The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “Her manners are beyond compare,” agreed Iris. “But did she say where she was going?”

  “Said she had to see a woman about a fish.”

  “A fish?”

  “Yes. It was a peculiar thing to say, which is why I remembered it.”

  “Herbert,” whispered Iris. “Thank you, officer.”

  She turned and ran back into the street.

  * * *

  Gwen decided to look at the photographs on the parlour walls while Mrs. Dowd occupied herself in the kitchen. There were some paintings hanging amidst the photographs that had escaped her notice the last time she had been here. She looked at them closely, and was surprised to see A. Dowd signed in tiny, carefully drawn black letters in the corner of each.

  “Did you paint these?” she asked Mrs. Dowd when she returned with the tea tray.

  “I did. You take milk, I believe?”

  “Yes, thank you. These are quite good.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Mrs. Dowd, beaming with pride. “Painting has been one of my retreats from the world. Mister Dowd used to say—well, there I go, bringing him into the conversation. I try not to speak of Mister Dowd anymore.”

  “I understand entirely,” said Gwen, taking the cup Mrs. Dowd handed her. “I hope that you still paint. You’re very talented.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bainbridge. You drink up, and I’ll go find that box.”

  Gwen sat on the sofa and sipped her tea, idly glancing at the photographs. For someone who justifiably disliked her ex-husband, Mrs. Dowd certainly kept a lot of their photographs together on display. Remembrances of happier times, Gwen supposed. She could see how happy they had once been. There they were on their wedding day, he in a tailcoat and top hat, she in a lovely gown, her hair bobbed like they did back in the twenties. There they were dancing at some beach resort—Brighton, by the look of it. And there was the first date at that café, sitting at a table, the floor with its distinctive tiles—

  Gwen picked up that photograph and looked at it more closely. The floor had a diamond pattern in the tiles. The walls behind the smiling young couple were hung with paintings of flowers.

  “I was so young,” said Mrs. Dowd, standing in the doorway, watching her. “Seventeen, can you believe it? He was so handsome. Such a gentleman. Or so I thought. Swept me quite off of my feet.”

  “This is the Garland Café, isn’t it?” asked Gwen.

  “Yes. Our first date.”

  “This is where Mister Trower was supposed to meet Miss La Salle.”

  “I know.”

  “You suggested the café to him, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” said Mrs. Dowd, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs opposite. “I was wondering if you had gone there. I was wondering if you’d recognize it from the photograph. It’s amazing what can be found right under your nose if you only look.”

  “You let him make the date, then sent the letter canceling it so you could meet her there instead of him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What had that poor girl ever done to you?”

  “Oh, her? Nothing. Nothing at all. But I had to teach Dickie a lesson, didn’t I? All these years looking after him, listening to him, consoling him, keeping his room tidy and waiting even when he went off to war, nursing him after he was wounded—did you know he was wounded?”

  “No,” said Gwen.

  “I’m not old,” said Mrs. Dowd. “I am the best of housekeepers. I have memorized every magazine article that tells you how to make a proper home for your man, and I’ve done that for Dickie. I’ve been right under his nose, cooking special meals for him, letting him unburden his heart, his hopes, his dreams. And I have hopes, and dreams, and a heart of my own, don’t I?

  “Of course,” said Gwen, eyeing the path through the clutter of furniture to the door.

  She was tired, she thought stupidly. Why was she so tired? She yawned.

  “Am I boring you?” asked Mrs. Dowd, smiling.

  “Not at all, forgive me,” said Gwen.

  “Oh, I like that. You’re being polite even now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Dickie. There I was, right under his nose the whole time, and I thought he would see me, finally see me, not the housekeeper, but the woman who adored him, who would do anything for him. Then I find out about him going to a marriage bureau. A marriage bureau! He was so lonely and desperate, and yet I was here! I was here!”

  The last was shouted, momentarily jolting Gwen alert. Her teacup rattled in her hands. She put it down on the table.

  “It must have been a shock,” she said.

  The torpor settled into her more deeply.

  “What did you put in my tea?” she asked suddenly, the horror rising in her.

  “A little something to help you sleep,” said Mrs. Dowd.

  “You drugged Dickie. The night you killed Tillie.”

  “He was so upset about the letter canceling the date.”

  “You forged the letter.”

  “I did. Your custodian doesn’t take good care of keeping the spare keys safe. I typed the letter and signed your name. I had one of your letters to Dickie to copy, and I am, as you’ve said, a bit of an artist. Another quality he failed to notice.”

  “Why? Why do it?”

  “He was going to leave me,” said Mrs. Dowd. “After all I had done for him, after all the years I had waited. So, he had to be punished.”

  “But me?” gasped Gwen, trying desperately to stay awake. She was having trouble keeping upright.

  “He gave Herbert to you,” said Mrs. Dowd. “He clearly loves you. I can’t have that.”

  “I have a child,” pleaded Gwen. “A little boy.”

  “He’ll survive,” said Mrs. Dowd. “Children are remarkably resilient. Now, go to sleep, dearie. It’s better to die in your sleep. You’re a big girl, and it’s going to take me some time to chop you up. I don’t want to make a mess in here.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’m going to ignore that,” said Mrs. Dowd. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  The doorbell rang again, followed by an insistent knocking.

  “Fine,” said Mrs. Dowd in exasperation. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is. You sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  She walked into the hall. Gwen tried to cry out, but couldn’t summon the strength. She fell back against the sofa, her head colliding with her handbag.

  * * *

  Mrs. Dowd opened the door to see a short, perky brunette standing there, a notepad and pencil in her hands.

  “How do you do?” chirped the woman. “My name is Eloise Teasley. I am conducting a survey for Mass-Observation about rationing and the response of the Ordinary British Housewife. Are you an Ordinary British Housewife by any chance, and if so, would you mind answering some questions?”

  “I’m sorry, this is a bad time,” said Mrs. Dowd.

  “Wait,” said the woman, holding up her hand. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Listen,” said the woman, cocking her head to the side.

  Mrs. Dowd listened. A faint whistle emanated from the house.

  “That sounded like a police whistle, didn’t it?” said the woman. “So curious. I have a friend, a very good friend, in fact, who has a police whistle. Her name is Gwendolyn Bainbridge.”

  Mrs. Dowd flinched. The other woman smiled broadly.

  “That was very noticeable,” she said. “You have to learn how not to react at the first mention of something bad if you’re going to be successful. That’s the first thing they taught us at Murder School. I’m going to hit you now.”

  “What?” said Mrs. Dowd, starting to step back, but Iris’s notebook was already falling to the ground as she stepped forward to apply a very creditable uppercut to the other woman’s jaw.

  Mrs. Dowd’s head snapped back. The momentum carried the rest of her toppling back into the hallway until she landed on the carpet with a muffled thud.

  Iris stepped inside and viewed
her victim. She knelt down and felt her wrist for a pulse, found one, and nodded in satisfaction. Then she slid the metal knuckles from her fingers, kissed the top of them lightly, and put them in her handbag.

  “Iris?” came a feeble voice from the parlour.

  “Be right with you, darling,” said Iris. “I need to secure the prisoner.”

  She stripped Mrs. Dowd’s apron from her and quickly tied the woman’s hands behind her back. Then she ran into the parlour. Gwen lay on the sofa. She raised her hand in a feeble wave, the whistle still dangling in it.

  “What did she give you?” said Iris, immediately.

  “Some drug. So sleepy.”

  “Stay with me, Gwen. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  “Iris. She killed Tillie.”

  “I thought she might have. I’ll be right back.”

  Gwen stared across at the photographs on the table. Mrs. and Mister Dowd stared back at her. Happiness in every picture.

  They began to blur.

  Iris came back, a glass in one hand, a large metal basin in the other. She put the basin on Gwen’s lap, then lifted her into a sitting position.

  “The ambulance is on its way,” said Iris, holding the glass to Gwen’s lips. “Now, drink this.”

  Gwen took a sip, then several more.

  “What is it?” she gasped.

  “Syrup of ipecac,” said Iris. “It will do until we get you to the hospital for the stomach pump.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Things are about to become unpleasant, darling, so think of England and aim for the basin. There we go. Good girl.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, Iris sat on the edge of Gwen’s gurney in the emergency room at Mayday Road Hospital.

  “Never had my stomach pumped before,” said Gwen. “One more for my diary. Yippee.”

  “It isn’t fun,” agreed Iris.

  “You’ve had it done?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Can you tell that story?”

  “I can, but I don’t want to make you sick again.”

  “I have nothing left,” said Gwen. “Iris—you saved my life.”

  “It was the least I could do after I acted so beastly to you this morning.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “I figured out Mrs. Dowd was the most likely person to have done all this. Sally jolted me into that, bless him. I came with the intent of trying to intercept you, and maybe get her to touch something so I could get a fingerprint to pass along to that nice Mister Godfrey to compare to the unknown print on the letter to Dickie. But you did me one better in getting her to admit to the crime, clever girl.”

  “So clever, I nearly died.”

  “Nearly died is not dead. You lived to fight another day.”

  “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

  “Oh, yes. You do. You have to get your son back now that we’ve proved you right. Look, here come Parham and Detective Ex!”

  Detective Superintendent Parham and Detective Sergeant Kinsey walked into the emergency room, hats in hand.

  “Well?” asked Sparks.

  “Mrs. Dowd confirmed your statements,” said Parham. “Her fingerprints did indeed match the one left on the letter. We will be charging her with the murder of Matilda La Salle. And dismissing the charges against Dickie Trower. The paperwork for his release will go through tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank God,” whispered Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “There’s more,” said Parham.

  “More?”

  “Pursuant to information that she provided us, we had a team dig up the gardens in the backyard,” said Kinsey. “We found the dismembered corpse of a man we believe to be her late husband, Phineas Dowd.”

  “Good heavens,” said Sparks.

  “Also,” he continued, clearing his throat.

  “Yes?”

  “Also—there was a dismembered cat.”

  “She really hates being left by those she loves,” commented Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Ladies, Scotland Yard owes you a debt of gratitude,” said Parham. “If there is any way—”

  “There is,” interrupted Sparks. “First, we want to be on either side of Dickie Trower when he walks out of Brixton Prison tomorrow morning.”

  “I think that’s fitting,” said Parham. “What else?”

  “You have a press office.”

  “Of course.”

  “We wish to be given full credit for clearing his name, specifically mentioning the Right Sort Marriage Bureau. We want this to go to every newspaper in the city so that a press conference may be held with us when we bring him out to freedom.”

  “I see no reason why that can’t be done,” said Parham.

  “Not every newspaper,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Don’t notify the Mirror.”

  Parham smiled.

  “It will be my distinct pleasure to leave them high and dry,” he said. “We’ll see you at Brixton in the morning, ladies. Superb work. By the way, Miss Sparks?”

  “Yes, Detective Superintendent?”

  “The pattern of bruises on Mrs. Dowd’s chin—I am not unfamiliar with them. What exactly did you hit her with?”

  “Years of repression, Detective Superintendent,” said Sparks. “I won’t lie. It felt good.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “It was nice of you to bring me a fresh shirt,” said Mister Trower as he knotted his tie.

  “My mother used to tell me, ‘Always leave prison in a clean shirt,’” said Iris.

  “She never did,” said Gwen.

  “I was very young at the time,” admitted Iris. “I may have the actual words wrong.”

  “How did you get into Mrs. Dowd’s house to retrieve it?” asked Trower. “Isn’t it a crime scene? Did one of your policeman friends let you in?”

  “Not exactly,” said Iris.

  Gwen hid a smile.

  “I still can’t believe Mrs. Dowd did this,” he said, brushing off his jacket. “It’s hard to picture her as a killer. She’s always been so good to me.”

  “She wanted something in return,” said Gwen. “And when she didn’t get it, she—she’s not a well woman, Mister Trower.”

  “If only I had known.”

  “If you had known, what would you have done?” asked Iris. “Returned her affections?”

  “Goodness, no. I would have moved out immediately. It would have been a very awkward situation.”

  “You might not have made it to the front door,” commented Iris.

  He put on the jacket, then turned to face them.

  “How do I look?”

  “Very handsome,” said Iris.

  “Let me be motherly for a moment,” said Gwen, licking her fingers and smoothing down some errant strands of hair. “There. Better. Are you ready to face the reporters?”

  “I’ve never been in a press conference before,” he said.

  “You’ve been in combat?” asked Iris.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s worse. Keep smiling. Don’t worry, we’ll be with you.”

  * * *

  The jail had set up a temporary platform outside the entrance. The warden himself escorted the three of them out. The flashes went off furiously, and the newsreel cameramen in the back swiveled their cameras and adjusted their lenses as Dickie Trower stepped up to the bank of microphones.

  “Thank you,” he said, then he cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming. It is a great relief to be a free man. These past several days have been a nightmare, one that I did not expect and did not deserve. It would have continued—indeed, it might have become far worse—had it not been for the remarkable efforts made on my behalf by Miss Iris Sparks and Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge of the Right Sort Marriage Bureau. I had no idea when I plunked down my fee that they would not only be my Cupids, but my protectors as well. To have such fearless advocacy on such short acquaintance speaks of the greatness of their hearts.”

  “Well said!” shouted a spectator as Sparks and Bai
nbridge beamed proudly.

  “I would like to extend my condolences to the family of Miss La Salle,” he continued. “I never had the good fortune to meet her, but from what I heard, she was a lovely woman. May she rest in peace, and may the arrest of my—of Mrs. Dowd give them the justice that they deserve. Thank you.”

  “Mister Trower, what was it like in there?” called the man from the Telegraph.

  “Unpleasant,” he said. “But, in retrospect, safer than the house I had been living in.”

  That drew some guffaws from the reporters.

  “How was the food?”

  “Better than what the Army fed us, but the company was worse.”

  “Mister Trower, did you ever lose hope?” called a woman from Woman’s Own.

  “Never,” he said firmly. “Not once I knew the Right Sort was on my side.”

  He reached out and grabbed the two women by the hand, then raised their arms triumphantly together. The flashes went off ecstatically.

  He took a few more questions, then it was over. A few reporters made appointments with them for followup articles. Then the three walked away from Brixton Prison.

  “What now, Mister Trower?” asked Gwen as they came to Brixton Hill.

  “First, I am going to take a proper bath. Feed Herbert. Call my job, let them know I’m coming back. Look for a new place to live. Try and start my life up again. It won’t be the same.”

  “But at least you’ll have one.”

  “At least I will,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. “God, it feels different. Same air, same sky as when you’re in the yard, but no walls looming over you, no guards. Miss Sparks, Mrs. Bainbridge—I owe you a debt that I can never repay.”

  “We owe you one as well, Mister Trower,” said Iris.

  “How so?”

  “We still owe you a wife. Let us know your new address and telephone when you have it.”

  “I will,” he promised. “Find me a good one.”

  He flagged down a cab and sped off towards Croydon.

  “He’s a natural,” said Iris. “He should stand for Parliament. He could run on the Reprieved Party ticket.”

  “I’d vote for him,” said Gwen.

  She turned and looked back at the prison for what she hoped would be the last time in her life. A cab pulled up in front of it.