The Thief of St Martins Page 4

  Out of nowhere the emotion hit her and choked her words. But it didn’t matter that they were in a public place, or that both her eyes and Flora’s were welling with tears, she had to continue, she had to say it in actual words. ‘I know that technically you’re my cousin, but you’re so much more to me than that. You’ll always be my sister, Flora. Nothing can change that, nor would I ever want it to.’ She dabbed her cheeks and managed a trembly smile. ‘Now for goodness’ sake, let’s pull ourselves together, and eat this food whilst it’s hot.’

  Flora did a little laugh that didn’t quite work, but they picked up their knives and forks, the tension of the recent months lifted, and they were themselves again.

  A few minutes later, having disposed of three roast potatoes in rapid succession and then a Yorkshire pudding, Flora said, ‘By the way, I’m afraid I’ve upset a Certain Person.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who?’

  ‘Your favourite police inspector.’

  That caused Dottie to set down her knife and fork. Hoping no one else could hear the pounding of her heart, she looked at Flora steadily, and in a neutral voice she said, ‘William Hardy? What could you possibly say to upset him?’

  Flora said, ‘He came to visit, on the Monday after the christenings. And, well, we were just chatting, you know. And then... I’m afraid I told him all about Gervase showing you the official files about that young fellow who died.’

  Dottie could only stare at Flora. She couldn’t eat any more of her food. Her throat felt tight and restricted. She didn’t feel as though she’d ever be able to swallow anything again. She tried to speak but all she produced was a little squeak.

  Flora, not appearing to notice, went on: ‘And I’m afraid I also told him about how Gervase gathered everyone together for you to reveal the culprit. Just like in the mystery books.’ Here Flora was on dangerous ground, as she couldn’t afford to give herself away too badly. So she opted for: ‘Well I suppose I thought he’d be interested.’

  Dottie’s cheeks flamed. She felt hot all over. After a moment she was able to say, ‘Y—you told him about that?’

  Reluctantly, Flora said, ‘Yes dear. I’m so sorry. And I know I should have told you sooner, but to be honest I was worried about how you’d take it, but it’s been bothering me so... Well, anyway, it didn’t go at all as I expected. I didn’t imagine for a moment that he would... well, I’m afraid he wasn’t at all pleased. In fact he was really quite angry. I thought he’d admire the way Gervase took an interest in your ideas, but it wasn’t like that at all.’

  Dottie pushed her plate away. The food had turned foul to her. She couldn’t even look at it. It shouldn’t matter, she told herself. It didn’t matter. Not in the slightest. Whatever he thought of her was of no interest to her. She reminded herself that Gervase was far superior to W—to Inspector Hardy in the hierarchy of the police force, and that if Gervase hadn’t seen anything amiss in what had happened, there was no reason to be concerned about what W—Inspector Hardy made of it all.

  Which didn’t explain why she felt like crying.

  Dottie took the pile of folded clothes from her mother and placed them in the suitcase. The next morning’s early start meant packing the night before was essential.

  Next to the suitcase was the gleaming leather briefcase that had been a Christmas gift from Flora and George. Dottie glanced at it frequently, partly from pleasure at the way it made her feel so professional, and partly with a deep, almost maternal concern that something terrible might befall the precious contents.

  Janet came in with two blouses, still warm from the iron. ‘That’s the last two, miss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dottie said, but it was Mrs Manderson who took the garments, folded them carefully with the expert touch of many years’ practice, and placed them into the suitcase. A small velvet bag containing jewellery items was tucked into a corner, an evening gown—not the notoriously revealing new ruby silk—was lain over the top of everything, and the lid was locked down. Then Mrs Manderson and Janet sat on the case whilst Dottie wrestled with the buckle of the strap they had put around the case for added security.

  ‘Well that’s that.’ Mrs Manderson sat on the bed beside Dottie.

  Janet bobbed and returned to the kitchen.

  In the kitchen, preparations were underway for a fine dinner for Miss Dottie’s last night before she went away. The underlying strain of those upstairs had somehow communicated itself to those downstairs and everyone felt nervous and on edge, even if they didn’t exactly know why.

  The young tweenie, Margie, said for the dozenth time, ‘Well I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Miss Dottie’s only going off on a visit to her auntie for a few days. It’s a shame she’ll miss New Year’s Eve at home though, but it’s not like she’s never coming back. I don’t know why everyone is so upset about it. I wish I could go and visit my auntie. Miss Dottie don’t know how lucky she is.’

  Cook said, ‘Just you shush, missy, you don’t know nothing about it.’ Cook remembered a day, just short of twenty-one years earlier, when her mistress had returned home from a trip away to the seaside as slim as ever, but with a new baby daughter. Cook had always wondered about that. Sometimes you had to wait a fearful long time to find out something, Cook thought. Not but they didn’t all love Miss Dottie to bits. But she’d wondered about it all the same.

  ‘But...’ protested Margie.

  ‘I said shush!’ Cook said, more sharply than she intended. Margie’s face fell, her lip quivered. In a gentler voice, Cook said, ‘Now just you get on with them spuds.’

  Margie got on.

  Mrs Manderson took Dottie’s hand. ‘I hope everything works out all right at St Martins. You mustn’t expect too much. After all, Cecilia and you are almost strangers to one another. You mustn’t expect...’

  ‘Mother, I know. It’ll be all right. You mustn’t worry. I’m only going to be away for a week. Everything will be perfectly all right.’

  ‘Well, you do have a tendency to take things far too seriously.’

  Dottie leaned against her mother. She hasn’t done that since she was a toddler, Lavinia thought. She smoothed Dottie’s hair.

  Dottie continued, ‘It’ll be all right. And I’ll be home again next week. We’ll have our own slightly late little New Year’s celebration then. I’m a bit nervous about meeting my... cousins. I remember them as older and a bit serious.’

  ‘Imogen is nine years older than you, perhaps slightly more as I seem to remember her birthday is in August. But she’s the youngest. I imagine Guy must be thirty, or even thirty-one by now. Cecilia did say in a letter not too long ago that he was engaged to be married, not for the first time, but I don’t think it ever came to anything. He still lives with Cecilia and Lewis.’

  ‘But Leo’s married, isn’t he? The oldest boy? How old is he?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s been married for several years. He must be about thirty-four. I can’t remember his wife’s name. A pale, vague sort of girl, but her father’s that soap chappie who got a life peerage two or three years ago, it was all in the papers. I can’t remember his name, but his firm makes the Sudso stuff. He and his wife adopted her when she was a baby. The wife died recently, I believe. Leo and his wife don’t have any children, not so far at least.’

  ‘And do Leo and his wife live with—er—A-Aunt Cecilia?’ Dottie could have kicked herself or stumbling over the word. It was still difficult to know the best thing to say. ‘My natural mother’ was not only a bit of a mouthful, but felt wrong and uncomfortable somehow, like an ungrateful slap. It was easier to simply continue to refer to the woman as ‘Aunt Cecilia’ as she had always done. Not for the world did Dottie want to hurt the feelings of the only mother she’d known all her life.

  For their whole family, life had become complicated, and something of an emotional merry-go-round since her mother’s heart-breaking revelation back in the summer. But if it had been a challenge to the relationships between Dottie, Flora, Lavinia and Herbert, Dot
tie was determined it would ultimately bring them closer together, or at least, once they had all completely recovered from the shock, it would.

  The initial sense of betrayal and of not belonging had passed quickly, leaving Dottie with the certainty that the people who had raised her and called themselves her parents, had loved her just as surely as if she had in fact been flesh of their flesh. Her sister—always close, always her best friend—was as dear as ever, perhaps more so, as it was now a relationship of conscious choice, not one merely of familial duty. Yes, they had survived and grown fonder, though the pain of discovery had not yet fully subsided. Nor the awkwardness of the current situation.

  Her mother said, ‘No, he and his wife have their own home. But it’s in the neighbourhood. Their families were always quite close, I believe. Although I think Leo met her at a hunt ball rather than a family event.’

  Dottie wrinkled her nose. She abhorred blood sports. ‘What does he do? Or is he too rich to worry about such things?’

  ‘I don’t know what Leo does. Cecilia has never said. Perhaps he helps his father with the estate? I imagine it will be his one day anyhow. Lewis inherited it from his father and grandfather. It’s been in the family for such a long time. Even the nearby village is named after the estate, although from what Cecilia’s told me, they’ve sold off most of the estate to pay death duties and for various repairs and such. I don’t suppose the village has actually belonged to St Martins estate for a century or more.’

  ‘So why isn’t the house called Cowdrey House, if it’s always been the family home?’

  ‘The family name used to be Martin generations ago. I think one of the daughters inherited the estate as the last of the line, and it was she who married into the Cowdrey family, but she didn’t change the name of the house.’

  ‘If Leo has taken over the estate, does that mean Uncle Lewis is a lot older than Aunt Cecilia? Or is he ill? Is he not expected to live very much longer?’

  ‘Oh it’s not that. He’s five years younger than Cecilia, and she’s eleven years older than me, so he must be fifty-seven or eight. But no, Lewis has always been a reckless sort of fellow, even when we were young. Obviously you won’t say anything to Cecilia, but he’s always been rather too fond of the drink. And gaming. Then, too, from hints she’s dropped in the past, I gather he’s not exactly the faithful sort. That’s not the lifestyle of someone you expect to live to a ripe old age. I think Leo is running the estate more as something for the boy to do than from immediate need.’

  Dottie thought for a moment, then said, ‘Although Aunt Cecilia must have been unfaithful at least once, because well, here I am.’ She paused, then added a little shyly, a little nervously, ‘Did she never confide in you about my father?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t say. I did ask. I always assumed he was some married man in their social circle. But I’ve no idea who he was.’ She suddenly looked alarmed. ‘Surely you won’t ask her, will you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Dottie. ‘Of course not. Unless, you know, she seems to want to talk about it. Then I might. Was it just—I don’t know—a quick affair—or did she really love him? Does she still see him?’

  Her mother gave an uncomfortable little laugh. ‘Dearest, I’ve really no idea. There’s nothing I can tell you. As I said, she’s never confided in me. And for goodness’ sake, be careful what you ask her and when. You don’t want to upset everything. She can be—difficult.’

  Dottie kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she repeated for the umpteenth time. ‘I’m only interested in going to see them all for a short visit, then I shall come home. I just want to feel I know Aunt Cecilia a little better. We might even become friends.’

  Her mother’s doubtful look at that didn’t entirely encourage her.

  The drive down was surprisingly pleasant. Although the weather at the end of December was usually horrid—as it had been at the beginning of the month, she remembered, thinking of the snow flurries on the day of the christenings—today Dottie had sunny skies all the way to Sussex. It was cooler, yes, but with the lovely new car rug over her knees—which she had to take great care to keep out of the way of the pedals—Dottie was snug and enjoyed herself immensely.

  It was her first long trip on her own and when she finally arrived in the village of St Martins she felt a sense of achievement she had only had once before in her life: on the opening of her first albeit small fashion show at the warehouse at the end of September.

  She pulled the car off the main road and onto the gravel drive, carefully squeezing her blue Morris Minor between the two stone pillars that stood guard at the entrance. As she slowly drove past, she noticed the pillars were topped by great stone geese, life-sized and facing each other, open beaks extended forward on aggressively thrusting necks, each bird with its wings half-raised as if about to fly at the other. The name of the place, ‘St Martins House’ was carved on each pillar in large letters.

  She drove along the meandering gravelled drive that brought her round a huge shrubbery to an entrance courtyard where a fountain in the centre allowed a kind of passing loop in front of the house.

  She halted the car, and got out, leaning back inside to grab her handbag, the hat box, and her precious briefcase. The gravel crunched under her feet as she went to the door, a single shallow step up taking her onto a colourful mosaic that formed the floor of the porch. The mosaic depicted a man in ragged clothes hiding behind something that looked like a car door but was clearly something else entirely with yet more geese, looking equally as fierce as those on the pillars, their beaks gaping threateningly. Dottie wondered if someone in the house had a fondness for the creatures.

  She allowed the knocker to fall once, and waited, looking around her from under the dark porch, made darker by the rapid approach of evening. The small-paned windows were dark and secretive-looking. Grimy red bricks made up the fabric of the great barrack of a building. None of it was calculated to inspire a sense of happy arrival. She could hear the honking of geese somewhere nearby. Clearly here the birds weren’t only represented in art. Away to her left, trees and shrubs seemed to crowd at the edge of what appeared to be an expanse of lawn, whilst on her right, more trees and shrubs came far closer, almost touching the walls of the house. Surely the rooms on that side must be very dark, Dottie thought.

  She waited. No one came to the door. Her sense of achievement at completing the long journey, of navigating from the busy heart of London down into the green rolling hills and valleys of Sussex, began to dissipate, leaving her shivering in the shadows of the house. What should she do? She rang again but felt as though she was wasting her time. The house felt empty and hollow as it hulked before her. She felt a sudden stab of anxiety. It was the right day, wasn’t it? She thought she had arrived at the right time, as her aunt—for Dottie wasn’t yet ready to call her anything other than aunt—had instructed in her letter.

  Dottie turned and looked about her. No one. What should she do? She began to walk back down the steps, bumping herself as her briefcase hit the corner of porch pillar. She glanced back. Perhaps someone had come to the door? But no, there was no one.

  She deposited the hatbox, handbag and briefcase beside the car, blessed if she was going to carry them all the way around to the back door, especially if no one was home and she had to go away again. Go away to where, her panicking mind asked as she set off around the side of the house. What if there really was no one home?

  This was ridiculous, she told herself sharply. If no one was home—but they surely would be—she would simply drive to a hotel and stay the night; she had enough money with her for such an advent, if it arose. She was regretting her refusal to listen to her father and bring their maid Janet with her. Though that had been mainly because Janet had a final fitting for her wedding gown the next day, and Dottie hadn’t wanted to disrupt her plans, though she knew Janet wouldn’t have minded, she had been so grateful to Dottie for paying for the gown for her as part of her weddi
ng gift to Janet and her intended, Sergeant Frank Maple.

  Thinking of Sergeant Maple sent her thoughts in William Hardy’s direction, and she clamped down firmly on that. Dottie remembered seeing a little pub in the village as she drove through. Perhaps they did rooms? It’ll only be for one night. ‘Because if no one’s here,’ she said out loud, mainly to drive away her sense of loneliness, ‘I shall have to go back to London in the morning.’

  By the time she reached the back door, she had convinced herself she would be leaving immediately to find that pub. She found the back door closed with no light showing through the glass. Nonetheless she rapped on the glass and waited. And waited. To no avail. The house was dark and empty. The pine trees and firs that surrounded the house seemed to crowd in all round about, blocking out the light, adding to the sense of emptiness, bringing the evening in far too early.

  Away to the right was a long expanse of lawn, dotted with the bulky shapes of sleepy white-plumed geese. The grass sloped down to a body of water that twinkled just beyond the trees. How lovely, she thought. On any other day... She turned back to peer through the glass of the door.

  No one was here. Once again, further knocks brought no change to that situation.

  Feeling dismayed, Dottie began to doubt herself, as everyone does when they arrive at the right place, at the right time, and the person expecting them is absent. She was in an area she didn’t know, with only the haziest idea where the nearest inn was. It was only half past three, but it would be dark soon. Yet still she dithered. How ridiculous this was. She was tired and hungry. A few spots of rain fell from the sky that, less than half an hour earlier had been as blue and clear as a June day. The wind had got up, and she shivered again, pulling her jacket close and wishing she had worn a greatcoat and a woolly scarf.

  There were some outbuildings. Perhaps she might find someone there. She hurried to take a look, turning up her jacket collar to keep the wind off as best she could. She saw a beautifully polished Morris Minor similar to her own parked in front of the double doors of the garage—surely an old carriage house—but she couldn’t find a living soul. No chauffeur, no gardener, no one. Obviously everyone was still away for the Christmas holidays, presumably travelling in a different motor car.