| |
Inspector Hardy was up very early on Saturday morning—though he had slept better than the two previous nights—and had been completely unaware of the cockerel’s announcements. On his way out of the inn, he paused in the bar and spoke to Mr Nelson.
‘Have there been any phone calls for me?’
Nelson shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, nothing.’
‘I’m expecting a call from London. It’s very important so if I’m not here, could you please take a message?’ Nelson was already nodding his agreement. ‘And please remember it’s confidential police business, so don’t mention anything you learn to anyone other than myself.’ Nelson assured him he would be the soul of discretion.
Hardy had breakfast with Constable Forbes, and explained that he was now officially off the case.
‘The inspector from Edinburgh said he would be here by lunchtime,’ Hardy said, ‘and he requested that I have no further involvement in the investigation, and that I should hand over any notes to you, so that you can pass them on to him.’
Forbes looked vaguely puzzled. ‘I didnae know you made any notes?’
‘I didnae. Didn’t, I mean.’ Hardy drank his coffee. ‘Look, I need to ask you a favour. I want to talk to the pathologist who is examining the body. Can you tell me who it’s likely to be, and where to find the man?’
‘More than that, I’ll take ye there maself.’ Forbes got to his feet, grabbed his jacket and was getting into Hardy’s car before Hardy had come out of the house.
––––––––
HARDY INTRODUCED HIMSELF to the pathologist, and began to explain the peculiar nature of his involvement. The pathologist waved it all aside, with a simple, ‘Nothing to do with me.’
Hardy smiled. ‘I’d be very grateful if you’d let me know the salient points of the Denholme case.’
‘Aye well, I had him on the table last night. My wife was not best pleased when I came home late, she had friends to us for dinner, let me tell ye.’
Hardy nodded sympathetically. ‘Not a career that considers the needs of a family man.’
‘Aye, you can say that again. Let me get ma notes.’ He went into a little office, calling to them to come with him. He took up a card folder from his desk, and flipped it open.
‘D’ye want to read the whole thing, or...?’
Hardy shook his head. Forbes was looking around him with great interest. ‘Never been here before,’ he said to Hardy in a hushed voice.
‘If you ever make a move to CID, you’ll be in here more often than your own parlour,’ Hardy told him grimly.
‘Here we are, gentlemen. No big surprises. Reasonable health for a man of forty-six. Death by a shotgun wound to the lower abdomen, death instantaneous. He’d been dead about eight or nine hours when I saw him. Which was, according to my notes, 8.25 in the morning.’
‘Did you notice the position of the body?’ Hardy asked.
‘Hmm. The typical falling position, when the victim is standing up when shot.’
‘And so the approximate height of the attacker would be...?’
‘Entirely your problem, Inspector.’
‘Humour me, please. About five feet tall, would you say?’
‘About five feet tall, or thereabouts would seem likely.’
Hardy, smiling for the first time that day, shook the pathologist’s hand and said goodbye.
He drove himself and Forbes back to the village. As he got out of the car, he said to Forbes, ‘Where will I find my namesake?’
Forbes stared at him. ‘Your...? Oh, right. Hmm, well I dinna rightly know. He’s usually a lot easier to find after dark. He’ll either be sleeping off the booze somewhere, or chasing some skirt, or working at one of the local farms. You’d have to drive all over the county to find him. Best let him come to you.’
That wasn’t much help. Hardy said, ‘Doesn’t he have family in the area?’
‘Oh no, he was adopted as a baby from some wealthy Englishwoman. Now I think of it, I think she was from London. Something to do with dressmaking, I think. It was never a secret, apart from whoever the baby’s father was, eh?’ He gave Hardy a man-to-man nudge. ‘He was brought up by an old couple who didn’t have any little ones of their own. But they’re both long gone, and the farm’s had two or three tenants since then.’
––––––––
DOTTIE HAD HOPED TO see William at breakfast, but he didn’t appear. Not realising he’d gone out two hours earlier, she contemplated but dismissed the idea of knocking on his door with some invented excuse. After forty minutes in the small dining parlour that reeked of kippers and Pekinese for the second morning, Dottie craved some fresh air. She excused herself and ran up to her room, grabbed her coat and hat, then ran back down again to hand in her key at the bar, fulfilling Mr Nelson’s request that guests hand in their keys if going out. No doubt it facilitated cleaning, Dottie thought, though surely they had a master key? Not that the inn appeared to be run along such commonsensical lines.
She stepped into the dimness of the bar, the smell of tobacco and stale beer catching in her throat. Surely not everywhere in Scotland was such an assault on the olefactory organs?
She was almost at the counter of the bar when she heard someone say his name. It stopped her in her tracks. A neat side-step took her behind a vast dusty aspidistra on a pedestal, and holding her breath, she eavesdropped without the slightest sense of shame.
‘Only been here a few days, but twice he’s already been caught ‘at it’ with Anna. Billy McHugh’s ready to knock his block off, so if you see dear Mr Hardy, tell him to watch his back.’
It was the voice of a man who’d just come in. Dottie had a feeling she’d seen him before. When he came back towards the door, she saw his uniform. Yes, it was the postman. He tipped his cap to Dottie who was now carefully examining a newspaper she’d found.
‘Miss.’
She nodded and gave him an automatic smile, her mind replaying his words. The landlord, though, unaware of this minor side-play, was calling a merry rejoinder after the postman.
‘Oh aye, I’ll tell yon Master William to keep his trews on, not that telling’ll make any difference to the man. He just can’t leave that girl alone, husband or no. Good morning to ye.’
It was as much as she could bear. No longer caring what anyone thought, she pushed past the postman and out into the street, running headlong in the direction of the coast road, tears streaming down her face, sobs causing her breath to catch in her throat. It couldn’t, it...
She halted. Frantically looking about her, she spied a tiny church nestling amongst rocks and trees on her right. She ran for the cover of the trees, not caring that the heavens had just at that moment decided to open.
It couldn’t be true. William Hardy? Surely he’d never...?
The graveyard had a calming effect on her stormy emotions. One hundred years from now, she thought, as most of the headstones bore dates of the 1830s and 1840s, none of this will matter. The heavy rain lightened to a soft shower. She stepped beneath the canopy of a large yew, though she was already quite wet. It was a shame there was no bench, as it was a pleasant spot. She leaned back against the rough bark and allowed the breeze and the patter of the raindrops to lull her mind, bringing her thoughts to peace.
After ten minutes, she began to feel there had to be a simple explanation. The William Hardy she knew would never carry on an intrigue with a married woman. But did she know him, came the answering whisper at the back of her mind. If she had given herself to him, that might have prevented him seeking solace elsewhere. Or would it? Was he, in fact, a womaniser? Just how well did she really know him? She shook herself impatiently. This was nonsense. If there was anything she was sure about with him—and she acknowledged she knew precious little—it was the unshakeable integrity of his character. She was wasting her tears for no reason. It wasn’t true, he would never do such a thing. She had nothing to worry about. Having reached this conclusion, she felt relieved. As if in answer to her lighter mood, the rain ceased and the sun came out from behind the veil of mist.
She emerged from under the yew tree, and began to look around, taking in the gentle beauty of the Victorian church and graveyard, and smiling at the rapid darts of blackbirds and squirrels.
Something rather larger than a squirrel bounded up to her, yapping joyfully and placing muddy paws on her skirt. A short distance away, Dottie noted with concern, a large quantity of earth had been heaped out onto the grassy path, not twelve inches from a tilting headstone.
‘You naughty dog!’ Dottie scolded the barking, wriggling creature, trying to wipe the mud from her clothes with her dainty hankie. ‘You might be the same breed, but you’re clearly not Madame Bovary, she’s twice your size, so who are you?’ She looked about but couldn’t see anyone who appeared to be in charge of a dog. The Pekinese wore a collar, but there was no tag.
The back door of the church opened, and a woman in a flowered overall came out to empty a dustpan into a bin tucked away in a corner. She nodded and called ‘Good morning!’ to Dottie.
‘I don’t suppose you knew whose dog this is?’ Dottie asked. The woman laughed.
‘It looks like Gustave. He belongs to Mrs Denholme, up at the big house. Well, really I think it belongs to the boys, but they don’t seem to do much with it other than throw the ball. They’re not very good at keeping it under control, as you can see. It’ll get run over one of these days, if they don’t train it better.’
‘Mrs Denholme?’
‘Yes. Not that anyone will be paying much attention to the dog after what’s happened.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
The woman glanced quickly about her then came closer, dropping her voice. ‘Why her husband, the laird, got himself shot dead in the small hours the night before last. She’ll be in deep mourning, of course, and the doctor was up there to give the poor woman some knock-out drops. Though from what I’ve heard, she couldnae be prostrate wi’ grief. Still, we mustn’t speak ill o’ the dead.’
Dottie resisted the urge to cry out, ‘Oh please do’, and instead responded with, ‘Oh no, of course not.’ Then feeling rather sly, she said, ‘Though really, when a loved one passes away, those around them tend to forgive and forget the little niggles and foibles.’
The woman in the overall gave a knowing smile. ‘I suppose so, if you can call a foul raging temper a little niggle. But, excuse me, Miss, I’ve got to get on.’
Dottie kept her long enough to find out where Mrs Denholme lived. She removed the belt from her dress. It was only there to show off her slim waist, in any case, it didn’t serve any actual purpose. Looping the belt through the dog’s collar as a makeshift lead, she set off, slowly due to the dog’s enquiring nature, in the direction of the big house.
It wasn’t hard to find, it being the only large house, or indeed house of any size, on this side of the church.
As she emerged from a copse of trees onto the edge of a vast expanse of lawn, Dottie spotted a couple of small boys playing with a ball. The dog yapped vigorously when it saw them, and the boys came running.
‘I found your dog in the churchyard,’ Dottie said. ‘It is your dog, isn’t it?’
‘Golly!’ said the first boy, aged about eight, Dottie judged.
‘Was he digging up bones again?’ the smaller one asked.
‘I do hope not,’ Dottie replied, though rather doubtfully. ‘He’s not very well trained, is he?’
‘No. Father was always threatening to shoot him if he didn’t buck his ideas up.’
‘At least we can keep him now!’ the younger added. Neither child seemed particularly upset about the loss of their father, if indeed the dead man had been their father.
But this was confirmed as the younger boy straight away said, his face flushed with excitement, ‘Our father got shot yesterday!’
‘Shush, Michael!’ said his brother severely. ‘Mama is very upset. She’s had to lie down, and the doctor had to be called.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Dottie said, thinking that if her husband was ever shot dead, she’d require a bit more than a lie-down to recover from it. ‘I’m sure everyone will expect you both to be on your best behaviour until your mama is feeling better.’
‘I’m not upset,’ the older boy told her. ‘And neither’s Michael.’ He nudged his little brother.
‘I am upset,’ declared Michael, though his smiling, ruddy countenance said otherwise.
‘At least now I don’t have to go away to school,’ the older boy said. ‘Mama and I were both upset about that.’
‘I’m not sure you should be telling me that,’ Dottie said, just as Michael added,
‘Lots of things will be better now Father isn’t here.’
Dottie felt shocked. It was very sad that a family should perceive the death of its head in such a way. To stem any further awkward revelations, she said briskly, ‘Now boys, which is the way to the back door?’ She had been unsure about whether she should simply leave or let someone know she had found the dog wandering, but decided it would be best to at least tell a staff member.
‘This way,’ Michael said, and to his brother, ‘Race you!’ They charged off, the dog yapping at their heels, Dottie’s belt trailing along the ground behind it. Dottie followed slowly, looking around her as she went.
A policeman stood guard at a pair of glass doors at the back of the house. One door stood open, and a photographer was taking pictures of it this way and that, no doubt trying to capture any prints or marks on the glass or frame.
‘That’s where it happened,’ the older boy was by her side once more.
‘Goodness,’ said Dottie politely. She looked at the door with interest. The policeman stared at her as if defying her to come any closer. The younger boy came up to her and slipped his hand inside hers.
‘This way, Ma’am,’ he said, and for a moment Dottie was reminded of an adolescent boy by the name of Anthony whom she had met a few months earlier whilst engaged on a job for Mrs Carmichael. He too had shown a very adult sense of good manners. She hoped Anthony was all right.
They reached the back door and went inside without knocking. Dottie could hear a conversation going on. A man’s voice was saying, ‘Got lovely manners, has that London policeman. Shame he’s not going to be in charge of the investigation.’
That must be William he’s talking about, Dottie thought, with a sense of pride. Then she remembered the reason for her hasty departure from the inn that morning, and felt a momentary qualm. She pushed it down, telling herself again, no, William would never get involved with a married woman.
Another voice, female, responded with, ‘Good looking too. Not that it’s anything to do with it. I bet he doesn’t miss much. I wouldn’t mind him taking down my particulars, I can tell you.’
‘You get on with those spuds, missy,’ said the man’s voice again, laughing. ‘Anyway, they’ve pushed him out, haven’t they? Procurator’s orders.’
‘No doubt afraid he’d get too close for comfort,’ said a third voice, also female, and older-sounding, with something of a wheeze behind the Scottish accent.
Interesting, thought Dottie. She would have liked to hear more, but the boys raced in ahead of her to shout that there was a lady at the back door, and that she had found Gustave eating dead people in the graveyard.
The man said, ‘That damned dog!’ There was a scraping of a chair and he came out to find her hovering in the hallway.
‘Pardon my French, Miss. I’m Roberts, the butler. Can I be of assistance?’
‘Oh Mr Roberts. I’m Dottie Manderson. I’m sorry to disturb you all. I didn’t want to go to the front door, as I had heard about the—er—tragedy. I just thought I ought to let someone know I found the dog wandering in the churchyard and thought I’d better bring him back. He—er—had been digging. Though I don’t think he got as far as actually eating anyone.’ She added a smile.
Roberts pulled a face. Michael shouted with relish, ‘I bet he could smell the bones!’ Someone shushed him.
‘Thank you so much Miss. I promise we’ll try and keep a better eye on him. Er—I’m afraid I can’t offer you any refreshment at the moment.’
Dottie backed away towards the door, a hand raised in apology. ‘No, no. I quite understand, don’t want to intrude. Very distressing for you all, I’m sure.’
‘I’m not distressed!’ the older boy announced proudly.
‘Well you should be, Master Jeffrey, now get along to the kitchen and Mrs Roberts will give you a glass of milk and some cherry cake.’
With a whoop of joy, the older boy ran off, the dog yapping at his heels once more. Dottie said goodbye and walked back to the churchyard. It was an hour later that she remembered her belt.
––––––––
WILLIAM HARDY NEEDED to think. After leaving Forbes at the police house, he drove south then east until he reached the coast again. It was fortunate he saw little other traffic as his mind was barely focused on driving. He ranted to himself and thumped the steering wheel a couple of times.
At last he stopped the car by the strand, deserted yet bathed in as much golden sunshine as any fashionable pleasure-beach on the English Riviera.
He realised he was breathing hard, and made an effort to calm down. Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes and allowed the sound of the sea to wash over him. After a while his rage began to subside to a dull simmer.
Clearly, Mrs Carmichael’s revelation to him at Dottie’s tea-party two or three months earlier, had stopped some distance short of the truth.
I knew your father.
His experience of life and the world, gained with time, and his work in the police force, furnished his mind with the untold details. There had been an affair. That much he already knew, from Mrs Carmichael’s lips, confirmed by his uncle. The affair had been broken off when his father had met and married his mother, who was a more suitable match in terms of social class. According to his uncle, there was a resumption of the affair at some point and, as he could not deny, in the midst of all this, a child had been conceived, and due to illegitimacy, the child had been put up for adoption, probably through informal channels, to spare everyone’s feelings and reputations.
Hardy felt a disgust for the manners of his father’s generation. To carry on like that, to produce a child, yet to preserve at all costs the outward façade of petty decency. He could hardly believe it. His hatred for his father had deepened in the last day or two, as first doubt then suspicion had crystallised into certainty and discovery.
He pulled out the watch that was in his pocket. It had been a last modest gift from his father. William had treasured it, had hoped some day to give it to his own son. Not that it was an expensive timepiece, nor one of any special craftsmanship, but his emotional attachment went far beyond its physical properties. William had left school and had gone up to Oxford to study law. He remembered his father, Major Garfield Hardy, shaking his hand as he and his wife readied themselves to leave on that first day. His father had handed him the tiny parcel, the box containing the watch.
‘It’s not much, William, I’m afraid. But it’s practical. And not of sufficient value for you to get mugged for it, lose it in a card game, or pawn it to pay your bar bill. Just wear it and know your father is very proud of his son.’
Then they had shaken hands in the formal way his father preferred, and William had kissed his mother, and they had gone, leaving him behind, in a strange place, among strange people, a young man on the brink of his adult life.
There had been a card in the box, a small pasteboard thing. His father’s spidery script said, ‘To my dear son William, with his father’s love’. It was as close as they could get to an embrace. For the last ten years, he had treasured those few words, through the financial and personal disasters that came a few short years after that day. He had treasured the words ‘dear’ and ‘love’, words never spoken aloud to him by his father but always craved by his son.
Now, though, how much did those words really mean? Nothing. Less than nothing. Even his name wasn’t his own: his father already had another son called William. The watch could have been meant for either of them. He had an urge to fling it into the sea. He even got out of the car and went down to the eagerly lapping waves at the water’s edge. He raised his hand, the watch there in his palm, and then... he couldn’t do it.
With a sigh, he put the watch back in his pocket, angrily dashed away the tear on his face, winced at the pain of the bruise he rubbed by mistake, then he turned and went back to the car.
At the inn once more, in his room, he opened the big brown envelope and quickly found the smaller envelope inside. It contained the paper Mr Bray had given him to get signed by the ‘missing heir’. He ripped it open and pulled out the paper to read it. The paragraph was short but to the point:
I, William Garfield Hardy, do hereby swear and attest that I am the true son and blood relative of Muriel Carmichael and Garfield Edward Hardy, both deceased. By thus lawfully affirming my identity, I take control of the inheritance from my mother’s estate.
Underneath there was a place for the signature, the date, and the signature of a witness.
William sank down on the bed. It was bad enough to give up his name to this man, but now he was to receive an inheritance too, whilst William was paid, in essence, a finders’ fee of £500, and the rest of his siblings went without. He didn’t care if it was childish, his only thought was that it wasn’t fair. Rage, cold and hard, knotted itself in the pit of his stomach.
––––––––
SHE DECIDED TO GO BACK for her belt after dinner. Hopefully then she wouldn’t interrupt anyone. It didn’t seem as far going by the road instead of cutting through the fields behind the church. Within twenty minutes she was turning in at the gate, and in another five, she was knocking on the back door. Mr Roberts opened the door, and looked at her in dismay.
‘Why, Miss, you ought to have used the front door!’
She apologised, adding, ‘I didn’t want to be a bother, in the circumstances.’ She explained why she was there, and the belt was quickly found. As she was preparing to take her leave, she heard a commotion of yapping and children shouting. Almost immediately, the two boys charged through the hall to the garden door, close on the heels of Gustave, and Madame Bovary panted past about thirty seconds later, her stout form not able to keep up with the others. Dottie, desperately curious, nevertheless kept her questions to herself. She said good evening to Mr Roberts, and, squeezing past the two large trunks stacked just inside the back door, she went on her way, her thoughts very busy.
As she came back into the village, two men, large and loud, almost cannoned into her. One paused to raise his battered hat in apology, but without missing a beat, resumed his conversation. Dottie overheard more than she bargained for.
‘I walloped him one this time. ‘You keep away from my wife’, I told him, and I whacked him right in the face. That’ll teach him. He won’t mess with me again. Nor ma missus.’
‘No, he won’t, Big Billy, that’s for sure.’
‘Asleep in his room he was, at The Thistle. Well, I hope he’s learned his lesson. The look on his face! He went down like a nine-pin.’ With his hands Big Billy mimed something crashing backwards, then gave a hearty laugh.
‘You weren’t the only one looking for him. There was that bookmaker the other day.’
‘Oh aye, I know!’ Another hearty laugh. ‘I was there when he found him. Smacked him right on the nose, he did, just as he was coming into my bar. My bar, of all places. The laddie has a death wish!’
So, it was true! Dottie couldn’t catch her breath. Her hands covered her mouth. Devastated, her one thought was to get to her room. She fought her way up the steps and in at the front door, bumping into the very person she least wanted to see.
‘Dottie!’ said William, the bruises on his face illuminated by a chance ray of sunlight. ‘I’ve been trying to find you. I need to ask you...’
‘Oh you—you!’ Words failed her, and so she lashed out with her hand, the palm of it stinging across his face with all the might she had. Tears blinded her and she turned and ran in the direction of the bathroom.
––––––––
HIS CHEEK WAS STILL stinging from her slap. It wasn’t the first time she had slapped him. But the way she’d looked at him! His heart whispered that he had lost her forever, though his mind said fiercely that it wasn’t so, he would never, ever, let her go.
But was it even his decision to make? She’d slapped him, turned on her heel and stormed away, fury in every line of her tall, slender frame.
He went into the bar, abruptly halting in the doorway at the sight of the large frame propped against the counter. He was the last person William wanted to see right now, and he was, indirectly, the cause of all William’s problems. William halted, and debated whether to throw caution to the wind and go in there and tell the man exactly what he thought of him. After all, he had nothing left to lose.
As if by some sixth sense aware of William’s presence, the man turned and looked right at him. After a second he laughed, loudly and unrestrained, and pointed at his own black eye and swollen lip.
‘Now we’re an even better match! Looks like we need to cheer each other up. What did the bard say, the course of true love never did run smooth? Let me get you a drink, man. Ye look like ye need it.’
Yet still he hesitated. Then something inside him metaphorically threw up its hands in recognition of a pointless situation, and he gave in, and although still wary, he approached. A glass was pushed in front of him, a hand clapped his shoulder by way of sympathy.
He stood side by side with the brother he’d never known he had until the day before. In the mirror behind the bar he couldn’t help but see they were a match in height and breadth of shoulder, in their hair colour and eyes. They could have been twins, both the image of their father. Only their clothes set them apart.
Will lifted his glance, gave William a broad grin, wincing at the pain and raised his free hand to soothe his eye. ‘A toast. To the lovely ladies. The fair sex: gentle, kind, loving. And who pack an almighty punch.’
William raised his glass. With a wry look, he echoed, ‘To the ladies,’ and drank his dram down in one gulp. It hit the spot and made him choke. He looked at Will. It was an odd sensation, thinking, ‘This is my brother.’ Will looked back, his expression growing serious.
‘All joking aside, man, I’m sorry I made trouble for you with your wife.’
‘She’s not my wife,’ William said, adding with bitterness, ‘And I don’t suppose now she ever shall be.’
‘Och, hush man, faint heart never won a fair lady, and all that.’
‘Do you do anything useful or do you only give quotations from literature?’ William growled.
Will shot him a look, but wasn’t offended. ‘Aye, I can do this too.’ And he signalled to Mr Nelson for another round, adding, ‘O’ course, if I’d had the same fancy education as my little brother, I’d probably do something a bit more useful with ma life.’
William was suddenly furious, and rounded on Will violently, his fists already balling up. Will put a calming hand on William’s chest, and in a soft voice said, ‘I’m sorry, I didnae mean that. I shouldnae have said it.’
Fresh drinks were placed in front of them, and William, shoving Will’s hand aside, once again drank his down in one draught. He immediately signalled the barman.
Will said, ‘Aye, a good plan. I can see you’re the brains o’ the family.’ He added, ‘It was me took you back to your room from the other bar, when Jimmy the Bookmaker decked you in mistake for me. I thought I owed you that much. Not as much as I owe Jimmy, o’ course.’
William swore at him and sank the third whisky, and called for another. His cheek still stung from the pressure of Dottie’s hand, and he decided he was going to drink until the pain went away, then he was going to tell her just what he thought about what she’d done.
He explained this to Will, who responded with another hearty shoulder slap and, ‘Aye, Aye, another good plan. We need to tell those women what they’ve done to us. They’re not the only ones to suffer, ya know. They seem to think we men have no feelings at all. How does she think I feel, huh, tell me that? I go to prison for a piddling twelve months and come back to find ma woman, the love o’ ma life, married tae another man! Ma heart’s in pieces on the floor, but does she care? Not a jot, let me tell ye, not a damned jot. Then she’s the one that’s upset?’ He raised his voice, ‘Hey, barman, another round of drinks for me an’ my brother.’
Peter Nelson stood in front of the pair of them, his arms folded across his chest. ‘No more until I see some money on this counter.’
Will and William looked at the barman then at each other, and laughed hard, leaning on one another for support. The barman sighed. It was going to be a long evening.
––––––––
BACK IN HER ROOM, DOTTIE was still weeping softly when she heard the tap on her door.
It couldn’t be William, he’d never tap so softly, and in any case, given the mood he was in when she’d last seen him, he’d probably feel more inclined to kick the door off its hinges. She scrubbed at her cheeks with her handkerchief and went to see who was there.
She saw a small, slender woman with wavy red hair scooped back from her face in a loose bun, pretty wisps escaping and hanging about her neck. Before Dottie had the chance to speak, the woman yelled in a loud, forceful way that belied her petite stature, ‘You can keep away from my man! You’ve no been in the neighbourhood two minutes and you’re already after him! What sort of woman are you? Taking other peoples’ men...’
But at this point, the forceful manner that had supported her thus far, fell away and the woman’s voice caught in her throat, her eyes filled with tears.
Dottie looked up and down the corridor, then took the woman’s arm and pulled her into the room, shutting the door. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said bluntly, ‘I’ve enough problems with my own man to keep me busy, I’ve no time for yours as well.’
‘Is it William Hardy?’ The woman was looking at her oddly. Dottie knew she too looked as though she’d been crying, the other woman hadn’t missed her reddened eyes, or the damp handkerchief in her hand. But at the mention of his name, Dottie felt cold inside.
‘What if it is?’ she demanded. ‘And anyway, what business is it of yours? You’re married to that enormous fellow from the bar on the other side of the road.’
The woman nodded. Her eyes were full of sorrow. Her fingers twisted and untwisted in front of her, working at the edge of her apron. ‘Aye. I am. I’m married to Big Billy McHugh, for better or for worse, according to the wedding vows, and it’s been worse for this whole twelve months. I was a fool to marry him, but I just wanted to feel—safe. Mad, really, for I’ve never been less safe than I am with him. Very fast with his fists and his belt is Billy. But Will, he’s never one to be where he’s supposed to be or do what he’s supposed to do. You can’t rely on the man. Yet all the same, I love him.’
They sat on opposite sides of the bed, staring at each other. Dottie’s head held a hundred questions. She asked the first, most pressing one. ‘But how do you even know him?’
‘I met him when came into the bar. I was just a barmaid then. But after what’s happened, he’s no longer welcome these days. My husband hates him with a passion. I’m afraid if he ever catches him, he’ll kill Will. But I cannae keep away from him, he’s the only good thing in my life. When he’s not passed out from the drink or locked up in prison, that is.’
‘But I don’t see how that can be...’ Dottie was confused. Were they definitely talking about the same man? ‘He only came here from London a few days ago. He’s been in London for years.’
It was the other woman’s turn to stare. She half-shook her head, trying to make sense of Dottie’s words. ‘No. The only man who’s come here in the last few days from London that I’ve heard of, is that policeman fellow.’
Relief flooded Dottie. She wasn’t one hundred per cent certain, but she was almost there, and her confidence began to return. She just needed to make absolutely sure.
‘This London policeman,’ said Dottie, ‘Have you actually seen him?’
The other woman shook her head. ‘No, I just heard that he’d arrived. I havenae seen him with my own eyes.’
‘His name,’ Dottie said, ‘is William Hardy. He’s my William Hardy. At least, he was mine until I slapped him half an hour ago. I doubt he’ll ever speak to me again after that.’
‘Will...?’ The other woman was still staring at Dottie, but her eyes were wide as her mind raced over what Dottie had said. ‘The London policeman is called William Hardy?’
‘Yes, I just said so.’
‘And he’s your man?’
‘Well... in a manner of speaking... yes, I suppose he is.’
‘And you’re not trying to take my Will Hardy?’
Dottie was confused again. ‘But your man, I mean, your husband is Billy McHugh. Isn’t he?’
‘No. I’m married to Billy McHugh, but I love Will Hardy. Will is my man.’
Dottie felt this wasn’t the moment to try and explain it was supposed to be one and the same man you married and loved. ‘Well I love William Hardy, not your Will Hardy, and...’ Dottie stopped short and thought about what she’d just said. ‘Oh dear, I think I’ve just...’ she searched for her handkerchief and scrubbed at her face again. After a moment she said, ‘The thing is, I’ve just given him such a slap, all because I’d overheard someone outside talking and laughing about how he’d punched William Hardy in the face because he had been running after his wife. And I thought... I thought...’ she ground to a halt. She looked down at her hands, concentrating on the lamentable state of her nails, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. If she didn’t focus on her feelings, she might avoid another outbreak of tears. She had made a huge mistake, that was all too clear now. But it hadn’t been him, it had been someone else. It helped a little bit to know that. Not her William. Though she had still slapped him.
‘I’m Anna. Anna McHugh. And my man is definitely Will Hardy. He hates to be called William. And he has definitely lived here for years, though he’s talked a lot of hot air about getting away from here. But between you and me, he will have to leave soon, or he’ll likely spend the rest of his days behind bars, or even hang, because they are set to have him for that killing up at the big house.’ She looked at Dottie. ‘Two men with the same name. That’s a bit unusual.’
Dottie sighed. ‘Yes, it is. But there’s a simple explanation. You see, I think they’re brothers. Half-brothers, actually. The London one has been sent here to find the Scottish one, though I don’t think he knows that. And although I wasn’t sure who I was looking for, I’ve been trying to deliver a really important message to him.’
Anna sighed too. ‘He’s a hard one to track down. He’s always trying to stay one step ahead of the law, that’s what it is. He’s such a one for getting into trouble. Always in some scrape or another. If he’s not careful...’ Anna looked at Dottie. It was a deep appraising look, as if trying to gauge something about her. Dottie countered the look with one of her own. Anna nodded. She’d made up her mind. ‘Will you help me? I’m afraid he’s got himself into some real trouble this time. I don’t want him to go to prison. If they hanged him for this, it’d be the death of me too. Oh I know he’s done a bit of poaching and he’s a bit light-fingered, but he’s never been really bad, he would never harm anyone or commit an actual crime.’
Again, Dottie saw no point in explaining that poaching and theft were actual crimes. Clearly where this Will fellow was concerned, Anna was determined to keep her rosy outlook. It was clear too that Anna was genuinely worried.
‘You can tell me anything,’ Dottie said, ‘And if I can help at all, I promise I’ll try.’
*
