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Lower Bar, Scotland, May 1934
Anna McHugh glared through the prison bars at the sprawling body. When the figure did not immediately acknowledge her presence, she aimed a kick through the bars at the foot hanging off the end of the narrow cot.
‘Hey, idiot! I haven’t got all day to wait around for you, so let’s get going.’
The figure on the cot stretched and yawned in a leisurely manner, as if awaking from a deep refreshing sleep. He got to his feet and gave her what he clearly believed was a cheeky smile, but she glared at him again and turned on her heels. ‘If you’re no’ in the street in one minute, you’ll have to walk back.’ She returned to the waiting area at the front of the police station, saying to the officer behind the desk, ‘He’s ready to leave now, if that’s all right.’
The police officer gave her a grin as he turned to fetch the keys out of a cupboard behind him. ‘Just out the three days, isn't it? I know you said he was at home with you all night. But we all know it was him that took that deer from Barr Hall. And the laird is a very good friend of the procurator. So maybe try and keep your man home at night, m’dear, if you don’t want him to go straight back to prison, this time for a wee bit longer.’
She watched him go through to unlock the cell door. ‘He’s no my man,’ she said softly. Her man was at home, behind the bar of his public house, and he would be ready with his belt when he heard she’d given William Hardy an alibi for the previous night. Her heart felt heavy, she dreaded going home. But what else could she do? She couldn’t let Will go back to jail for the one crime he hadn’t committed. She went out into the sunshine to the little car she’d borrowed from the pub.
It seemed everything she did for Will got her into trouble. How could he have given up her name like that, even to get himself out of a tight spot? Surely he knew by now the price she would pay for that? Her mind whispered that her mother would have said a gentleman never betrayed a lady’s confidence. But William Hardy was no gentleman, and she doubted he would say she was a lady, either. Why did she let him do this to her? If she could only get him out of her life—and her heart—perhaps her husband wouldn’t find so much fault in her. Which would mean far fewer bruises.
She sat behind the wheel, waiting. And waiting. She told herself she’d just give him another minute, then it became two more, and then another five. Finally after almost fifteen minutes the man appeared, swaggering as he came, proud as punch of his exploits. Along the street someone cheered, and Will raised his fist in a gesture of triumph. Anna sighed. How was another night in the cells anything to be proud of?
The same day, London.
Mrs Carmichael’s funeral was every bit as awful as Dottie had feared. A sea of black-dyed ostrich-plumed hats hid the front of the little church from view, and the stench of hot-house flowers threatened to overwhelm the senses. Two ladies had prolonged sneezing fits due to the pollen and had to be led outside to wait in the entryway.
The rain—having held off for several grey days—descended now in torrents, reducing the graveyard to little more than a bog, which was why the service had to be held inside. Dottie never actually did catch sight of the coffin, even though, due to the size of the lady reposing inside it, she somewhat irreverently assumed it to be a large one.
Mrs Carmichael had been horribly murdered just a few weeks earlier, and her fashion warehouse was silent, in a kind of limbo, with no business being done. Like the other mannequins, Dottie had no idea what was going to happen either to her job or the warehouse itself, or to the half-planned autumn-winter collection. The place just wouldn’t be the same without the large, formidable woman shouting orders in her strident East London accent, scattering the girls here and there. Dottie found she just couldn’t picture a future for the warehouse her late employer had spent her whole life building up single-handedly.
It was terrible. She couldn’t bear to think about Mrs Carmichael being pushed down the stairs of her own home in the middle of the night. In recent months Dottie had known of several people who had died unpleasantly. But the death of Mrs Carmichael, who had been a friend as well as an employer, had hit her hard and she found herself continually on the verge of tears, not wanting to think about it, yet finding it was all she could think about.
The only bright note in an otherwise miserable day was when Police Inspector William Hardy entered the church. She caught his eye immediately and her heart sang when he smiled and came to sit beside her.
The large congregation, for once, did justice to the demands of funeral hymn-singing, and Dottie’s clear contralto blended well with Hardy’s robust baritone. For several minutes she was so thoroughly immersed in the pleasure of singing with him that she completely forgot the sad occasion.
At the end of the service, it was still too wet for either coffin or congregation to proceed into the graveyard, and so after hanging about for half an hour, conversing in muted tones, the mourners dispersed, dashing outside under large umbrellas to step thankfully into cars. Dottie’s parents, her sister and brother-in-law began to make their way to their own vehicles. Dottie held back, wanting to spend a few more minutes with William. But she was disappointed.
He walked with her as far as the church door, then looking about and seeing no one watching, he dropped a self-conscious kiss on her cheek and said, ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I must dash. I have an appointment I mustn’t miss. May I telephone you?’
‘Of course you may, but...’
And he was gone, waving regretfully over his shoulder. Damn the man, Dottie thought furiously, with scant regard for the hallowed place in which she was standing. Every time she thought she’d finally got a few minutes with him, he ran off! At least he had kissed her... in a manner of speaking.
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AN HOUR LATER, AT THE premises of Bell, Bray and Mower, Dottie was shown into the office of a Mr Bray. As she followed the bald young man who was Mr Bray’s secretary, she collided with a tall, lean figure. Glancing up on hearing someone say her name, she saw William Hardy standing there.
She felt flustered at coming across him so unexpectedly. Was this the appointment he had mentioned? Why was he there? He appeared equally uncomfortable. But she had only time to say, ‘William! What on earth...?’ before she was chivvied into the room he had just left, and was more or less herded into a leather armchair. The door closed as William glanced back through the gap of the closing door and gave her an apologetic shrug.
Mr Bray, introducing himself, wasted no time before straight away embarking on a long speech about his role as Mrs Muriel Carmichael’s legal representative as it related to her last will and testament.
Of course, thought Dottie, her mind still fixed on William Hardy. He’s probably had to come here on a police matter—his work was all about the minute detail of legal proceedings. No doubt he was here in an official capacity, looking into something or other to do with Mrs Carmichael’s murder.
She was mulling these thoughts over, pleased with the idea that it was ‘only’ work that kept William from her side, when it gradually dawned on her that the other occupant of the room had fallen silent. Mr Bray had talked at length and then stopped, and she had no idea what he had said.
She gazed at him with her lovely hazel eyes. Mr Bray, a mousy, insipid bachelor in his mid-fifties, was very fond of dark-haired girls with lovely hazel eyes. It was fortunate he was, because he now had to say everything again. Normally Mr Bray was not a patient man, but with her eyes upon him now, he happily told her the good news all over again.
‘Muriel Carmichael thought of you not only as an employee but as a friend. As such, and in view of your dedication, hard work and commitment to your position in her warehouse, coupled with Mrs Carmichael’s lack of close family, I am instructed to hand over the entirety of Mrs Carmichael’s assets to you, with three notable exceptions.’ Dottie couldn’t begin to understand what Mr Bray was telling her. What assets? What could he mean?
‘There is a requirement that must be fulfilled before those assets can actually become yours. I hope that you will not find the demand placed on you too onerous.’ He gazed upon her pleasing features. He knew she worked as a mannequin in Mrs Carmichael’s fashion warehouse, and certainly he could see why she was so valued by his client. He hoped—fervently—that she was not grasping. She was lovely, to be sure, but he had met ladies before who were lovely on the outside only. Sometimes, outer beauty, brittle and hard as a mask, concealed the inner ugliness of a hard, grasping heart. The love of money...
‘A requirement?’ Dottie repeated. ‘And assets? What assets?’
‘Everything Mrs Carmichael owned is now yours...’
‘Every...’
‘...apart from three properties she has disposed of elsewhere.’
Dottie was staring at him without comprehension. Mr Bray, being an old-fashioned sort of chap, was hopeful that Dottie was, as befitted a true lady, in need of guidance in these complex affairs.
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‘MRS CARMICHAEL LEFT the business to me!’ Dottie exclaimed to her sister, Flora, before she even entered the house. Greeley, Flora’s butler, ushered her into the hall with an expression of undisguised interest.
Flora was every bit as astonished as Dottie had hoped, and never one to be concerned about keeping private things private from her own staff, she immediately began to cross-examine Dottie about it. ‘The whole business? The warehouse too? And the designs?’
‘Everything!’ Dottie said. She was dizzy with trying to take it all in. ‘Not the house in France—can you believe she had a colossal fortune? She even had a house in France! That’s to go to her maid, Pamphlett! And the house where she lived, she’s left that to someone else too. I don’t know who. I know it’s none of my business, but all the same, I should have liked to know. And there’s a little cottage somewhere, I forget where, down on the south coast, that’s gone to someone else again. And then, it turns out she had several cars, they’re garaged in a mews not far from her house, and are to go to yet another person. It really is very frustrating not knowing who these people are, not that I care a fig about cars, though I do want George to teach me to drive... Where was I?’ She paused for breath. Flora—and Greeley—were still staring at her. ‘Oh yes, everything else—savings, stocks and shares, investments, and her personal items: jewellery, furniture, and then there’s the warehouse, the designs, all the stock, the orders, it’s all been left to me, lock stock and barrel! A small apartment in Covent Garden. Another little house somewhere, I can’t remember where. It’s all so—I don’t know...’
‘Exciting?’ suggested Flora.
‘Wonderful?’ suggested Greeley.
A light went out in Dottie eyes. She leaned forward and in a sober voice, she said, ‘It’s almost a million pounds. It’s all too much, how can one person own so much? It’s jolly scary actually. It seems like a huge responsibility.’ She slumped down in an armchair. ‘I can’t seem to take it all in.’ She looked up at Greeley, hovering in the doorway, her coat and hat still in his hands. ‘Could I please have a cup of tea, Mr Greeley?’
Greeley collected himself. He had been drinking in every word. ‘Oh yes, of course, Miss Dottie.’ And he hurried away, eager to share the latest news with his wife, who was Flora and George’s cook, and the maid Cissie.
Below stairs, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, they toasted Dottie’s good fortune, Greeley adding solemnly that she deserved it, she’d been so very fond of the old woman.
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IN THE DRAWING ROOM, Flora and Dottie had resumed their interminable knitting.
‘I hope you don’t have another baby for at least five years,’ Dottie grumbled. ‘I can’t even bear the sight of a ball of wool now. It will take me at least five years to recover from all this knitting. Why you didn’t just buy everything, I’ll never know.’
At seven months’ pregnant, Flora looked—and felt—very large. She also felt exhausted. ‘I wanted nice things, proper things, made specially for my baby, things that mean something. Anyway, just nine more weeks or so... babies don’t always arrive on time. I do hope it’s not too late, I’d hate to have problems. I don’t know which is worse, not sleeping now because I can’t get comfortable, or not sleeping after the baby arrives due to getting up at all hours of the night.’
‘You won’t be getting up, it’ll be the poor nurse you and George employ. Anyway, it’ll be nice to be able to see your feet again,’ Dottie pointed out helpfully. Flora threw a ball of wool at her.
‘So what’s next? Do you just go to the warehouse tomorrow and tell everyone that you’re now in charge?’
Dottie wrinkled her nose. ‘No. I’ve got to do an errand first. Quite a big one. To earn my inheritance, I’ve got to find someone for Mrs Carmichael, or rather for Mr Bray.’
‘Oh?’ Flora said. ‘Who?’
‘Her son.’
‘Her...? I didn’t know she’d ever been married. I thought that Mrs Carmichael thing was just a blind?’
‘It was. She wasn’t.’
‘Oh.’ They looked at each other.
‘Yes, it’s exactly what you think. Some chap got her into trouble when she was a young woman then left her in the lurch. She had to give the baby up for adoption. It’s bad enough these days when a girl gets into trouble. In those days, what, thirty or so years ago, it must have been even worse.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘So I’ve got to go to Scotland and see this person, and let them know that she was their mother and that she has now passed away, and I’ve got to get them to contact the solicitor. And when they do that, I will get my inheritance. And I’m assuming they will get theirs.’
‘Scotland!’
‘Yes, I’m to go to a little place near Edinburgh, but on the coast. Apparently the solicitor Mr Bray has been looking for Mrs Carmichael’s baby and that’s where he’s tracked him to.’
‘Why doesn’t this Mr Bray go himself, or get a policeman to call on the fellow? I don’t see why you should drag yourself all the way up there.’
‘Well Mr Bray’s a terribly busy man, and it’s part of me getting the inheritance. He’s rather a dear old pet, I bet he’s not married, he’s probably just got a faithful old dog for a companion. He feels that it’s a situation requiring a certain feminine delicacy. It’s all a bit cloak-and-dagger. Perhaps the baby’s terribly respectable now and doesn’t want anyone to know about his illegitimacy? People can be unforgiving of something like that. He says the estate will pay my expenses, but warns me it’s only a little village and won’t have the usual comforts. Anyway, when I arrive at the hotel, I’m to meet with someone who will tell me how to find this fellow. And this is all a huge secret. I’m not allowed to tell anyone, or... What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘A secret, Dottie! Darling, you’ve just told me everything!’
‘Well, obviously! I’m hardly going to whizz off to Scotland without a word to anyone.’
Flora shook her head and smiled to herself. ‘It’s quite exciting. Just like a detective story. I’d love to come with you, but George—and Mother—would have forty fits at the idea of a woman in my condition going all the way to Scotland.’ She sighed. ‘I have absolutely no fun at the moment. I’m not even twenty-four until August, but I’m just a fat old woman, my youth is behind me.’
‘True,’ said Dottie, not caring a jot. ‘But once the baby’s arrived, you’ll soon be back to form, dancing, shopping, all the usual things. It’s not going to last forever.’
‘It feels like forever,’ Flora complained. ‘I suppose you’ve got to go up on the train?’
‘How else does one get to Scotland? Yes, I’m going up on the Flying Scotsman. I’ve got a seat reserved for the day after tomorrow. So I need to get home and tell Mother, and give her a chance to rant and rave, and then tomorrow I can pack and get ready. Mr Bray has taken care of everything. He’s made me a reservation at a hotel in a little place called Lower Bar, on the east coast. It’s all happening so quickly. It’s so exciting!’
‘Mother will never let you go all that way on your own.’
‘She will, because if I don’t go, I shan’t get the inheritance. And she won’t want that to go to some cat’s home.’
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IN HIS POCKET WAS THE envelope containing the train ticket, the confirmation of his hotel reservation, and a large amount of money. The envelope was a full and large one, the corners of it poked out and spiked his wrist. But he didn’t care, he felt excited. He was going to Scotland, and he was to use his detective skills to track down a missing heir. It was all irresistibly romantic, like something from a book. No one was to know where he was going apart from his immediate superiors at work, and he was allowed one phone call to his sister to let her know he would be away.
Eleanor was still staying with their uncle and aunt in Matlock, Derbyshire. She had been there since the death of their mother two, almost three months, earlier, and her conversation, when he made the expensive call to her once a week, was mostly a recital of her socialising with a young man of whom she was increasingly enamoured. His aunt had warned him several times to expect an announcement, and he had made sure of both his own and his sister’s financial situation, in case of just such an occurrence.
That was partly what this trip was about. He hadn’t mentioned it to the chief superintendent, but Mr Bray had given him a cash payment of £250 in addition to his expenses, and had promised him a further £250 on successful completion of the task he had been set. Inspector William Hardy, of the Metropolitan police force, was not in a position to turn down £500 in cash when he had a young brother at public school and a sister on the verge of marriage.
But.
He would not be able to see Dottie Manderson. To make matters worse, he had been sworn to secrecy, so he couldn’t even let her know he was going to be away. Not for the first time, he found he had to put his own wants and needs on hold in order to do something for someone else. When, he wondered, would he finally be the one at leisure to do the courting, the proposing, the leading to the altar?
He reached the lodging house where he had recently taken a room to save money on living expenses, and paused to unlock the front door. He comforted himself that it was likely he would only be away for a week. In a week, or less if he was fortunate, he would have finished this task for Mr Bray, and would have plenty of time to talk to Dottie, to take her for dinner, and even—he was daydreaming now—ask her to marry him.
It took him five minutes to pack: he didn’t have a large wardrobe of suits and shirts. He was to go up the next morning on the Flying Scotsman, drive a rented car from Edinburgh to the small coastal village of Lower Bar, and stay at the hotel there. He would meet with someone to gain information which he would follow up to find this missing heir. Then, and only then, he would gain the written confirmation he needed, so he could return to London to claim the remaining money. Even if he wasn’t successful—and he hoped he would be, he would do his utmost to succeed—he would still have an extra £250 in his pocket and have had a trip to Scotland and a short holiday in a hotel. He felt quite excited about the whole thing. Perhaps adventure was too strong a word, but he felt as though something significant was going to happen.
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MR BRAY WENT HOME TO his cat, and his sister, at the end of a long day at the office.
He waited for his sister to prepare and serve his dinner. The cat, who had already eaten, came to sit on his lap in front of the fire. In the Bray household, even though it was the beginning of May, a fire was still lit in the small sitting room at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. The evenings were still inclined to be a little chilly and Mr Bray, wealthy enough to please himself, didn’t care to be chilly. So he and the little black cat sat in front of the fire and thought about life.
He drank a small glass of sherry. The cat purred as he stroked her, and Mr Bray thought about his day at the office. If the terms of Mrs Carmichael’s will were rather more straightforward than he had led either Inspector Hardy or Miss Manderson to believe, he felt that, with his own demands now in place, he was fulfilling the spirit of her will, in addition to its actual provisions. He thought back to the long discussion he had had with the departed lady some months earlier, and remembered her disclosures about her early life and the senior Mr Hardy’s role in that: her confession of the long-lost romance, and the cherished baby she’d had to give up. She had talked with animation and affection of the young mannequin who was more than a mere employee to her, and whom she knew to be enamoured of the younger Mr Hardy.
Mr Bray smiled. He was confident that everything would go just as he had planned. He thought it was all so very romantic, and Mr Bray, though a middle-aged bachelor, was very romantic. He believed Mrs Carmichael, less romantic but very fond of the people involved, would have approved. It all seemed very fitting. Because if her death had proved anything, he reflected, it was that life was short, and often brutal. Death always came a little sooner than expected, so it was essential that one made the most of every opportunity that came one’s way, for who knew if another would ever come along?
When his sister called him to the dinner table, she said, ‘So, did it all go as you planned?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It went perfectly.’
‘I’m surprised they just accepted it. Mrs Carmichael never put it in her will they had to find her son, did she?’
‘No, but if she’d had time to think about the problem, I’m sure she would have had the same idea as myself. And the son has got to be told.’
‘You could have simply written to the young fellow. Or telephoned.’
‘I wanted the other son to meet him. The inspector wouldn’t have gone if I’d told him the truth. This way he’ll find out, and hopefully be forced to accept the situation. And Miss Manderson, well, she has to prove her mettle. In addition to which, she is very personable. I believe the news will be best delivered in person by her. It will soften the blow considerably. Yes, all in all, I have every hope of a happy outcome for all involved.’
His sister smiled and shook her head indulgently as she bustled back to the kitchen. He was as fond as an old woman.
*
