The Thief of St Martins Page 14

  Chapter Eleven

  She looked everywhere. She even looked in all the impossible places as one does when something valuable is missing. When she went downstairs in a few minutes, she would be able to say, perfectly honestly, that she had looked everywhere.

  She threw back the bedclothes, pulled aside the pillows. Nothing. She then pulled back the end of the bedclothes where they overhung the end of the bed. She knelt to look underneath the bed. All she found was a handkerchief—not even one of hers—then she crawled across the floor to peer under the chest of drawers, under the dressing-table, the chair, behind the floor-length curtains that hung at both windows.

  She searched all the drawers—even though she’d never put the designs inside any of them. She pulled the chest out from the wall to look behind it. She took the drawers out one by one to check the designs hadn’t fallen behind one of them. She searched the wardrobe. She got the key out of her handbag and hauled her big suitcase out of the wardrobe. She already knew it was empty from the light hollow feel of it, but nevertheless she unlocked it and checked inside. It was still empty. As was her hat box.

  She sat back on her heels and gazed around the room for somewhere she had overlooked. There was nothing else to do but admit it. The designs were gone. All she had left were the two pins. She stifled a panicking sob and perched on the foot of the bed. She had to think about this rationally. She pressed her hand to her forehead. She would not let herself think about the consequences of not finding those designs.

  They had been taken. This much was obvious. They might very possibly have been disposed of by accident, such as something being spilt on them, or some other damage occurring that the person who caused it—one of the maids, perhaps—felt they had to hide or cover up what had happened. So perhaps they had taken the designs—here she took a deep breath—and disposed of them. Or perhaps they had simply taken the papers thinking they were rubbish.

  Following that train of thought, she hurried to the fireplace, but it was clean, and neatly set for use later in the evening when it was colder.

  But in order for them to have been taken, even by accident, the person would have had to look inside the case, where she’d put them. She bit her lip. Had she put them back in the case after looking at them the night before last? She couldn’t remember. She thought she had, but she couldn’t swear to it... In any event, she had clearly not remembered to lock the case.

  Dottie looked about her bleakly.

  She thought she had put them away. She could picture herself doing exactly that. Only... what if she hadn’t?

  She shook her head. No, she had put them away. Therefore they had been taken—stolen—and the person who had taken them had done so either by accident, which she couldn’t see happening, or out of malice, purely to hurt her. Or because in some way they thought that the designs could be turned to profit.

  Dottie flattered herself that her design ideas had been quite good for a beginner, but they were hardly the sort of thing that could be of value to a really professional fashion warehouse with their whole team of designers and dressmakers.

  She had to tell someone. There was a chance—a very small chance—that they might still be able to catch the perpetrator and get the designs back. Or they might be lying in the ash can outside with little damage other than a bit of ash on them. With another pull on her emotions, holding her head up and putting her shoulders back, Dottie forced herself to walk calmly down the stairs to the drawing room.

  Imogen looked up as Dottie came in, but no one else noticed her.

  She halted in the doorway and said, ‘I’m sorry to bother everyone, but I’d just like to say that my designs are missing from my room, and that if anyone has taken them—by accident, I’m sure—I would be grateful if they could return them straight away.’

  Everyone turned to stare at her. They looked bewildered. It was impossible to say whether there was any guilty face amongst the group. Not that she actually thought it was one of them, of course.

  Lewis actually laughed and said, ‘You probably just mislaid them. You girls...’

  Glad she’d anticipated someone saying just such a thing, Dottie said, ‘I’ve searched the room thoroughly. They are definitely gone.’

  Imogen, her face stricken, said, ‘Oh Dottie! How terrible. See Mummy, I told you these thefts should be taken seriously. First the pearl earrings that were my grandmother’s, then Daddy’s cigar case, and the snuff box, and then my pearl necklace. Now Dottie’s designs have gone missing!’

  Cecilia said, ‘Nonsense,’ in that same brisk way Mrs Manderson had. Dottie spared a bit of her brain to wonder if they’d both got it from their mother. Cecilia set down her cup and saucer with rather a jarring chink and went from the room.

  Guy said, ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t understand. What is it, exactly, that’s gone missing?’

  ‘Some pictures Dottie had drawn, you know dresses and what not,’ Lewis said, and he didn’t bother to disguise his boredom with the subject.

  ‘Pictures?’ Guy sounded none the wiser.

  ‘Designs. Professional designs for my new range of ladies’ wear. A whole stack of forty foolscap pages. With fabric samples attached.’ She knew she sounded angry now, but she was upset. What was wrong with these people and their complete lack of interest in anyone but themselves?

  Imogen came to put her arm about her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Dottie, I’m sure we’ll get them back.’

  Cecilia returned, saying, ‘Well I couldn’t find them in Dorothy’s room, so if she did bring these drawings with her, I imagine she must have left them somewhere. But really, Dorothy, it’s a bit much to be so put out. Surely you can just draw them again if you can’t find them when you get home? Or think up something new to draw.’

  Guy said, ‘I thought you just did a spot of dressmaking?’

  Dottie didn’t answer; she was choking back a sudden burst of anger at Cecilia’s tone. She took a deep breath, and completely without thought, blurted out, ‘I’m sorry, but if they are not back in my room by the time we return from the ball tonight, I shall have no choice but to inform the police.’

  For the first time, June spoke, and her tone held an edge of amusement. ‘Surely there’s no need for that, Dottie. Do be reasonable. Come, dear, I’ll have another look with you. I’m sure they’re just hidden away somewhere.’

  Dottie was adamant. ‘They’re gone. I’ve already searched for them. And if Aunt Cecilia can’t find them either, then I don’t see what you think you...’

  ‘Dorothy, I’m not having my servants upset by the arrival of a police constable. If you like, I’ll ask them discreetly if they’ve seen anything. Really, that’s as far as I’m prepared to go,’ Cecilia said. ‘But before I do, I think you should go and telephone to your mother and ask her to have a look for the wretched things. I don’t want you to look silly in front of everyone by making a huge fuss about them here, only to find they are under your pillow when you get home.’

  ‘I brought them with me,’ Dottie insisted. ‘Imogen has seen them. I showed them to her.’ She glanced at Imogen who nodded in confirmation.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said immediately. ‘Dottie showed me all her lovely designs, they were terribly good. She’s terribly clever.’

  Cecilia gave a theatrical sigh, got up and went to ring the bell. After a minute, the door opened, and the butler entered.

  ‘Yes ma’am?’

  ‘Drysdale, please ask downstairs and see if anyone has seen anything of Miss Manderson’s dress designs, will you? She seems to have put them down somewhere. There are about twenty or thirty sheets of paper with pictures of outfits on them, and bits of dress material held on with pins.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’

  That accomplished, Cecilia Cowdrey seemed to feel she’d done all she could. She went to the door.

  ‘Well, it’s time to get dressed. I shall see you all later. Remember not to be late, please, the cars are booked for seven o’clock prompt.’


  As soon as the door closed behind her, the three men went back to talking about politics, and Imogen asked June if she thought she should enhance her hair colour.

  ‘Oh no, not at all, Imogen,’ June said without hesitating. ‘Enhanced hair is so brassy. Men might think you’re fast.’ She dropped her voice on this last word. She added, speaking to her husband, ‘Leo, dearest, we really ought to be getting back. I have to dress, you know, and I need to look my best for tonight.’ She grabbed her bulky, unattractive handbag and moved past Dottie to the door.

  Dottie left the room. She didn’t trust herself to stay another moment. Why didn’t anyone care? Why didn’t they seem to feel that this latest theft ought to be investigated—along with the earlier ones—and the culprit discovered? In any case, for whatever reason, they just didn’t care about what the loss of her designs meant for Dottie herself. What was wrong with these awful, awful people?

  She went back up to her room, not bothering to turn on the lights, but made her way across the dark space to the chair by the furthest window. She sank down into it and sobbed on the padded arm with frustration.

  A few minutes of crying, though, served its purpose: she recovered from the initial shock of discovering that her designs were missing, and her aunt’s—and her aunt’s family’s—indifference to that. She pulled herself together. She got up to close the curtains.

  She grabbed her wrap and went along to the bathroom. Whatever the other shortcomings of the house, there was always plenty of hot water. She filled the bath and wallowed in it, letting the warmth seep into her chilled body. She relaxed. When the water began to cool, she got out and rubbed her body vigorously until her skin sang.

  She went back along the chilly corridor to her room and found that during her absence the maid had been in and lit the fire. The bedroom was deliciously toasty. The crackle of the flames on the logs made a comforting sound, and the soft scent of the burning wood was pleasant and homely.

  Dottie drew her evening gown from the wardrobe and observed it with satisfaction. It was constructed of a delicate midnight-blue lace over a plain shift of fuchsia pink silk-satin. There was a band of fuchsia pink silk draping across the top of the bodice to tie in a bow on the right shoulder. The dress fitted close over the bosom, waist and hips then flared out gently from mid-thigh—Dottie being a young woman who loved to dance. It was one of her own creations, she loved it with a passion, and this would be its first public appearance.

  For a moment her courage wobbled. The little taunting voice inside asked her why she thought she should wear such a thing, and who she thought she was, trying to make dresses. Leo was right, said the spiteful voice, girls had no business in business. Then it reminded her that a mere matter of days after bringing them home from her office, she had managed to lose her entire collection of new designs—just like an amateur—and how would she ever recover from that?

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Dottie, though with not quite as much confidence as her mother said it. ‘Fiddlesticks,’ she added for good measure, and felt a little better.

  She got her underwear, slip and best silk stockings ready. Her high-heeled silver dance shoes, freshly wiped to deal with a minor scuff on the toe of the left one, had been returned by the maid, and placed neatly beside the bed. Dottie got her evening wrap—a winter one in heavy navy silk lined with fine wool—out and placed it ready to just pick up as she left the room to go downstairs. And she would take her tiny silver evening purse.

  Still warm from her bath, Dottie went to the window, and opened it to lean out and breathe in the early evening air. It was definitely colder. Icy crystals of frost already gilded the path below her, and the window frame, though it was barely six o’clock. It seemed that the mild weather was finally over. The geese grumbled ill-naturedly and huddled together on straw under a large wooden shelter at the side of the walled rose garden. The New Year was arriving with a change of weather and a fierce reminder that Spring was still many weeks away.

  She closed the window and went to the dressing table and began to get ready for the evening ahead.

  The New Year’s Eve ball was in full swing, and Dottie had been listening to Sir Stanley Sissons for easily twenty minutes. He appeared to have singled her out to entertain. Perhaps her aunt had asked him to make Dottie feel welcome? He had been talking about June and Leo. It was clear he hoped for grandchildren. He talked and talked, often patting her hand that was tucked through his arm as they meandered about the crowded room, nodding to this person or that.

  He was a nice man, if rather old-fashioned in his views about women. It seemed clear to Dottie that he didn’t usually have much of an audience. She heard all about how he started his business with just a shilling in his pocket, and then he told her about his collection of old weapons. And his stuffed animal trophies.

  On hearing that Dottie didn’t hunt, shoot or fish, he said, ‘I suppose you’re one of those liberals. All bleeding hearts and wanting to look after everyone.’ But he smiled as he said it.

  She grinned. ‘I’m afraid I am, Sir Stanley, that’s what happens when you give the vote to the fair sex.’ She said it with her tongue in her cheek, and he laughed with delight.

  ‘Don’t mind telling you, I joined the campaign trail to support m’wife. She ran for parliament, y’know.’

  That did surprise Dottie. ‘I didn’t know that. Was she elected?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, as if surprised she should even ask. ‘Yes, she always achieved everything she set her mind to. She was a very determined woman. That’s how she hooked me, y’know.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Dottie said. ‘You must have been so proud of her.’

  ‘I was.’ He looked sad. Dottie patted his arm.

  ‘You must have loved her very much.’

  ‘Not half as much as she deserved, I’m ashamed to say. Wonderful thing, hindsight, but I’m afraid it always comes that little bit too late.’ He gave a great sigh, then took Dottie’s empty glass. ‘Let’s get you another.’ He smiled at her, and his eyes were somewhat over-bright. ‘Soon be time for the count-down to midnight. Then, as you know, I’ve got a special announcement to make.’

  But when he crossed the room to the drinks table, he was immediately drawn into conversation with some other gentlemen. Dottie looked about her. She felt a little like the proverbial fish out of water: everyone knew everyone here, and she only knew her family. The guests were all chatting in groups, but Dottie was all on her own.

  As midnight approached, Sir Stanley’s butler brought a gong into the midst of the dance-floor then struck it two or three times to get everyone’s attention. The sight of it brought back everything from the previous New Year, slamming Dottie suddenly with a weight of painful memories.

  Sir Stanley, bidding everyone to charge their glasses, pulled out a stopwatch, ready to count down to the hour.

  On his signal, the guests joined in with deafening enthusiasm.

  ‘Ten.’

  Dottie looked about her, her eyes blurring as mental images presented themselves. Every guest had their eyes fixed on their host. She felt alone.

  ‘Nine.’

  She remembered the previous New Year’s Eve, at George’s parents’ house.

  ‘Eight.’

  She and George’s sister Diana had brought the radio into the hall and turned it up so everyone could hear the chimes live from Big Ben.

  ‘Seven.’

  Diana, who had talked that evening of having babies as a woman’s sacred duty to her husband.

  ‘Six.’

  Diana, who had been secretly having an affair with a married—then murdered—man.

  ‘Five.’

  Diana, who had told the police, told William Hardy, about her predicament.

  ‘Four.’

  Diana, who had been sent away to have her child in shame by her parents.

  ‘Three’

  Diana, whom Dottie had found too late, half-starved in a filthy hotel, punishing herself for her guilt.

  ‘T
wo.’

  Diana, too weak for childbirth, who had died as soon as her baby daughter was born.

  ‘One! Happy New Year!’

  The guests were a drunken mob all about her. They screamed with laughter and shouted with delight, pushing and shoving and falling all over the place. Tears streamed down Dottie’s face as she fought to tear herself from the past, and repeat the words of the present. But the excitement of the occasion had gone, leaving her feeling cold and empty now. It was all so pointless. She set her glass aside untouched, turning to push her way through the bodies and into the coolness of the hall. She ran up the stairs to the ladies’ cloakroom, and leaned against the closed door, fighting to compose herself.

  She got her breath back, and bit by bit pulled herself together. She went to the basin and splashed some water onto her face, blotting her burning cheeks and neck with the towel. She had the face of a ghost; her make-up was mostly on the towel. But it couldn’t be helped. She had a lipstick in her bag and added a little of that. A few more minutes standing looking out of the window at the cold glistening stars and the frost-gilded garden, then she went back downstairs.

  The dancing was in full swing. Norris and Imogen went by in each other’s arms, Imogen looking ecstatically happy. Dottie hadn’t even noticed Norris was there until now.

  Leo went by with June, both looking bored. Guy danced with a young blonde woman, but his frequent glances in June’s direction told their own story. Dottie went to the drinks table and asked for a sweet white wine.

  Before she could taste it, the glass was taken out of her hand and placed back on the table.

  ‘Sorry I neglected you, m’dear. I believe the honour would be mine,’ said Sir Stanley Sissons, and without further ado, he swept her onto the floor. In spite of his age, he turned out to be no mean dancer. He regaled her with hilarious anecdotes of a misspent youth, pointing out a few childhood co-conspirators who were there that evening, presumably having grown in wisdom and good sense. Dottie felt calmer and her spirits had lifted by the end of the dance.