The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  Could there be a financial motive behind Cecilia’s death? Surely if anything, Cecilia had been the one gaining the material benefits, not the other way round. Unless she was heavily insured, of course, Dottie suddenly thought. After all, St Martin’s estate appeared to be failing and falling into debt; repairs were not able to be carried out. Staff were not paid. Dottie made a mental note to ask William to look into that aspect of the murder.

  That Lewis had been able to give Cecilia the grand feudal home she had so craved seemed little enough reason to marry someone. How had she been able to turn her back on the love of the man she had wanted all those years ago? What about more recently as the place began to fall apart around their ears? Had Cecilia resented St Martins as a millstone around their necks?

  If Cecilia had been so unhappy with Lewis, Dottie did not understand why she was so against Imogen following her heart and marrying Norris. Was it really only a question of his lack of money and coming from the wrong background?

  The wrong background had meant nothing to Cecilia when she had been a young woman in love with Stanley Sissons, a mere soap manufacturer. Had it been the addition of a knighthood that overcame her objections? Or the financial success? Or just the death of her parents? It was true, Dottie thought, that her aunt seemed to have set great store by status and tradition.

  But after resisting and refusing to tell Dottie—or over the years, Lavinia—the identity of Dottie’s father, suddenly—very suddenly—Cecilia had had a change of heart and brought about the meeting of Dottie and Sir Stanley. Why had she done that? Was it possible it had benefitted her in some way? Or had she merely given in to what had perhaps seemed inevitable?

  Why had Cecilia and Lewis not simply divorced, Dottie wondered. Divorce would not have materially affected either of them, plus it was so easy to obtain these days. And becoming almost commonplace, it lacked some of the intense social stigma it had always had. A divorce would have meant Lewis could have gone to the woman he loved, and Cecilia could have finally been with the man she had rejected so many years ago. Her parents were dead. Sir Stanley’s wife had died. There appeared to be no further reason not to follow their hearts. That would have the advantage of placing Cecilia in the elevated social position she appeared to crave, as well as financially benefitting her.

  How could Cecilia do the same thing to her own daughter as was done to her, by refusing her the hand of the man she loved merely on the grounds of social class? It was entirely due to Cecilia that Imogen, at almost thirty years of age, had no viable candidates for romance. If only Cecilia had got down off her high horse and allowed Norris Clarke to court her. Though now, with Cecilia’s death, the way was surely clear for Imogen and Norris to marry?

  It occurred to Dottie now for the first time that her own mother had clearly been something of a rebel to marry the notoriously once-penniless Herbert Manderson. Had her parents forbidden her Herbert, just as they had forbidden Cecilia to allow Sir Stanley to pursue her? At some point there must have been a painful scene in which Lavinia told her parents she had no intention of settling on a man for whom she had no love. Dottie felt sure she would do the same, risking comfort and security for a man who had few material advantages but who loved her devotedly.

  Unbidden, William Hardy’s face came to mind, stopping her thoughts and her little grey cells in their tracks.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dottie awoke quite suddenly and felt wide awake. In the cell it was almost dark, but it might be any time between three in the afternoon and ten o’clock in the morning—the long winter nights were even longer when you were below ground level. The only light coming into the cell was a glimmer of electric light through the tiny slot in the door whenever the warder checked on her. Checking for what, Dottie wondered. Did the woman really think she would catch Dottie in the middle of a daring escape, digging a tunnel or filing through the bars of the little slot window up by the ceiling at street level?

  Dottie sat hunched on the bench under a thin scratchy blanket. Her back ached and she had a crick in her neck. The space at the end of the bench that ran into the corner was a premium spot and highly sought-after by inmates, affording as it did a more comfortable prop for the head and back. Dottie, having the cell to herself for the second night, had taken over this position, planning to get the most sleep she could before her earnestly prayed for release in the morning.

  Now though, she got to her feet and stretched. She tried a few movements she vaguely recalled from gym as a schoolgirl. The stretching helped to relieve her aches and pains and boosted her spirits.

  She felt cheerful. She knew that beyond the confines of her cell, her parents, Monty and of course William were all doing everything they could to get her out of prison and clear her name. She hoped that her release was almost at hand, and that nothing would stop Inspector Woolley from releasing her today. She relaxed as much as she could, grabbing a second blanket from the other bench to drape over her lower half. She wouldn’t let herself think about fleas, or the odd doggy smell of the blankets. Instead she began to think about what had happened to her aunt.

  As soon as she turned her mind to the problem, one name sprang to it immediately. And every time she shook it away, it came back, insistently, intruding on her thoughts again and again.

  Imogen.

  Dottie felt a knot in the pit of her stomach. It couldn’t be timid, childish, scared-of-her-own-shadow Imogen. It just couldn’t. Dottie closed her eyes tight against the darkness, as if trying to turn away from her terrible doubts.

  Imogen...

  ...who had wanted to be free to marry the man she loved.

  ...who had been the butt of teasing and ridicule her whole life. The endless ridicule that had gone unchecked by an indifferent father and a mother who only wanted blind obedience and service from her daughter.

  ...who wanted to have a free, independent life, that she had only recently glimpsed from afar until Dottie had arrived, younger, yet independent, courting, free to marry whom she pleased, enjoying all the advantages of a happy social life and a warm, loving family.

  ...who was thwarted at every turn, and who, when she finally found the courage to stand up for herself, found that her hopes were dashed to pieces by the very person who should have wanted to promote her happiness: her mother.

  Had Imogen really been in her room that night? Had Dottie simply imagined the soft sound of breathing in the darkness? What had been the reason for the cold draught of air in the back hallway? Had someone gone out? Or had someone come in? Had Imogen been in her room, or not?

  ‘Oh dear Lord,’ Dottie whispered, ‘please don’t let it have been Imogen.’

  But who else could it have been? Guy and Leo, like their father, were free of the unfair restraints applied to the daughter of the house.

  ‘And they care not a jot for what other people think,’ Dottie reminded herself. Leo had his own home, his career, his family. Lewis, she knew from his own mouth, had his other, illicit, relationship and his heart was beyond Cecilia’s power to crush or control. Guy—well, surely his happy-go-lucky approach to life cushioned him well, and then there were his feelings for June, which no doubt kept him far too busy to be worrying about his mother’s attitude to him or her desire to control those around her.

  The only other person Dottie could ascribe even an inkling of a motive to was Norris. His motives were, she supposed, broadly the same as Imogen’s, though seemed in some respects less pressing. He already had his own home and business, after all. But...

  Imogen.

  All Dottie’s reasoning and thoughts seemed to return her again and again to her cousin. Her half-sister, she reminded herself. Shrugging her anxieties about Imogen aside, she thought about the rest of the family.

  What about Guy? He seemed to embody so many weak indulgences, yet his devotion to his brother’s wife seemed able to transform him into a completely new man. Exactly what Lewis had told Dottie about his own involvement with another woman, she recalled. Would G
uy—would she—act on their feelings? How could this work and still ensure everyone’s happiness? Would Guy be content to just see the woman he loved in snatched guilty moments, as Lewis had done for years?

  What were June’s own intentions? Was she merely fanning the flames of her own ego by surrounding herself with adoring men? Not that Leo seemed to be especially attentive or inclined to romance as afar as Dottie had been able to tell. He seemed bored, cynical and uninterested. Rather like his father, Dottie thought, and immediately wondered if Leo was likely to have an interest elsewhere. Another thing to ask William to look into. Yet who knew what passions might lurk unseen? Perhaps in the privacy of their own home Leo might sweep his wife off her feet with romantic yearning, sweet kisses and complete devotion?

  Dottie exhaled heavily, and felt her hair rise and fall. It seemed something of a stretch to picture Leo and June being lovey-dovey and passionate towards one another, but you never knew. It seemed so unlikely, and far more likely that their relationship mirrored that of Lewis and Cecilia, and that Leo did indeed have a mistress somewhere, a woman who... What was it Lewis had said? A woman who made him feel like a different, nicer person; that he liked himself when he was with her.

  She shook her head. It all seemed such a waste. Such a long waste of long years. So much misery, heartache and lying. It was all so sad. She didn’t want to think about it any more.

  Who was it that had accused her first? She had wracked her brain since yesterday but still couldn’t be sure.

  She had been trying to help her aunt, then she had been overtaken by the nausea and shock of what had happened. She’d wanted to get back to the house, but knew she only had time to make a dash into the trees. As soon as she finished being sick, and wiped her face on her wet jacket, someone had grabbed her roughly—a man—Leo? Or Guy? And someone, a man again—had said something like, ‘What have you done?’

  But had it been Leo or Guy? She couldn’t remember. She had felt faint and ill; it had all been happening too fast; one moment she was alone, struggling to drag her aunt’s body from the freezing water, the next everyone was there. Or at least, the ‘cousins’: Imogen, Guy, Leo and June. They had been shouting, and Imogen had been screaming, someone had slapped her. Leo—yes it had certainly been Leo who had slapped Imogen’s face and stopped her screaming dead.

  The men’s voices were quite similar, but Dottie had a feeling it had been Leo who had shouted at her, ‘What have you done?’

  Then Imogen had gone to her mother’s body, practically falling down by her side, then Guy had grabbed Dottie, hauling her back to the house to lock her in the cloakroom. Yes, she thought she was right about that. Leo had shouted at her, and Guy had taken her away.

  Guy had said, ‘If it were up to me, I’d let you go and good luck to you.’ That also made her think it had been Leo who had said, ‘What have you done?’

  Had the others all agreed with him and accused her? Or had any of them said anything to protest her innocence? Imogen? June? No she was sure they hadn’t. They’d said and done nothing to her, all their thought had been centred on Cecilia.

  Leo had crouched beside Imogen, putting his arm around her as she knelt on the ground. He’d done something else. But what was it? It nagged at her now, just at the fringes of her memory where she couldn’t quite get at it. he’d been crouching down, his jacket dipping in the mud, then he’d turned on her so fast, flying at her in a rage, and she’d been afraid of him.

  But of course the wreath had been there. Or part of it. She’d been distracted by that, it seemed so odd. She’d been looking at the plants there on the ground beside her aunt’s body, then Leo had...

  She shook her head. It wouldn’t come. Best not to try and force it. It would no doubt come back to her when she was thinking about something else.

  All night long, her thoughts ran around and around this same track.

  As soon as breakfast was over, Hardy went to St Martin’s house with Sergeant Palmer.

  When Lewis Cowdrey stalked into the room, easily outstripping the sergeant, it was clear from his demeanour that Hardy’s assessment had been correct. Hardy’s condolences and introduction were waved away with impatience. Cowdrey’s response to Hardy’s opening questions were clipped and sarcastic. His lifted chin gave the man the air of someone who quite literally looks down his nose at the world.

  Then Hardy said, ‘On the day that Miss Manderson first came to the house, there was no one at home. Why was that?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? No doubt got herself into a muddle, the way these girls do.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was Hardy’s only response. He forced himself to ignore his urge to defend her.

  ‘Did you know she was arriving that day, sir?’ Palmer asked.

  Cowdrey had barely even noticed the sergeant sitting in a corner of the room. Now he saw him looking his way, his pencil poised over his notebook for Cowdrey’s response.

  ‘Can’t recall. Perhaps I did, I can’t remember what day it was. My wife deals—used to deal—with all that.’

  Hardy felt for the man then. After all, he had just lost his wife, which was the very reason for the visit from the police, and at least some of his manner had to be disguised grief. Cowdrey dropped his gaze to the floor, and his jaw tightened.

  ‘Of course,’ Hardy said in a gentle tone. ‘I think most men leave social details to their wives. Not really our thing, is it?’

  There was a non-committal huff from Lewis Cowdrey. But he regarded Hardy now with a marginally pleasanter eye. Hardy said, ‘If I might jog your memory, it was the day you and your family went to spend the afternoon and evening at the home of your elder son and his wife, I believe.’

  ‘Ah yes. I remember now.’ He sounded rather like a sulky schoolboy admitting breaking a window with his catapult.

  Hardy nodded. ‘How far away is Mr and Mrs Leo Cowdrey’s home?’

  ‘Matter of a mile or so. Perhaps not quite so much.’

  ‘Did you walk there? Not a very nice walk this time of year, I imagine, though in the summer, it would be quite pleasant.’

  ‘No, we went by car.’

  ‘Did you all go in one car?’

  ‘Took two cars. I drove mine, and Guy drove his.’

  ‘I see. And did your younger son travel alone, or did he take someone in his car with him?’

  It was a mild enough question, but Cowdrey was angry again, and in a belligerent voice, said, ‘What do you mean by that? What are you trying to say?’

  Quietly, Hardy said, ‘I just wondered if your daughter travelled with you and your late wife, or if she went with her brother.’

  Mollified, and clearly feeling foolish, Cowdrey said, ‘I see. Er—she went with us, I seem to recall.’

  ‘Thank you. These small details can sometimes be useful.’ Hardy made a note on his paper. Cowdrey couldn’t see it, but it said, remember to get a new notebook. ‘At what time did you return home from your son’s house?’

  ‘Let me see,’ Cowdrey said slowly, looking up at the ceiling, pondering. ‘We left at—about five past ten, I suppose. Got home—I’d say about twenty past. Thereabouts, anyway, it’s difficult to be precise.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hardy said smoothly. The hairs on his forearms prickled. As Cowdrey said that last part, he’d looked right into Hardy’s face and smiled. Up to that point, Hardy had been inclined to believe his story, but this sudden smile, along with his assumed vagueness, and the way his focus fixed in such a calculated way on Hardy as he said it, all of this came together in Hardy’s mind as proof the man was lying. They had not all got home at twenty minutes past ten on that evening.

  Nevertheless, he thanked Mr Cowdrey for giving up his time, and for so graciously allowing the police the use of his study. The two men stood, shook hands across the desk, and Sergeant Palmer walked Lewis Cowdrey to the door.

  The door closed behind him; they heard his footsteps go along the corridor, and then Palmer said, ‘I think he’s telling porkie-pies.’

>   ‘Yes, sergeant, so do I,’ Hardy said. ‘But why? What really happened?’

  ‘It’s come to my attention, Mr Cowdrey, that you were actually in the house the day Miss Manderson arrived, but you elected not to open the door to her.’

  ‘What make you think that?’ Guy was angry, caught off-guard.

  ‘Miss Manderson saw your car at the back of the house when she went that way to try to find someone to let them know she was here. And your father has told me you took you took two cars to your brother’s home that day.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you? Or my mother’s death?’

  Hardy said nothing. In the long silence that stretched between them, he took the opportunity of observing a few details about Guy Cowdrey. Self-assured, yes, and arrogant as the sons of wealthy families all too often were. No doubt I’d have turned out the same, he thought then, and almost laughed. Losing everything had changed him, and privately he thought it was for the better. He wondered if the rest of his friends and family would agree. Bringing his thoughts back to the interview and the man in front of him, he decided that he couldn’t see any familial resemblance between this man and Dottie. Guy Cowdrey was only of average height, whereas Dottie was quite tall for a woman, and probably just an inch or so shorter than Guy. Guy had light brown hair, his eyes had grey irises and rather red, watery whites that suggested too much alcohol or too many late nights, or both. There was nothing of Dottie in him, Hardy concluded.

  Guy Cowdrey broke the silence at last, and he was irritated by feeling compelled to do so. ‘If you must know, I was upstairs, and I didn’t hear anyone knock at the door. The butler and the rest of the staff were not back from their Christmas holidays until the following morning, and I simply forgot to listen for the arrival of any visitors.’

  ‘Does that include the arrival of your cousin whom you hadn’t seen for a number of years and who had been invited to stay at the house for New Year? The same cousin whom you knew in fact to be your half-sister? Yet you felt no curiosity about her, and her visit—an unusual and remarkable event—simply slipped from your mind?’