by Caron Allan
‘Yes.’ She went on to describe the designs and the attached samples. She went into quite a bit of detail, and he heard the ring of pride in her voice as she spoke. He was impressed.
‘How is the business doing?’
‘Oh you know,’ she said. She gave a little shrug then she smiled again. Her smile was lovely—he’d always thought that. Not as lovely as her eyes, but almost. ‘A few people took their business elsewhere after Mrs Carmichael...’ She didn’t want to say it.
He understood. ‘Yes...’
‘Well, there was a bit of a slump during the first few months. And several of the mannequins left, and one of the seamstresses. But I’ve got some ideas, and I’ve been learning as much as I can. This new range would have helped to bring in new clients, which obviously means more money.’ She looked troubled. ‘Now though, I’m not so sure. It will be quite a lot of work to put together a replacement range. No doubt we’ll remember most of it, but I’m rather worried about the odd little detail we could forget—those are the things that matter, and that make a difference. And I’ve got to wait until I get back to London, so obviously the whole thing’s up in the air, and I feel rather anxious about it. One thing’s for sure, I shall never again take the only copies we have of an entire new range. So that’s something useful I’ve learned from all this, anyway. I just want to get back...’ Her voice wobbled but she steadied herself again.
He was even more impressed. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I’m hoping it won’t take too much longer to get this little problem sorted out, then you can be on your way back home.’
‘My aunt’s death is a little problem?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.
He could have kicked himself. ‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘Of course not. I’m so sorry. Er...’ he took out his notebook, saying, ‘Ah yes, quite an obvious thing, but I almost forgot. Is the new collection valuable, would you say? Well, not the range, of course, that doesn’t exist yet. The designs themselves, I mean.’
She seemed surprised. She thought for a moment. ‘Well, if I was a famous designer, they could be valuable. They’d be highly sought-after within the fashion world. But as it is—an unknown designer with an almost unknown fashion house—probably not valuable at all. It’s more the nuisance factor than the actual value.’
‘But what if someone were to offer your designs to another fashion house? Would the receiving people pay serious money for your ideas?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ she said. ‘But I can’t be certain. I suppose it’s just barely possible. Some of them were uncommonly good, though I say it myself.’ She grinned at him, laughing at herself as much as anything.
‘All right, well let me know if anything else comes to mind.’ He didn’t want to leave, but he had no further excuse to stay. He looked at her. She smiled, a little uncertainly. He couldn’t resist it, he just had to lean forward and kiss her cheek before leaving the room. And it wasn’t just a quick, socially acceptable peck, either. His lips touched her skin with the softest of caresses, his eyes closing. He inhaled her scent, light, floral. His fingers longed to twine in her hair, then to hold her in his arms. He wanted so badly to really kiss her.
Instead he stepped back, made a play of putting the strap around his notebook, the cap on his pen and both of these items into the inner pocket of his jacket. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, good afternoon, Miss Manderson. I’m so glad we managed to get you out of prison. I’m afraid I must go along to the study now, got a few things to write up.’
‘See you later, perhaps,’ she said, and gave him another soft smile as he went past her to the door.
Chapter Twenty
Dottie lay suddenly sharp awake in the darkness and for a moment fought to remember where she was. ‘Oh yes,’ she thought, ‘I’m back at St Martins, I’m no longer a suspect.’ For a brief, wonderful moment she felt relief. The weight of suspicion had left her.
But. Who had that burden moved onto? Who was the one who had committed the terrible act? Alarm filled her. It might be someone still in the house. It might be—anyone. Someone she knew. Someone who was here now, under this very same roof.
Dottie sat up in her bed and put out a hand to feel for her matches and candle. The rasp of the match, the sharp waft of sulphur, these things reassured her, familiar in the darkness almost as much as the tiny flame that grew brighter and bolder.
The dancing flame lit her immediate area but threw the rest of the room into deeper shadow, shadow that leapt and bobbed as the flame moved with the invisible currents of the air. Shadows—so deep—perhaps they concealed a figure? ‘Nonsense,’ Dottie told herself, sounding more than ever like the woman she called Mother. She was not going to jump and start at mere shadows. She got out of bed and lit the big oil lamp on the dresser. At once the room became shockingly bright, the shadows were forced to flee.
There was a soft tap on the door. Imogen peeped round the door. Softly she asked, ‘Is it all right to come in?’
‘Yes,’ Dottie said. She glanced at the travelling clock she had brought with her. It showed that it was two o’clock in the morning. ‘Of course. Something woke me. I don’t know what. Can’t you sleep?’
Imogen looked as though she hadn’t slept in a week. Dottie was shocked by how pale and thin she had become. The worry about Norris was taking its toll. She was hunched up in some kind of odd garment, rather like...
‘Imogen? Are you wearing Norris’s pyjama jacket?’
‘Hush!’ Imogen was blushing, and looking around as if someone might hear. She looked down at it, buttoned loosely over her nightgown. She touched the soft cotton. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’
Trying not to laugh, Dottie solemnly swore not to tell a soul.
‘It’s just... sitting beside him for the last two days in the hospital, not knowing if he would live or die... It’s been so awful.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve never been to his flat, of course. But I know where it is—I’ve visited the shop two or three times. That’s how we met. I—well, I took something in to see if I could sell it.’
Dottie nodded. She had already worked this out for herself, but she said nothing.
Imogen continued: ‘Anyway I was looking in his trouser pockets for a handkerchief. I’d been upset. I found the door key. Then when the matron came and told me it was time for me to leave, I didn’t feel like coming home. You weren’t out of prison yet, and I couldn’t bear the thought of coming back to Daddy and Guy. In any case they were just as likely to be out. And Aunt Lavinia is a bit—scary.’ She shot an apologetic look at Dottie, who just smiled. Grown men were scared of her mother so it was no surprise a meek woman like Imogen was too.
‘Go on,’ Dottie said. ‘You went to Norris’s flat.’
‘I expect you think it’s very silly of me. But it helped me to feel as though he was with me. I’m so frightened I’m going to lose him.’
‘You might as well get into bed,’ Dottie said, throwing aside the covers on the far side. ‘It’s much too chilly to be out of bed.’
It was a simple friendly gesture, but it was almost too much for Imogen. She started to cry. Dottie hugged her and provided a more-or-less clean handkerchief.
‘The doctor has told me his chances are not very good. He told me to prepare myself for the worst.’ Imogen’s voice was muffled and despairing. Dottie felt a sudden hot anger go through her. What was wrong with the doctor? Why couldn’t the stupid fellow give someone so very anxious as Imogen a little hope?
‘I’ve a good mind to send my mother in to the hospital in the morning to yell at that doctor,’ Dottie said. ‘How dare he say things like that to you! Of course Norris is going to be all right. We’ve got to be patient. And brave.’
‘Do you really think so? Oh Dottie, if I lose him...’
‘You won’t. You really won’t. After all you’ve been through, you two deserve some happiness.’
There was a long hiccupping silence from Imogen. Presently Dottie began to think of going back to sleep. She would tell Imo
gen she could stay if she wanted.
But abruptly, out of the darkness, in a clear and perfectly audible voice, Imogen said, ‘As a matter of fact I came in here because I wanted to confess to you. I’ve done something really terribly wicked, and that’s why I’m worried about Norris. You see, I don’t deserve to be happy, I’m a wicked person. I’ve been bottling it up and I just feel as though I can’t go on any more pretending to be a decent person.’
Dottie turned to stare in Imogen’s direction. There was a slight metallic clinking sound from where Imogen sat. Dottie looked. Imogen was laying things out on the counterpane. Small things. Shiny things for the most part that took the small flame of the candle and shone it back at them. They were the items that had been stolen. The things Dottie had already secretly shown to William.
‘Imogen, are you telling me you are the thief?’
Imogen’s eyes welled up again. She hung her head. ‘I am. I am the thief. Oh Dottie, I’m so ashamed. I just can’t go on.’ She picked up a small dagger with a jewelled handle.
‘No!’ Dottie yelped, on the point of lunging to save Imogen from herself. Then she realised Imogen was holding it out to show her. Dottie took a breath, and more calmly said, ‘But why did you do it?’
‘I wanted to sell them. I wanted some money. I thought if Norris could sell some of the items for me, we’d have enough money to run away together.’
Dottie put out a hand to pick up the snuff-box. ‘The one from the morning room?’
Imogen nodded. ‘That’s not even the worst part. Oh Dottie, I did something so terrible, you’ll never forgive me.’ Her voice wobbled.
Dottie said, as gently as she could, ‘I know about the designs, Imogen. I found them this morning. I’ve already showed the hiding place to Inspector Hardy.’
‘How did you...?’ Imogen’s jaw dropped.
‘It’s simple really. Norris was behaving so oddly when you both showed me the screen. I mean, he was really keen for me to see it, but then as soon as we got upstairs, he began to be so odd. When I thought about it later, I realised he hadn’t wanted me to look at the back of the screen. And then it all made sense.’
‘I’ve been hiding things inside, between the front cover and the back cover, the layers of fabric made a kind of pocket. But I was careless. I left part of my pearl necklace sticking out. I was in a rush, you see. Then as soon as we went upstairs, he just glanced down and saw it right away. We had to get you out of the room so we could put it right. He said he thought you might notice. I didn’t realise that you understood what it meant. And then later... Oh Dottie. I took your designs!’
Imogen hopped out of bed and ran from the room. Dottie wondered if she should go after Imogen. If she was upset... But after another moment, Imogen returned, carrying the little pile of papers that Dottie immediately recognised.
Imogen handed the papers to Dottie, who held them close to her, relief and joy almost overwhelming her.
‘Imogen! Thank you! You can’t possibly know what it means to have them safely back again.’
‘But you knew where they were.’ Imogen shook her head. ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t just take them back. Or tell my father... or... or something.’
‘I wanted to wait and see what happened. Just knowing they were safe was enough. More or less.’
‘I’m so sorry. I should never...’
‘It’s all right. Forget about it. I’ve got them back, that’s what matters. Now, are you getting back into bed, or are you going to stand there in Norris’s pyjamas and freeze?’
Imogen got into bed. Dottie blew out the candle.
‘Do you think I’ll be sent to prison?’ Imogen asked in a small voice.
Dottie burst out laughing.
William arrived before breakfast was over, eager to consult with Dottie, but telling himself it was purely a need to clarify something for the case, not a personal call at all.
‘Right then, here we are.’ He pulled the sheet out of the stack to read it. ‘So it says here that there were some weeds found, and some other sort of flowers. Sergeant Palmer and I found some small bits of flowers and stems still down by the lake where you pulled your aunt out of the water. Strictly speaking they should have been collected up as evidence, but it seems the local inspector felt it wasn’t necessary to have all of them. He told me he authorised the gathering of some of the plants, but that he felt there was little reason to believe they had anything to do with your aunt’s death. Er—let me see...’ He glanced down the sheet of paper to the part he needed. ‘Oh yes. There’s pansies...’
‘That’s for thoughts,’ Dottie said without thinking.
He looked at her, frowning. But she knew all his looks, recognised all his moods. His frown was a frown of deep contemplation as he considered something, not one of irritation or annoyance.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘That’s the quote, isn’t it? Ophelia. ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts...’ Tut, tut. Don’t you know your Shakespeare, William?’ She darted him a cheeky smile as she said it. Her eyes twinkled at him.
His heart did an odd little flip and he had to glance away quickly. But he nodded slowly, still mulling it over. ‘Not as well as I thought, clearly. Ophelia? From the play Hamlet? You’ll have to remind me about Ophelia, I’m afraid.’
‘She died. She’d gone mad with grief and went to pick flowers. I was never sure if she fell into the water by accident or if she deliberately drowned herself. But before that, when she went mad, she was trying to give flowers to soldiers. And she says, ‘There is pansies, that’s for thoughts’.’
‘She died? In water? Drowned?’
‘Yes, she drowned. William, you really are a terrible scholar. I’m sure your English master would be ashamed of you.’
He grinned. ‘No doubt. But you say she wasn’t murdered? Ophelia, I mean.’
She shook her head. ‘No, it was either suicide, which I think is everyone’s favourite, or she fell into the water by accident.’ She paused. ‘Could Aunt Cecilia...?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s pretty clear she was killed by a blow to the head. I’m sorry. Can you remember seeing these when you pulled Cecilia out of the water?’
‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. The memory of it made her feel ill, but it was there, and it was vivid. ‘She was holding them clasped to her front. Or rather, they were sort of wrapped around her hands, tangled in her fingers.’
‘Tangled in her fingers?’
She thought for a moment. ‘It rather reminded me of school. Of playing cat’s cradle. You know, that thing girls do with wool or string.’
He nodded. ‘I know. Yes, I remember Eleanor doing it.’
‘It was as if the weeds or flowers or whatever they were had been deliberately wrapped around her fingers. I mean, if you’re holding flowers, a small bunch say, you don’t twine them round each other, or bend them all round your fingers, do you?’
He smiled. ‘I don’t recall ever holding flowers, but no, I should imagine not. But was she actually holding them? Or are you saying they were used to tie her hands together? Surely it’s possible they just wrapped themselves around her in the water?’
She was on the point of shrugging, of saying she didn’t know, that he needed to speak to the police’s expert in these matters. And there was something nagging at her she just couldn’t quite... Another thought struck her, and instead she said, ‘But why would these be in the water? They’re not water plants. And they don’t grow on the bank. Especially not this time of year. So how did they get there?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s only one of many things I don’t know.’
‘I think they were wound around her fingers. When I first saw it, I thought...’ She halted, thinking.
‘Go on. What did you think, Dottie?’
She glanced up and met his eyes watching her. She stared at him, wondering. Would it be completely wrong of her to throw herself int
o his arms right at that moment? She wanted to so much. His eyes seemed to darken. His pupils grew larger. She knew he felt the same.
‘You’re engaged,’ he said softly.
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘It’s not being given out until I’m twenty-one. Not until 31st of March.’
‘Even so, he thinks of you as his fiancée. In any case...’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said impatiently. Anything to prevent him from seeing just how much she wanted him to declare his feelings, to sweep her off her feet, and all the rest of it. ‘Sorry. Back to business.’
‘Yes...’
She was irritated by his reluctant tone. After all, he’d been the one to remind her of Gervase, of their ‘understanding’. Now he didn’t want to drop it. Men! Who knew how they thought and why?
‘What did you think, Dottie?’
She was deep in thought. He waited, outwardly patient, inwardly he was kicking himself for a fool. Why had he to bring her boyfriend into the matter? Well, he knew why, he admitted to himself. He had wanted to see how she looked when he mentioned her being engaged to Parfitt. It surprised him to see that, quite the opposite to his expectation that she would light up at the mere mention of the man’s name, she actually looked depressed by it. Yet when she looked into his own eyes, he could see her expression immediately soften. What was he to make of that? Was Flora right, and Dottie’s heart did not in fact belong to Gervase Parfitt at all? Did he have the courage to challenge her?
She stared at him. She’d forgotten what they had been talking about.
‘When you saw the weeds tangled around Mrs Cowdrey’s fingers?’
‘Ah yes. It was nothing really, just, as we were saying... I thought they looked as though they’d been deliberately wrapped around her fingers. It was like a kind of bouquet, if rather ragged, or a wreath, or something. It looked...meant.’