along the hall to their box whilst the inspector ran lightly down the stairs and into the main theatre, pushing his way along a row in the stalls to reach his own seat.
‘What on earth was all that about?’ George asked when they were finally all in their seats.
‘Sorry, George dear, I just had to get away from that dratted policeman. I was sure he wouldn’t be particularly pleased to hear we are conducting our own investigation. Plus, there’s just something about him that makes me squirm with discomfort,’ Dottie said. Then, ‘So George, what did you find out?’
‘Sounds like you’ve a guilty conscience, Dottie. Ladies, you will be very proud. I’m definitely a sleuth of the finest order. A well-placed pound note enabled me to discover that our deceased friend had been in pursuit of a certain young lady who sells cigarettes in this very establishment.’