by Caron Allan
‘Follow me, please,’ he said and turning, set off down a long corridor.
‘I don’t think this is the prison, so that’s something,’ Dottie whispered to Flora.
‘No, he’s taking us to a torture chamber in the basement, I expect. I bet they split us up and try to get us to put all the blame on the other.’
‘The blame for what?’ Dottie hissed, ‘We haven’t done anything.’
‘Try telling him that. If my baby is born in prison, I shall never speak to you again.’
They almost cannoned into him as he paused to open a door and stood back to allow them to go through first. Dottie blushed; from the angry look in his eye, he had certainly heard their comments. As she followed Flora through, he said, ‘Actually I do most of my interrogating in my office. We don’t have a special torture chamber for that any more. This way, Mrs Gascoigne.’
‘Oh, you have your own office, do you, Sergeant? How jolly pleasant,’ Dottie said tartly, and thought, oh dear, I sound just like Mother.
He led them inside, cleared boxes and books off two chairs, set them opposite his own on the other side of the desk, and with a wave of his hand, he invited them to sit.
No sooner had Dottie thought to herself, he’s definitely not in a very good mood in spite of his politeness, than he banged his hand down hard on the desk top and absolutely yelled at them:
‘What the hell do you think you were doing, going to Susan Dunne’s house this evening?’
Both women blinked in surprise. Dottie, who had been admiring the breadth of his shoulders, jolted and bit through her lip and couldn’t find a handkerchief to staunch the ensuing flow of blood. With a look of exasperation, Hardy handed her his own. The simple human gesture sadly undermined the authority he had been trying to exert. Intuiting this, he sat down and leaned back in his seat, regarding them and wondering how to gain back his brief advantage.
Dottie’s lip was not seriously injured. She put his handkerchief in her handbag, promising to have it laundered and returned to him. He was tempted to shout ‘Damn the handkerchief!’ but suspected that would work about as well as his thump on the desk. Therefore, it was through gritted teeth that he asked in a more normal voice, ‘May I ask the purpose of your visit to Susan Dunne this evening?’
With some asperity, Flora said, ‘We were simply calling on a friend, to condole and support.’
‘Susan Dunne is no friend of yours,’ Hardy said with astonishing certainty. He watched them exchange a look. ‘Let’s assume that you were calling on her out of sheer nosiness. No doubt you’d planned to ask her a few questions about her late husband.’
Flora shook her head but Dottie leaned forward, and fixing her rather lovely eyes on him, said, ‘How did you know?’ Her lips were red, her cheeks pale. Her dark pretty hair curled softly about her ears and neck. That rat Cyril Penterman’s loss was the rest of the world’s gain, William Hardy thought. Aloud he said rather haughtily, ‘It’s my business to know these things, Madam.’
Incredibly, she seemed stung by being called Madam; he saw the flash of hurt in her eyes. He hastily softened his approach. ‘Miss Manderson, please just tell me what is going on. I have my reasons for being aware if Susan Dunne receives visitors.’
‘Ooh, are you watching the house? Do you suspect her of killing her husband?’ Flora asked, while Dottie added, ‘Have you seen any sign of a gold-coloured cloak? Possibly two?’
He looked from one woman to the other and back again, and a distinct sense of being out of his depth crept over him. He recalled some wise words spoken to him once by an uncle, and accordingly got to his feet. ‘Excuse me a moment, ladies.’ He went out of the office, returning almost immediately. ‘Sorry about that. I thought I’d order some tea. I suspect we’re going to be here a while, and no doubt you’d welcome a cup, I know I should.’
The tea came, and Flora did the honours and as she did so, Dottie looked around the office. Everywhere was piled with boxes, books and manila folders of papers.
‘Are you moving in or moving out?’ she asked.
‘In,’ he said.
‘I didn’t realise sergeants got their own offices.’
‘They don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve recently received my promotion to inspector.’ And she smiled. He thought the sight of it worth a dozen promotions.
‘Congratulations!’ she said, and her voice was warm with genuine pleasure for him. ‘I’m sure it’s richly deserved. I expect your mother is rightly very proud.’
‘She was extremely pleased, yes. Um—thank you.’
There was a moment’s silence then Flora handed him his tea, milk, no sugar, Dottie noted, and then there was a general air of their original conversation resuming.
Dottie said, ‘You’re quite right, of course. We’re not friends of Susan Dunne’s. In fact, we’re barely acquaintances. And she refused to see us this evening. The maid said she was unwell, but we’re almost certain that was an excuse to avoid us.’
‘Surely not,’ he murmured. She glared at him.
‘We saw someone watching us from an upstairs window,’ Flora added, ‘And it couldn’t have been Leonora the maid as she’d just closed the door on us. And locked and bolted it.’
‘Right on us!’ Dottie agreed.
‘And did you have any particular reason for your visit, other than...’
‘Sheer nosiness?’ Dottie asked. ‘No, we didn’t, you were quite right about that too. I mean, I think we already knew it wasn’t terribly likely she’d see us. She has gone rather out of her way to avoid us. But we thought we had to try. We just wanted to ask her about the cloak, and the picture, and what it all meant, that’s all.’
‘What is this about a cloak? And what picture?’
So Dottie told him all about seeing the picture the first time they’d gone to the Dunnes’ house, about the idea to look for the fabric, about what the saleswoman at Liberty’s had told them, and that led to her telling him about the note pinned to her cloak, about the empty pin that indicated a second note, the whispered comment, the second picture in George’s sister Diana’s room. Lastly she said, ‘Did you know Archie Dunne was having an illicit love affair with Diana Gascoigne?’
Flora protested at such candour but Hardy nodded and said, ‘Yes. That’s where he was going on the night he was killed. There is a flat not far from Mr and Mrs Gascoigne’s home. She was believed to be staying with friends but in fact she was spending the night with him at this flat he was renting for that purpose. They had been meeting there regularly for some time.’
‘The little minx!’ Flora said to Dottie, outraged. ‘I told you, the morals of an alley cat.’
William Hardy, Detective Inspector, got to his feet. ‘Well thank you for coming in this evening, ladies, I won’t keep you any longer. It’s getting late.’
Disconcerted, they quickly gathered their things and followed him back to the door which led past the front desk and out onto the street. He saw them into Flora’s car, then waved them off and went back inside.
Only as they reached Flora’s home did Dottie suddenly say, ‘But he didn’t tell us anything! He got everything he wanted out of us, but apart from explaining where Archie Dunne was going that night, he told us nothing. We’re still none the wiser.’
‘Dottie dear, he’s the police,’ said her sister with great patience, as she opened the front door. ‘The way things work is, people give the police information, and the police solve crimes. They don’t give us information. That way, it’s the police who do the detecting and we mere citizens stay safely at home out of the way and don’t go around annoying detective inspectors.’
‘Well—blast it!’ Dottie said, frustrated. ‘I’m staying the night by the way. Can I phone Mother and let her know?’
‘Of course. Cocoa?’
‘No. Wine.’
‘Very well.’
Chapter Twenty
‘I want to speak to that cigarette girl at the theatre,’ Dottie announced at breakfast.
George peered at her over his newspaper. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Well, to begin with, I think you were all too susceptible to her charms, and now that we know a little more about the situation, I’ve thought of a few more things I want to ask.’
‘I see,’ he said and retreated behind his paper once more.
‘He’s getting very like Father,’ Dottie commented. The newspaper appeared to be listening intently. ‘Have you noticed how men always use a very large newspaper as a sort of shield between themselves and their womenfolk?’
‘Yes,’ said Flora, ‘Sometimes it can be useful though. For example, I can pull faces at him like this, and he doesn’t know anything about it.’
The newspaper dropped again and George sent her a half-annoyed, half-laughing look. She blew him a kiss and he returned to his news and she returned to her toast and sweet tea.
‘Fortunately, as it’s Saturday, there’ll be a matinee showing, so we should be able to collar this girl without wasting the entire day. What was her name, George?’
‘Valerie,’ said the newspaper.
‘Thank you, Dearest.’ Flora said and put her tongue out at him.
‘I saw that,’ said the newspaper.
*
They managed to squeeze in a little shopping before making their way to the theatre. Dottie bought a large amount of wool in a number of soft shades, as she had planned to begin work on, variously, a shawl, bootees, and two matinee jackets. That would be her contribution to the baby preparations, and she felt quite excited to be making a start. Flora, of course, would be hopeless at knitting, Dottie thought, but she was unable to prevent her from also buying some wool and knitting needles.
‘After all, I’ve got almost six months until the baby comes,’ Flora said, ‘so that gives me plenty of time to learn how to knit. I shall be quite the needlewoman by the time little Bonzo arrives.’
‘You’d better start practising a school jumper. You’ll need at least five years. And Bonzo? What on earth is George thinking?’
‘Well, I’ve got to call it something, I can’t keep saying ‘it’ all the time. Obviously one doesn’t have the faintest idea if one is having a boy or a girl, though Cook says it’s definitely a girl, apparently I’m ‘carrying all front’, whatever that means, and that’s ridiculous anyway as my tummy is still as flat as a pancake. But at the same time, Mrs Owens at the Ladies Institute says I am most definitely expecting a little boy, as I’m all hips. I hate that woman, how dare she!’ Flora bundled her wool and needles into her basket, adding, ‘I do hope it’s a boy, George will be so thrilled. We must try to find a name we both like. Hopefully Bonzo is just a sort of stop-gap measure.’
Dottie shook her head in a pitying manner. ‘It sounds like a dog’s name. You could choose one of those names that is suitable for a boy or a girl—Hilary or Leslie, or Kim. You know...’
‘I hate all of those. We’ll probably have to call it George if it is a boy—poor little beggar—and if it’s a girl, well no doubt we’ll think of something dainty and feminine. But absolutely not Diana.’
‘Or Susan,’ Dottie said.
‘Definitely not Susan,’ Flora agreed.
They were on their way to the theatre now. They weren’t able to park right outside, but had to walk back from a parking spot further along the road. On the way, Dottie suddenly grabbed her sister’s arm.
‘How are we going to get in to see this Valerie girl? Surely we won’t have to actually pay for matinee tickets?’
Flora looked at her in dismay. ‘Much as I enjoyed the show the first four times, I really don’t think I want to sit through it again.’
‘Me either.’
But they had to pay the full entrance fee; the elderly woman in the box office informed them tartly that it was ‘no ticket, no entrance’.
‘In which case we may as well have a box,’ Flora said, waving the exorbitant cost aside. ‘Does the cigarette girl still come along during the Matinee?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And is it still Valerie? She knows which ones I like,’ Flora added to divert suspicion, not that there was any suspicion.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ repeated the woman in a bored voice. Her only concern was that they should move along and not hold up her queue.
So they spread themselves out in the box and got ready for the show. ‘We might as well be comfortable,’ Flora said, ‘then as soon as we’ve seen this Valerie character, we can leave, unless you especially want to stay to see the rest of the show?’
‘I never thought I’d say this about poor Fred Astaire, but I’d be perfectly happy to never see him again,’ Dottie said. ‘He may be a fabulous dancer, but that high-pitched singing voice of his gets rather on one’s nerves after seeing the thing six times. How I long for a nice baritone.’ She pulled off her gloves one finger at a time and lay them on top of the pile which was her coat, bag and her hat. Her shopping she had left in the car. Which was a pity because she now realised she could have made significant progress with a bootee as she sat waiting for Valerie to make her appearance.
At last the show began, and, bored from the outset, Dottie leaned back and regarded her fingernails critically. She nudged her sister.
‘Do you think I should get them polished a really deep red, or stick with a pale pink?’
‘Shh!’ said someone in the next box.
‘I don’t know. I should think Mother would have forty fits if you go for the deep red. She’ll think you’ve become a lady of the evening...’
‘Ssshhhh!’ said the voice from the next box, with even greater urgency.
‘That’s rather why I was thinking of doing it. After all, she already has strong reservations about me working at Carmichael’s, so...’
A head appeared round the partition, making both Flora and Dottie jump. It was the face of an elderly man, red with fury.
‘Will you please keep the noise down!’ he bellowed, ‘Kindly take your Mothers’ Meeting elsewhere!’
Upon which, the door behind Dottie and Flora opened and an usher came in, saw the man and told him quietly but firmly that if he didn’t sit down and be quiet, the police would be called and he would be ejected from the theatre, never to return. Outraged, but with no choice, the man sat back down. As the usher went out, he said to Flora and Dottie,
‘I’m so sorry, ladies, if he starts up again, just let me know and I’ll get him removed.’
‘Thank you,’ they said, and when he had gone, nudged each other and stifled giggles.
‘Let’s wait in the corridor,’ Flora whispered. They gathered up their belongings and tiptoed out into the hall where the air was pleasantly cool even if the hall was somewhat gloomy. After only another ten minutes, they heard someone approaching, and a soft glow lit the way as she came along the corridor towards them.
‘Good evening,’ Flora said. The girl was extremely pretty and revoltingly young and slim. No wonder George had believed every word she’d told him.
‘Good evening, madam,’ the girl said, and possibly because her customers were usually men, she looked rather suspiciously at the two of them, with their coats, hats and bags piled on the floor.
‘Erm, you don’t know us,’ Dottie said, ‘but we were here a few weeks ago, with my sister’s husband. It was he who told you about the death of Archie Dunne.’ The girl’s face fought off an amazed look and found one that held a hint of surprise mixed with a dash of curiosity.
‘Oh yes, poor Mr Dunne. Yes, I seem to remember something about that. What can I do for you?’
‘Um...’ Dottie said, thinking, now what is the best way to ask her if she was lying to George? Should I try to...
‘You lied to my husband when you said you hardly knew Archie, didn’t you?’ Flora stated. She held up a hand as Valerie began to protest, ‘Oh I know, believe me, I do understand. Obviously you didn’t want to get into any trouble, and you probably suspected Archie may have been married after all. Naturally he would have told you he wasn’t married, I�
�m sure they all do that. But after a while you no doubt began to wonder. Little things wouldn’t quite add up. And you’re a bright girl, you’d recognise the signs.’
‘Well, I ...’ Valerie began. She was looking from one to the other of them like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlamps.
‘Of course. But you couldn’t be sure,’ Dottie added, seeing where Flora was directing them.
‘And so you probably thought you ought to follow him, just to make sure. After all, if he was really a married man, and just leading you on, you had a right to know.’
‘Yes, you have your reputation to consider. You couldn’t afford to lose your job.’
Valerie was looking upset, she craned forward over her tray of goods. ‘Look, stop! You’ve got it all wrong. He told me he was married, that was the whole point. I mean yes, it’s true I didn’t want anyone here to know about it, I knew I’d lose my job if anyone found out I was seeing a married man, and although the pay’s not much, it makes a difference to me. It means I can get out of home, my mum and dad are always on at me and there’s the younger ones to look after, always snivelling and wanting me to do things for them. I can’t stick it any longer.’
‘So you followed him home, after he’d been to see you?’
‘No. Not right away, I didn’t,’ Valerie protested. ‘Look, it started off quite innocent really. He used to talk to me here. Then he took me for a drink. He’d been to see the show two or three times, he said it gave him an idea. He wanted me to help him, that bit was true. He paid me to be seen with him, he took me out a few times, and spent money on me, he said he wanted people to think he was carrying on with someone so he could get her to divorce him. But I fell for him, and all his fancy talk. Even after he’d paid me, he still took me out and I started to think he really liked me. I thought he had left her, he said he had left her. But...’
‘But obviously you had to be sure,’ Dottie said, nodding sympathetically.
‘It was when he took me to the flat,’ Valerie said, ‘I mean, I didn’t really think about why he wanted me to go there. I know that was silly of me, but I just didn’t think. He seemed so nice, and of course he was very good-looking. But he’d brought wine, and flowers, and had a nice dinner sent up, and so it didn’t seem such a bad way to say thank you.’