The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  ‘Well to start with, she wasn’t invited for New Year, but for the week after. The stupid girl came on the wrong day,’ Guy retorted.

  ‘True,’ Hardy said mildly, hiding his annoyance at hearing her called a stupid girl. ‘So you weren’t expecting anyone that afternoon.’

  It wasn’t exactly a question but Guy Cowdrey chose to answer it anyway. ‘No one.’

  Hardy was looking at his papers, and without looking up, he said, still in that deceptively mild tone, ‘And when you say you were in an upper room of the house, I suppose you mean your bedroom?’

  Cowdrey fidgeted. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘In spite of saying you expected no one, can I assume that you were not alone, that you did in fact already have a visitor with you?’ Hardy knew he was being blunt, but he was fed up with the polite tip-toeing around that seemed to form the greater part of his job.

  Cowdrey flushed, and hesitated. Hardy attempted a man-of-the-world laugh. As if they were two friends at the same club, and both understood what was going on. Cowdrey relaxed visibly.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said again, but this time he didn’t sound half so defensive.

  Hardy nodded then added, ‘And what would the lady’s name be?’

  Cowdrey shot him a look that said he felt betrayed by Hardy’s assumed comradeship going off so quickly. ‘What?’

  ‘I need to know the lady’s name, so that...’ Hardy began, but before he could finish, Guy Cowdrey, leaning forward on the edge of the chair, said with undisguised hostility:

  ‘I’m not saying another word.’ He got up and left the room.

  Hardy sighed and sat back. Clearly he wasn’t the right type to wheedle information out of a well-to-do young man. But he knew someone who quite possibly might be able to obtain all the answers he needed. Not that it was entirely ethical—or legal—to involve someone else, but...

  ‘That went well,’ Sergeant Palmer commented from his corner.

  ‘When I want your opinion, sergeant...’

  ‘I know, I know. You’ll tell me what it is.’

  Hardy sighed again. ‘I admit I could have handled that better.’

  ‘Perhaps that Miss Manderson can get something out of him? Once she’s released, of course.’ Palmer slanted a sly look at Hardy.

  Hardy refused to take the bait, simply looking at his list. ‘Right Leo Cowdrey next I think.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  As they drove to the home of Leo and June Cowdrey, Hardy said, ‘Tell me about the family.’

  Sergeant Palmer, his eyes fixed on the twisting road ahead, replied, ‘Not much to tell. Reputed to be as poor as church mice, not that you’d know it from the way they carry on. The late Mrs Cowdrey was known as a haughty one, not given to charity work or the usual welfare interests these well-to-do ladies have. As far as she was concerned, the good Lord had made poor folks to graft, and it wasn’t nothing to do with her if they couldn’t feed their kids or pay their rent in the winter-time. The daughter—Miss Imogen—not that one we’ve got in the cells, I don’t mean...’ He spared a glance at Hardy’s thin-lipped expression and added hastily, ‘Sorry sir, meaning no disrespect. I forgot she was a friend of yours. Anyway, Miss Imogen, she’s known for being a dried-up old stick, ready for the shelf, if not actually on it. I doubt if she was ever young, that one. Mind you, she was always very much third place to her brothers. Feel a bit sorry for her, myself. I did hear a whisper she was carrying on with a chappie who runs an antiques shop in Horshurst. Don’t know if it’s true, though. Knowing her parents, I doubt someone like that would be a good enough catch, even if she is knocking on thirty. I should think mater and pater would put the kibosh on anyone ‘unsuitable’.’

  Hardy filed that away in his memory to find out more about it later. ‘And the rest?’

  Palmer slammed the brakes on, jerking them both forward in their seats. Hardy steadied himself with a hand on the dashboard. Palmer dropped the window down to hurl abuse at a shepherd whose sheep were all over the road. They had no choice but to wait for the man to send his dog to guide the sheep into a gateway fifty yards ahead. ‘As for the men. Lewis Cowdrey and young Guy are well-known for their exploits away from home. They sail quite close to the wind, but they’ve never got caught for anything too serious.’

  ‘What kind of exploits?’

  ‘Women of ill repute and gambling mostly. Guy likes a flutter on the horses, and the dogs. And cards. And you know, that posh-folk stuff, the wheels and that. Goes up to Town to some club there.’

  ‘Roulette?’

  ‘That’s the one. And his father plays cards: poker, blackjack, all of the above really. If Guy is the chip, Lewis is the old block he came off. They both go to their old boys’ clubs, get plenty of drink inside them, get a bit rowdy. Both been banged up overnight for causing a ruckus a couple of times, but always out the next morning with a fine.’

  ‘Do they lose enough for it to cause them trouble?’

  ‘Not that I’ve ever heard. As I say, usually it’s something fairly small, up before the beak, a small fine and home they go. But as they have got money troubles, I’d say even a small loss could be hard to manage.’

  ‘I thought Lewis Cowdrey was the beak? Which is why we’re having trouble getting Miss Manderson released. Montague tells me Cowdrey’s demanded further evidence.’

  The sergeant allowed the car to gently roll forward now as the shepherd, sending a rude gesture in their direction, followed his dog and the sheep into the field and barred the gate behind them. Then they were able to build up speed and head off again. The sergeant replied, ‘He used to be our local beak, yes, but not anymore. It didn’t give him any authority in London, though I daresay all those nobs look out for each other anyhow.’

  ‘I imagine so. And the older son, Leo?’

  ‘Well it’s a funny thing. He’s never been in trouble, never caused any mischief. He’s his mother’s son, all right. He stays quietly at home and minds his own business. Yet you’d be hard-pressed to find a soul around here with a good word to say about him. He’s—he’s got a nasty side to him—I can’t put it better than that. One of those ‘You don’t know who I am’ types, always telling you about the names he knows.’

  Hardy grunted. ‘Hmm I know a few of those. Clearly you don’t like him.’

  ‘Well,’ Palmer said with a laugh and a wink in Hardy’s direction. ‘He don’t like me neither. Punched him on the nose when I was eight years old.’

  ‘You did?’ Hardy laughed. ‘Good Lord, why?’

  ‘He broke my best conker. It was a twelver—I cried all night about that, I did. And his nose has never looked the same. His father came down and threatened my father, said if he didn’t keep me under control, he’d have us out of our cottage. But that’s the only time I ever remember him doing something like that. Lewis Cowdrey was a good landlord, otherwise.’

  ‘Leo must have had a jolly good conker to break your twelver.’

  ‘Kept his hand over it, didn’t he? It was only as it swung, I saw it was a stone. Too late then. Cheating little git. I’ll never forgive him for that.’

  It was clear from Leo Cowdrey’s disdainful look that he hadn’t forgotten that punch on the nose. He scowled at Palmer, though he said nothing. Palmer smirked at Hardy behind Cowdrey’s back and went to sit on a hard chair slightly apart from the group of sofas. He took out his notebook, and licked his pencil lead, as June began to fuss about tea.

  Hardy started with a few pleasantries. As commonly occurred when he was interviewing people of the higher social classes, his own cultured accent set them at ease and gave him a useful advantage over the working-class policemen that usually investigated crime. Even so, it was clear Leo Cowdrey wanted him to get to the point.

  ‘I’m a very busy man, inspector, and I’m expecting the eminent QC Sir Montague Montague for coffee this evening. Usually I invite my guests to dinner, but under the circumstances, it’s only right to observe the decencies of mournin
g, so we shall just enjoy coffee and cigars.’

  Odd, thought Hardy. Did status trump associations or did Cowdrey not know that Monty was here to defend Dottie, not to prosecute her? He said, ‘Very trying for you, sir, having to rearrange your plans. I’m very sorry about your mother.’

  ‘Yes, well, to be honest, this isn’t helping matters. You people already have my cousin in custody, so I fail to understand why you come here asking damfool questions. It’s a bit much.’

  Hardy’s impression of Leo was of a slightly plump, ineffectual man, full of bluster, and looking older than his years. His hair was heavily peppered with grey, slightly thinning on the crown, whilst his forehead and the area around his mouth showed a trace of lines. Hardy tried not to stare too much at the slightly crooked nose. He felt it right to ask, ‘May I ask, why you’re so certain Miss Manderson did this?’

  ‘What?’ Leo Cowdrey looked startled, as did his wife. ‘Well of course she did. Who else could it have been?’

  ‘That’s what I intend to find out,’ Hardy said pleasantly. ‘I just thought it rather surprising that you were so quick to conclude Miss Manderson was the guilty party.’

  ‘Well of course it was her,’ Cowdrey repeated, his tone growing belligerent, defensive. ‘We caught her actually in the act. There wasn’t anyone else it could have been. I’d hardly suspect my own sister, or my brother, would I, inspector?’

  ‘I suppose not. Although of course, we now know that Miss Manderson is also your sister.’

  If Leo Cowdrey was surprised this information was known to the police, he refrained from saying so. Instead, he corrected coldly, ‘Half-sister, inspector, that’s all she is. Half-sister. I don’t wish to discuss such a private matter any further. It’s completely scandalous.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d take me through the afternoon and evening of the twenty-seventh of December. I understand your family came to spend the afternoon and evening with you. If you could just go through anything you remember from that day.’

  ‘But... don’t you mean the night before my mother was killed? Surely that’s the relevant time?’

  ‘Humour me, Mr Cowdrey,’ Hardy said with a smile. Leo Cowdrey flushed with annoyance. His wife darted him a frightened glance.

  ‘Why is Scotland Yard so interested in our little crime?’ Cowdrey demanded abruptly.

  ‘I’ve been asked to assist in the enquiry.’ Hardy wasn’t going to allow Cowdrey to rile him or divert him until he was ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Palmer looking somewhat alarmed.

  ‘You’re rather young to be an inspector, aren’t you? I’ve a good mind to check your credentials. I’ll certainly be lodging a complaint with my MP, Algernon Epps, who is a close personal friend of mine, and I shall also be discussing this matter with Sir Montague Montague this evening, and I shall inform him of your offensive line of questioning and your blatant disregard for the accepted line of enquiry.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea, sir,’ Hardy said, leaning back in his seat. ‘Please, do give my regards to Monty when you see him, I’ve met him several times socially in London, he’s a delightful fellow. You must ask him to tell you about his father’s pocket-watch, it’s an interesting story. He and I dined together last night at the pub in the village, as we are both staying there at the moment. As you no doubt realise, he is providing Miss Manderson with legal advice. He is another person who utterly believes in your cousin’s innocence. I’m sure he’s looking forward to discussing the case with you. Now, perhaps you could just answer the question.’

  The room was still. There was a sudden chill over the inhabitants. Monty, always professional, would of course do no such thing, but Cowdrey failed to realise that. Sergeant Palmer bent low over his notebook to hide his broad grin. June Cowdrey looked at William Hardy with eyes rounded in astonishment. Eventually Leo Cowdrey deigned to give Hardy a terse outline of that day’s events. It was unenlightening. Hardy doubted the truth of some of it. With an inward sigh he realised he would have to come back here too and talk to yet another Cowdrey for a second time.

  Hardy asked, ‘Did your mother have any money or property of her own?’

  Cowdrey said she had, adding, ‘I’ve no idea exactly how much. We’ve never talked of it.’

  ‘Do you believe it could be a substantial amount? Enough to present a strong temptation to someone?’

  ‘I very much doubt it, Inspector.’

  Did you ever hear your mother say that she was thinking of leaving any or all of her money or property to Miss Manderson?’

  ‘No.’

  Hardy looked at Cowdrey. His jaw was set in a mulish manner. Clearly there would be no new information from this quarter. He had intended to ask other questions, but all at once he knew it was a waste of time. He’d get nothing further out of Cowdrey or his mouse-like wife today. He’d find out a bit more then come back, in the hope that Cowdrey would be better disposed towards helping the police next time.

  Hardy got to his feet. Sergeant Palmer glanced up, surprised, and quickly gathered up his pencil and notepad to cram into his pocket, fumbling with the button.

  Hardy held out a hand to Cowdrey who stared at it as if it were a slug in his salad bowl. Hardy dropped his hand back by his side. ‘Well, thank you, sir, for your—er—’ He couldn’t exactly say cooperation, so left he sentence hanging.

  At the door he turned back to say, ‘Enjoy your evening with Monty. He partnered me at bridge once at the Mandersons’. We won. Jolly decent chap.’ Leaving the Cowdreys staring after him, he walked out.

  Sergeant Palmer with a malicious twinkle in his eye as he anticipated sharing the scene with his colleagues back at the station, said to Leo and June, ‘Good day to you, sir, ma’am.’ He shut the door behind him as he left.

  Later that afternoon, Inspector Hardy and Sergeant Palmer crossed the grassy slope and came down, slipping and sliding on the frosty surface, to the edge of the lake. A cold breeze blew in across the water and pinched at their noses and throats whenever they tried to breathe in. Their breath clouded the air in front of them like an apparition. A more suitable spot for seeing such things couldn’t be dreamed up, Hardy thought. The sky was low and grey, the water was grey, the very air seemed to hang like a shroud about them, cold, threatening and eerie. The geese that huddled under the trees for shelter seemed spooked into silence. No birds sang. The sooner they saw what they had to see and got back into the warm, the better.

  Palmer took Hardy to the muddied, debris-strewn spot. ‘That’s where Miss Manderson pulled Cecilia Cowdrey out of the water, and was apprehended by her cousins. She said she was trying to rescue her aunt. You’ll already know this, but they maintained she’d been in the act of drowning her aunt when they came along, and she was just trying to wriggle out of it by saying she was helping.’

  She must have been chilled to the bone, Hardy thought. And how like Dottie to throw caution to the wind and try to help someone. He had never known her to turn aside from anyone who needed her. Apart from me, his mind told him before he could stop it. He squashed the thought and forced his brain to think about the crime.

  Some ice drifted on the surface of the water, but he had no way of knowing whether there was more ice now than when the body had been discovered. He could only hope it wouldn’t make much of a difference. The bank was churned up, there were heel marks of a woman’s shoes on the grass, and whole footprints in the boggier part of the mud that went down to the water. The frost had acted on the tracks and marks, freezing it all quite efficiently.

  ‘What are those?’ Hardy pointed at some stems and petals in the mud.

  ‘Oh those are the weeds we found. You remember the corpse had what we at first thought was some kind of wreath on it? When we took a closer look, it turned out to be more like just a tangle of stems and leaves, just some weeds caught up on the lady’s arm. I did wonder if she fell into the water and got herself all caught up in weeds and that was what drowned her.’

  Hardy bent for a
closer look. He made out the mauve and white face of a flower. ‘Well that’s not a water plant, surely? Isn’t that something people grow in their gardens?’ He frowned. ‘It seems rather odd. Get them picked up, will you, and put them in a bag. I’d like a closer look at them at the police station later.’

  ‘We’ve got the wreath sir, still in an evidence bag if you want to take a look at it.’

  ‘I will, later on. Meanwhile, let’s have as many of these as we can get.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Palmer produced a paper sack from his jacket pocket and began to carefully extract the plant matter from the mud. It took him a few minutes. Hardy held the bag for him. When they were done, Palmer closed down the top of the bag and put it under his arm, taking care not to press it too firmly. Hardy found nothing more of interest at the scene. They looked about them.

  ‘You can’t be seen from the house, just here,’ the sergeant pointed out. Hardy turned to look back up the slope. It was true. The steeply inclining lawn coupled with the little stand of trees and bushes formed a kind of natural wall to cut this part of the lake off from the view of the house. Very nice and private. He could see the windows of the upper floors, but not the lower.

  He set off back up the slope. When he reached the top, he paused and looked first down to the lake, then behind him back towards the house.

  ‘It slopes down a little this side too,’ he called to Palmer.

  ‘That’s because this bit we’re standing on was designed to be useful as well as pretty,’ Palmer said. ‘The lake is actually artificial. They dug out tons of rock and dirt, and piled it all up at either end to create a dam, and they grassed it over to make it nice for the ladies in their long frocks to walk on. They widened the river that was already here to make a pretty lake for the posh folks to admire. The river always used to burst its banks in the spring due to the heavy rains coming down off the hills. And one year, it got right up here, so they decided to be extra cautious and add in a kind of gully all the way round, so the slope does a double dip, and that stops the house getting flooded even during the worst downpours.’