by Caron Allan
‘Well, so he said the show had given him this idea, and he asked me if I’d like to earn fifty quid. Before I could tell him what I thought of him, ‘oh,’ he says, ‘it’s nothing like that, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing,’ he says.’
‘So what was he suggesting?’
‘He wanted to do a Brighton thing, he said. I was to wait outside his house one night when he came out, then link my arm through his, and he would kiss me on the cheek and we’d walk off down the road. It was all meant to be done so his maid could see and he hoped she’d tell her mistress—either that or perhaps his wife would see us herself. Then the second time, we was to be seen having dinner in some restaurant. And that was it. Well I wasn’t going to turn down fifty quid just for that, was I, and a posh dinner into the bargain.’
‘So he wanted to compromise himself so his wife would divorce him and he could be with this other woman, D-something?’
‘Yes.’
‘A Brighton divorce, they call it. You pay someone to pretend to have an affair with you to keep the real person out of the spotlight. That’s the main story of the show.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and looked down at her clasped hands. ‘But of course, in spite of what I’d promised myself, and what he’d promised me, things did go quite a bit too far...’ she hesitated and risked a glance up at Hardy’s face, and looked away again. ‘I wish—I wish I’d said no, but...You see I forgot it was just pretend. For a while I thought he really liked me. I thought he’d forgot about this other girl and he’d marry me once his divorce came through. He kept buying me drinks and flowers, and when we went for dinner, he gave me a bracelet. And so I...’ She stopped and bit her lip. A tear rolled down her face. ‘I wish I hadn’t,’ she added in a whisper.
The silence pressed in about them. If he had known Miss Knight better, he might have hugged her, but as a police inspector interviewing a witness, he couldn’t do that. Nevertheless, he was human. As gently as he could, he said, ‘You’re not—in any—trouble, are you? If you are, I will help you. Just tell me the truth, Valerie.’
She gave a shaky laugh. ‘No, nothing like as bad as that, thank God. But I feel so ashamed. What if my mum was to find out? Or my dad?’
‘Archie Dunne was a notorious philanderer, he used women and threw them aside once he’d had what he wanted. Don’t blame yourself, dear, you’ll not get taken in again.’
‘No, I certainly won’t,’ she said with a return of spirit, ‘And at least I got my fifty quid and a posh dinner too.’ She smiled at him.
‘Could do with that myself,’ Hardy agreed. ‘So where was this flat he took you to?’
She told him the address and he noted it down, just as a matter of form, for his own records, although as soon as she’d said it, he recognised it as the same address he and Maple had already visited. As she was leaving, she said, ‘You won’t forget about talking to Big Ears, will you?’
‘Big Ears?’
‘The manager. I don’t want to lose my job.’
Hardy smiled. ‘I’ll talk to Big Ears, Miss Knight, don’t you worry about that. Thank you for your help.’
‘Will I have to go to court?’
‘It’s possible, but unlikely.’ He followed her to the door, and held it open for her.
‘I’m going to use the money to do a typewriting course, see if I can get a better job.’
‘That’s an excellent idea, good luck, Miss Knight.’
*
Detective Constable Maple was watching the street, still in ordinary clothes to avoid drawing attention to himself. From his position on the corner, he watched from behind a newspaper as a taxi pulled up. A tall, slim, dark-haired young woman got out, and went up the crumbling steps to number 191.
*
Dottie got out of the taxi, paid the driver and turned to face Susan Dunne’s house. She didn’t really want to go in, not on her own, but on the other hand, Susan had sounded so thoroughly upset, Dottie hadn’t liked to refuse her. But now she wished she’d insisted on Flora, or even her mother, coming with her.
From the street, the house looked cheery and welcoming—the bright electric light glowed through colourful curtains that Dottie instinctively knew her mother would think highly unsuitable, but Dottie herself thought most attractive. As she pushed open the rusty gate and went up the neglected steps to the front door, the sound of dance music reached her ears. Someone inside was listening to the radio.
However, when she arrived at the top of the steps, and put out her hand to take hold of the knocker, just like in a horror film the door creaked slowly open by itself to reveal a dark hallway. Dottie felt an extreme reluctance to enter, the cheerful note had gone. In fact, as soon as the door had begun to move, chills ran down her spine and her scalp prickled.
Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. She knew she should leave, she felt something was wrong. But to all outward—and sensible—appearances, there was no cause for alarm, other than the light being out in the hall and the front door standing slightly ajar. She paused for a moment and took a calming breath. Her stomach lurched again; she had never felt this frightened before, and never on such small evidence.
She waited for her eyes to adjust to the low level of light, but even after a full minute, could still discern nothing. She took a step back again and looked about her, glancing up and down the almost deserted street and wondering. She could still hear the soft sound of a waltz, clearly coming from the drawing-room. She pushed thoughts of Cyril out of her head, crushing down a sudden memory of dancing with him, and she was cross with herself for thinking of him at a time like this. Her anger steadied her and she was able to think.
Perhaps she ought to try to find a neighbour, or go down the road to find a policeman walking the beat, and get him to come back with her. She need only say she was worried about her friend, or that she was nervous of the dark. She was fairly sure anyone would understand and offer to help her. Everyone knew that London policemen were the kindest and most helpful in the whole world.
But something determined rose up in her and told her not to be such a ninny. No wonder men think they can lie and cheat and go off and marry American heiresses if you go about being a delicate wilting little hothouse-flower, she told herself. So she straightened her shoulders and put up her chin and took a good strong grip on her bag and put a smile on her face. She pushed the door wide open and called out cheerily, ‘Hello Susan!’ as she stepped into the hall.
There was no reply, but perhaps Susan had fallen asleep after her earlier emotion.
A sudden chime from a clock in the hall made Dottie jump, and she almost turned like a rabbit and ran. It was half past seven. She told herself sternly that she was being a child, and turning to close the front door carefully, she then put off her coat and hat and left them on the hallstand, spookily there like a skeleton in the dark corner beside the picture. She left her bag on the floor beside the stand, and smoothed her skirt and cardigan and patted her hair.
Ignoring the trembling, hollow feeling inside, she again called out hello, adding, ‘I hope you don’t mind me just walking in, but your front door was open, and I was a bit worried. I think the latch hadn’t caught and wind must have blown it open.’
She pushed open the door to the little drawing-room at the front of the house. The music was louder now, and the electric lights of the room dazzled her momentarily, as she came in from the dark hall. She looked about the room.
Dottie stood in the doorway, frozen, unable to think or breathe.
It was—Susan. She was—sitting. On her sofa, with her sewing still on her lap, one hand still grasping the needle and thread. Her throat—the blood.
Dottie stumbled back, gasping, she couldn’t look away, her hand fumbling behind her for the door and not finding it. The radio played gaily on, the room warmed by the fire, and bright, and cheerful, but there on the sofa...
Dottie became aware of a choking, gasping sound, and realised the strange sound, like a frightened child,
came from her own mouth. Where was the door? She had to—had to leave. Help. They needed help.
But Leonora was there. She stood blocking the now-closed door. Dottie saw the long knife she held, and the blood on it, and the blood that was a slick mess all down the right side of her flowing, gold cloak. She had the appearance of a high-priestess conducting a sacrifice. She looked calm, yet her eyes glittered with repressed excitement.
‘But...’ said Dottie.
‘Messy, isn’t it? Yes, go over there, keep going back. That’s right. Now sit. In that chair next to her. Oh don’t be such a baby, she can’t hurt you now.’
Dottie practically fell into the chair. It was a relief to sit, her legs didn’t seem to want to hold her up any longer, and she stumbled. She turned her head so she didn’t look at Susan’s face tipped right back, her eyes wide in terror, even now in death, her lips drawn back in a grimace, revealing teeth tightly pressed together. The blood, thick and dark across her throat, and all down the front of her dowdy black blouse, coat and skirt and onto the floor. Dottie squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, biting her lip to keep herself from making any sound.
Leonora’s voice brought her back to reality.
‘You know, for a few moments there you had me worried. As soon as you saw the door open, you almost went away again, didn’t you?’
If only I had, Dottie thought. If only. If I live, if I’m somehow spared, I shall always, always follow my instincts. She couldn’t speak, so she nodded her head in answer to Leonora’s question.
‘Yes, I thought so! Bet you wish you’d run, Little Miss Do-Gooder, always poking your nose in where it’s not wanted. Well, you’ve learned your lesson now, good and proper. Asking me if I’m all right. ‘Oh are you sure you’re quite all right?’ You patronising cow! How could I be all right after what she’d done?’ Leonora jabbed the knife in Susan’s direction.
How tall Leonora was, Dottie thought suddenly, irrelevantly. Was it she whom the cigarette girl had seen? Something about Archie creeping past her as if he was afraid? It wasn’t Susan after all, but her maid. Susan was small, Leonora towered. Susan wouldn’t open the front door, it would be Leonora who did that.
Leonora was weeping suddenly, and saying, ‘I loved him! Archie. Oh, I know he wasn’t faithful, never would be faithful. But that didn’t matter to me. I only wanted to serve him, my Lord and master, my one true love. I lived just to make everything in his life more comfortable, more convenient. To do my duty. She didn’t care a fig about him. Not a fig. From the moment they married, she nagged him and scolded him, she harped on at him night and day, and you could see it in her eyes—how she despised him! Her own husband. The one she had sworn to obey, to respect, to be a helpmeet unto. How dared she! After everything I’d taught her! She was the betrayer, not him! We’re supposed to love them, to serve them, no matter what, always to be there to help and support. It’s our wifely duty! But she didn’t care for any of that. Her vows meant nothing to her. Nothing!’
She was screaming by now, tears and saliva running down onto her chin, dripping onto the front of her cloak, the hand holding the knife shaking violently. Dottie felt ill, her head swam. The thing that had been Susan beside her, the black-red gash yawning like a nightmarishly misplaced smile, the sight of it forever imprinted on her mind. And the thing that had been the pleasant young housemaid screaming and shuddering and sobbing in front of her, and covered in blood.
‘You killed Susan,’ Dottie whispered. She gripped the arms of the chair.
‘She betrayed him! She made her vows, to love honour and obey. She stood up in front of everyone and said those words and since the first week they lived together as man and wife she despised him and belittled him. And then, when she found out about the other one, she thought she had the right to exact her revenge! Well, now I’ve had my revenge. How could she do it, how dared she do it, murder her own husband?’
‘Susan killed Archie?’ Dottie shook her head, denying the rabid words.
‘Mr Dunne to you! Show some respect! You’re no better than her,’ Leonora gestured towards Susan’s body with the gory knife. ‘Taking up with first this one and then that. Flitting from one rich suitor to the next, never with one man long enough to gain his trust, always putting your own wants first, never mind decent, modest behaviour.’ The voice dropped now to little more than a whisper as she said, her tone one of offended pride and distaste, ‘Flaunting the colours. The Queen’s own colours in public. What right had you? You’re not even one of the sisters, you have no right—none—none!’
Suddenly she lunged at Dottie, and Dottie shrieked, and threw herself out of the chair. She fell onto Susan’s feet as a burning, stinging pain sheered through her upper arm as the knife’s blade slashed at her.
Suddenly the room was alive, full, loud. Men shouted, Leonora screeched as a policeman took hold of her arm and forced her to drop the weapon. Simultaneously Dottie screamed as her hand touched Susan’s cold, stockinged feet, and then arms came about her, lifting her up and away, a voice shushing her gently, an arm about her shoulders.
Somehow, Dottie didn’t see how it happened, Leonora worked up her strength and wrenched herself free of the grip of the policeman who held her, she fell to the carpet, and snatched up the knife, driving towards Dottie, the knife scything wildly, but Inspector Hardy leapt backwards, taking Dottie with him, turning as he did so. Leonora’s knife missed its mark, then she halted, and seeming at last to realise how the situation stood, Leonora gripped the knife, sneered at Dottie, then declared, ‘For Queen Esther!’ and plunged the knife into her own bosom, falling with a shriek to the floor, shuddering once, twice, and then she was still, her blood quickly becoming a large dark pool. Dottie fell in a heap on the floor. Hardy lifted her to her feet, and his arms held her to his chest, and she gave full vent to the first attack of hysterics she had ever had.
She was led out into the street and helped into a waiting police car, where a greatcoat was wrapped around her shivering frame, and hot sweet tea with a generous dash of something from a silver flask was put into her hands. Her hysterics fizzled out almost immediately, leaving her shuddering with cold, tears still running slowly down her cheeks and, to add to her humiliation, she had the hiccups. She sipped the tea and gradually its heat and the alcoholic component warmed her and bolstered her nerves. Voices still issued from the Dunnes’ house, and lights were going on up and down the street, people began to peek around curtains and doors.
She found a handkerchief in the pocket of the greatcoat and she scrubbed her face with it. Then seeing blood on her right hand, she wiped it carefully, concentrating on each finger and nail, and knuckle, refusing to allow her mind to dwell on the fact of the blood, or to wonder if it was her own blood, or Leonora’s, or Susan’s, but just giving her complete attention to the task of wiping it away. The occasional tear or hiccup escaped her but she began to feel calmer. She became aware of activity around her, and she only started slightly when the door next to her was opened and a gentleman in evening dress and carrying a carpet bag leaned in and said, ‘I say m’dear, are you the young lady who’s been injured? Been sent to take a look at you. I’m Dr Garrett.’
She nodded, and guiltily tried to hide the cup. He simply smiled and got in beside her. ‘Nothing like a cup of tea for a shock. Especially with a drop of something in it. Does the nerves good. Not much of an evening out for you, m’dear. What’s your name?’
She told him her name, and her address, and the name of her parents, and he nodded as if satisfied, and quickly patched up the wound on her arm. As he worked he asked about a few people he knew and they discovered some mutual acquaintances. Dottie could have hugged him for the easy way her kept her mind off what he was doing. The wound was stinging tremendously and she felt she could hardly bear it, but by the time he had cleaned it and dressed it, the stinging had subsided to a dull throbbing ache.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks. It’ll probably leave a thin scar, but at least it will be
fairly easy to hide. And it’ll just be a straight line, no puckering. Shouldn’t be unsightly enough to put off any young chaps worth their salt! Change the dressing every day, and keep the wound clean. If your arm turns green or drops off, go and see your own doctor. Who is that, by the way?’
She told him. He made a note and promised to let him know what had happened.
‘Now then, just get off home to bed, a drop of brandy to help you sleep, rest tomorrow, the arm will be a bit sore for a few days, but otherwise you’ll soon be back to normal.’ He bid her goodnight, and as she pulled the greatcoat back around her, and noticed the crowd of on-lookers, and she watched the comings and goings through the rain-spattered window of the car, she began to remember everything that had happened, and what she had seen. More importantly, she remembered the strange rambling things that had come out of Leonora’s mouth, before she had—she had...
It was too fantastical, like something from some opium-ravaged Victorian epic. It wasn’t the kind of thing that happened in an ordinary house in an ordinary street in an everydayish part of London. Dottie’s teeth began to chatter again, and the deep throbbing ache in her arm that must be what the doctor had alluded to when he’d told her it would be “a bit sore” seemed to be worsening at every moment. She drank the rest of the tea, partly to warm herself and partly because she felt as though she might start screaming again. She was embarrassed by her earlier behaviour. Once again, she felt ashamed of her emotional reactions and felt she was of little use in a crisis. For goodness’ sake, she had even fainted. Practically at Inspector Hardy’s feet. Her cheeks flamed at the memory.
The car door opened again. A concerned face looked in at her. He smiled at her when he saw her looking up at him.
‘Seen the doc?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, all—all p-patched up. Nothing to worry about.’ She tried to sound perky but failed miserably.