Night and Day

by Caron Allan

  ‘I should hope not,’ Dottie said fervently. ‘And of course her friend Mrs Penterman had some of the stuff too, and I saw her at both the Moyers’ and the Gascoignes’, so it was a little awkward.’

  ‘Yes, now I think of it, Mrs Penterman was with Mrs Dunne and they both had some of the stuff at the same time. Very pleased they were, and said it was exactly what they were looking for. Then Mrs Dunne’s maid came in for another length of it, and I could only think that Mrs Dunne had decided to make herself a second cloak, or perhaps make one as a present for someone else. Oh, but the maid paid for it herself, it was not to be put on Mrs Dunne’s account. I thought that was a bit strange.

  ‘Then what should happen the next day but that Mrs Penterman’s maid came in for two more lengths. Two. Again, perhaps she thought they would make nice Christmas presents for someone she knew. I do always say that a good bit of colour about you is what you want to get you through these dreary winter months.’

  ‘Oh certainly, you’re quite right about that!’ Dottie agreed heartily. ‘Um, perhaps they were going to make something else out of the fabric.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘And who had the last cuts of the fabric?’ Dottie asked, ‘I do hope it wasn’t anyone else I’m likely to bump into.’

  ‘One was a smart young piece, not the right class of girl at all. At first I thought she must be another maid, but she wasn’t the kind of girl you’d have as a maid, I’m fairly sure. No, she held it up to herself in front of the mirror and said, ‘how well it suits me, I must have some’, and I thought, yes my girl but when will you ever go anywhere that needs something like that? And the other woman was a maid to Mrs Hambrook, as you might not know as she comes from out of town, somewhere in Essex, I forget where. And it was her had the last of it. Shame. It was lovely stuff; it was that good it practically sold itself.’

  After a little more small-talk, Dottie thanked the assistant and said goodbye. She had quite a bit to tell Flora. But before that she’d need to find out who this Mrs Hambrook was.

  *

  Another dreary tea on another dreary afternoon, Dottie thought. Thank goodness Cyril would be coming back to town in a few more days. She needed a bit of livening up. If only it were Spring and the sun shining... She came downstairs in response to hearing the arrivals in the hall below. Her mother sent her an exasperated look before directing a bright hostess smile at her guests. The weather had taken a turn for the worst in the last twenty-four hours and everyone was swathed in layers against the driving rain that was washing away the thin layer of snow. Hats and hair-dos tended towards more robust, practical styles, employing a great many pins, rather than anything too fussy; wisps and tendrils were definitely out.

  Dottie made herself useful guiding various older ladies into the drawing-room and getting them comfortable by the fire, all the while convinced her mother must have invited only people over the age of seventy to tea.

  By the time tea was brought in, everyone had arrived, sat down and got to know those around them, although at least half were stalwarts of the Mandersons’ teas. Dottie had made herself pleasant to everyone except Gloria Penterman whom she still found frankly terrifying. Dottie found it difficult to accept the similarity between the appearances of mother and so n and the complete dissimilarity in their personalities. Tall and fair like her son, Mrs Penterman nevertheless seemed to possess none of Cyril’s easy charm or general air of good-naturedness. She had a deep vertical line between her carefully shaped eyebrows and a small straight mouth, both of which gave her the air of one who is permanently displeased about something. Added to that, the way she peered at everyone through her lorgnette made Dottie feel rather like a specimen under a microscope.

  It was a huge relief when Mrs Gerard finally arrived. Mrs Gerard spent a few minutes in enquiring after the health and happiness of the Penterman household, which couldn’t be helped, Dottie supposed, as after all she was the sister of the Honourable Mr Penterman, but once that was out of the way, Mrs Gerard made her way to a chair by Dottie’s side, where she remained for the rest of the afternoon.

  It was some time before Dottie felt the surrounding chatter was loud enough for her to risk saying, ‘Mrs Gerard, do you by any chance know a Mrs Hambrook?’

  ‘Euphemia Hambrook, do you mean? Or Angelica Hambrook?’

  Dottie had to admit she didn’t know. She was reluctant to tell Mrs Gerard everything about—well—everything. She didn’t want to talk about the cloak, the mysterious and unpleasant notes, or how she felt they were somehow connected to the pictures of Queen Esther and the death of Archie Dunne. Because here in the drawing-room with the hubbub of chattering ladies about her and the occasional clink of cup upon saucer, it all seemed suddenly too childish, too impossible. And her so-called evidence seemed thin and unconvincing. She settled for vaguely commenting that she’d heard the name recently but couldn’t place the lady in question, beyond the fact that she lived somewhere in Essex.

  ‘Oh yes, dear, that would be Effie,’ Mrs Gerard said immediately. ‘They live out near Southend, for her chest you know. She was sixty last year, and heaven knows she’s been at death’s door since she got pneumonia at school when we were eleven.’

  ‘A nice lady?’ Dottie hazarded.

  ‘A bit eccentric, but yes, I count Effie as a good friend.’ Mrs Gerard narrowed her eyes and looked at Dottie with suspicion. ‘Why? What have you heard?’

  Dottie looked at her in surprise. ‘Why, nothing. What have you heard?’ She was a little surprised at her own boldness, and knew if her mother had heard her she would have reproved her.

  But Mrs Gerard appeared to be mollified. She sat back and took a bite of a sandwich on her plate, then lay the sandwich on the plate once again.

  Dottie leaned forward. ‘Was Archie Dunne really carrying on with Diana Gascoigne?’ she hissed. Mrs Gerard choked on her sandwich and took a minute to recover herself, by which time every eye in the room was on them.

  ‘Good Lord, Dottie!’ Mrs Gerard exclaimed, but softly, ‘I think—ahem, you’d—ahem ahem—better come and see me Friday, if that’s the sort of thing you want to talk about.’ Mrs Gerard took a couple of great gulps of her tea and then added, ‘Come at about eleven o’clock, stay for lunch. That suit you?’

  Dottie beamed at her and said that it suited very well. At last, she thought, I shall get some proper answers to the questions buzzing round my brain. And—I’ll have something to do other than just sitting about the house waiting for Cyril to come home from—wherever it is he’s been. Only now did she realise he hadn’t said where he was going—and she reminded herself not to get her hopes up too much, in case he wasn’t able to see her the same day he returned home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘I wonder where he was going?’ Dottie said suddenly the following afternoon, which was Thursday. Flora glanced up from her magazine. They had been idling the time away, neither of them much interested in doing anything.

  ‘Who, Darling?’

  ‘Archie Dunne. It’s just come to me. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. I mean, he was obviously on his way somewhere when he was attacked. But where?’

  Flora set aside the magazine and gazed at Dottie, her eyes with the far-off, lovely wistful look they got when she was thinking deeply about something. After a moment she said, ‘How odd. You know, until you said that, I’d never given it a thought either. But you’re right—where was he going? Obviously not home because the Dunne’s house is nowhere near here.’

  ‘You know, there are so many points I’d like to discuss with that—um—policeman fellow,’ Dottie said casually as if she couldn’t quite recall his name. ‘It’s a shame one can’t just stroll into Scotland Yard, or wherever it is, and ask that they sit down with you and explain a few things. You know, take you through everything they’ve found out and show you all their evidence.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, I can’t think why they don’t. Perhaps you ought to suggest it?’ Flora said with a
laugh. ‘Now what about popping round to see Susan tomorrow? I doubt she’ll encourage us to stay long, if she even lets us in the house at all after last time, but I feel we’ve got to at least try.’

  ‘Good idea. I’m having lunch with Mrs Gerard tomorrow, but before then I’ve got a quick thing at Carmichael’s, so can we either go fairly early in the morning before I go to Carmichael’s, or after I’ve finished at Mrs Gerard’s, just before dinner?’

  ‘All right. Um, well mornings aren’t too good for me at the moment, so let’s pop in to see her at about half past five. No one dines before seven o’clock so that should be all right.’

  ‘What if her maid says she won’t see us as she’s dressing?’

  ‘We’ll invite ourselves in and wait until she can’t stand it any longer and gives in. We’ll make it clear we just want a quick word,’ Flora said.

  They heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  ‘Ah, my Lord and Master arrives!’ Flora said, and waited expectantly for George to come into the room.

  He did. Under his arm he carried a newspaper which he held out to Dottie, who took it, confused, and noticed that Flora was looking at him, concerned by his grave expression.

  ‘What is it, Darling?’ Flora asked. Dottie heard fear in her voice. She knows his every mood, Dottie thought. Then she too wondered.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked. George bent to kiss his wife hello, then turned back to Dottie.

  ‘Dottie, dear, I’ve just come from my club. I’m afraid—Dottie, I’m most awfully sorry. Something’s happened. Something that will affect you. Or rather, that will matter to you.’

  ‘Darling, I do wish you’d just come out with it and tell us what’s wrong,’ Flora said, ‘you’re scaring me.’

  He reached out a hand to her. ‘It’s nothing to be scared of. Just...’

  He looked at Dottie who was already feeling upset even though she still had no idea why. George took the paper, opened it to a particular page, and handing it back to her, repeated the words, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’

  Slowly, unable to quite understand at first, Dottie read the headline of the society page. She began to read it out loud, was halfway through reading it before it made sense to her. As soon as she saw his name, she felt a thrill of excitement, but then it was gone and she felt cold to the core.

  ‘The Honourable Cyril Penterman today with his—new bride, the former Miss Anabella Wiseman of the New York Wisemans, attending a banquet in their honour at Pentulloch Castle. The b-bride and groom, who m-married on the last day of December, will journey to their secret h-honeymoon destination tomorrow. The bride was wearing a silk costume in palest pink, made by...’

  Dottie dropped the paper onto the floor and turned to stare at the fire. She was dimly aware of a gasping cry from Flora and of her saying something, of an arm around her own shoulders but she couldn’t really comprehend what was going on. Her mind was taken up with calculations whilst her memory replayed of every word, every look, his laugh, his voice, his smile.

  Gradually it dawned on her, firstly that Cyril had married someone else, and secondly that her face was wet, and that thirdly and finally, she wanted to go home and go to bed.

  Flora alternated between two states, tears and rage. George too, was coldly angry. The white, shocked look on his sister-in-law’s face worried him, and he felt a paternal urge to see her bundled up in a warm blanket and fed beef tea. Dottie pushed them both away.

  ‘I want to go home. I need—I need to go home. Now, please, if at all possible. I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but really, I think I need to just...’

  George drove her, Flora sat in the back holding her hand and when they got to the Mandersons’ it was clear the news had already arrived there.

  Their mother said nothing, though, merely asked Flora to help her get Dottie upstairs. George went in search of his father-in-law.

  Dottie sat on the edge of her bed like a doll, being undressed, dressed in her nightgown and covered. A hot water bottle was placed at her feet, and the light was turned out. The room was lit only by the glow of the fire, the flames licking softly at a new log.

  ‘Why am I so upset?’ she murmured in surprise. ‘It’s not as if he actually promised me anything, it was all my hopes, my dreams...’ But she couldn’t seem to pull herself together.

  Janet came in with a glass of warm milk with a tot of brandy in it, but Dottie only took a sip then pushed it away with a grimace. She turned over and lay facing the wall.

  Flora, her mother and Janet all exchanged uncertain looks, then filed out, leaving the door slightly ajar. In the hall, Janet promised to check on Dottie every half hour in case she needed anything.

  *

  When Dottie got up the following morning, she knew she looked far from her best. She’d hardly slept, the newspaper headline had simply gone round and round in her mind, banishing sleep, even though it would have been bliss for her to escape her thoughts if only for a few hours.

  With his new bride.

  After she had washed and dressed, she did her hair and made up her ashen face with more than the usual care. She had decided to adopt her mother’s strategy for coping with a crisis: head up, shoulders back and smile.

  Her parents were surprised to see her at the breakfast table before them, drinking her morning tea as usual and giving every appearance of eating a slice of toast.

  ‘Dottie, dear,’ her mother said in an uncharacteristic rush of maternal devotion, ‘are you sure you’re quite all right? I expected you to stay in bed this morning.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you, Mother. I’m a little tired, that’s all. I have a few things to do in town this morning after I’ve been to Mrs Carmichael’s, is there anything you need?’

  Her mother, robbed of speech by surprise, could only shake her head. Dottie continued, ‘And then I’m invited to Mrs Gerard’s for lunch, so I shan’t be back until three or four o’clock, I shouldn’t think. Do we have anyone coming to dinner this evening?’

  Again her mother simply shook her head. Who was this calm, composed stranger in the appearance of her youngest, most emotional, most volatile daughter?

  ‘I’m glad about that, I feel a bit done in, so it will be very nice to have a quiet evening. Right. I’m off, see you later.’ The bride and groom will journey to their secret honeymoon destination. She got up from the table, kissed her mother’s cheek, then her father’s, and left the room, grabbing her coat and hat from the hallstand, and almost immediately Mr and Mrs Manderson heard the front door bang behind her and the sound of her heels clattering down the steps and receding into the distance.

  Mrs Manderson looked at her husband, for once unable to give full expression to her emotions. ‘Well!’ was all she could manage.

  He nodded, gave her a peck on the cheek before sitting down and taking up his morning newspaper. ‘My thoughts exactly, dearest.’

  *

  Dottie had been summoned to Carmichael’s for a quick fitting of some new dress bodices, and this accomplished, she was free for an hour before she needed to go to Mrs Gerard’s. She wanted to sit quietly somewhere, and she wanted some tea. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. She just needed some time. She made her way to the Lyon’s Corner House, even though it was a fifteen-minute walk in the wrong direction for Mrs Gerard’s house.

  She found a table in a corner away from the door, and having given her order, sat back to examine her thoughts and feelings, the chatter of the other customers providing a comfortable background.

  At a nearby table, a young man surreptitiously reached across the table and took the hand of the young lady with him. After a quick look round, and failing to spot Dottie’s stare, he kissed her fingertips and they smiled at one another. The Honourable Cyril Penterman today with his new bride. Tears prickled the back of Dottie’s eyes and she turned away. It would never do to disgrace herself in such a public place. She rummaged through her handbag for her diary and pulled the
tiny pencil out of its spine, ready to make a list of some sort should she feel she was becoming emotional. She watched a couple of comfortable matrons discussing a knitting pattern for an infant’s jacket. I must buy some wool, Dottie thought, Flora’s baby will need some jackets. And vests, and goodness knows what else. A shawl, she thought, a shawl would be a definite essential, and so easy to make, no awkward shaping of armholes. She made a note in her diary to buy wool. And possibly a book of patterns for a baby’s layette. She amended her note to read ‘yellow wool’ as they didn’t know whether Flora’s baby would be a boy or a girl.

  By and by with these prosaic thoughts, she became calm again. She sipped her tea and ate the fruit bun she had ordered, and very soon she felt a bit better.

  She was almost late getting to Mrs Gerard’s, having forgotten that by going to the tearoom she had added quite a bit extra onto her journey. Mrs Gerard, always so kind, so untroubled by rules and regulations, was not put out in the least by Dottie arriving at ten minutes past eleven, but merely remarked how damp it was and ushered her into the little sitting-room she favoured for small tête-a-têtes.

  The maid, carrying way Dottie’s coat and hat, returned after a short time with a tray to serve them coffee. Then with a bob and a smile she left the room. Mrs Gerard turned to Dottie, and without any prevarication, came to the point.

  ‘Well, my dear, I see Cyril has done the dirty on you and married that American girl. I can only say, I hope she can keep him. And of course, how sorry I am, my dear. As you know, I had hoped...’

  ‘So had I,’ Dottie said mournfully, and as tears threatened again, she said crossly, ‘I wouldn’t have minded half as much if he’d been honest with me. He really made me think...’ She sighed.

  ‘Men!’ said Mrs Gerard. ‘I’m afraid they’re often a lot more trouble than they are worth. As I said, I’m truly sorry, dear, nothing would have given me greater pleasure. It was the greatest shock to open the newspaper yesterday and see...well, you know what. Even I was excluded from the family secret, you see.’