‘Family money? Hogwash!’ The sergeant grinned. ‘He certainly pulled the wool over your eyes!’
But Dolly was not listening, as her thoughts had taken off in another direction. Abruptly forgetting her womanly wiles, she frowned. ‘Who ratted on Sidney and Don? Because whoever it was, they lied! They must have done.’
‘I’m not allowed to divulge information,’ he said sternly, ‘except to say it was a so-called friend. So to get back to business,
Miss Ellerway
, we now have two members of the gang in custody, and we understand your hus . . . your fiancé, Donald Wickham, is the ringleader. Do you know his whereabouts – yes or no? I have to remind you that withholding information is an offence. You don’t want to join them, do you?’
Inwardly, Dolly was seething. If what this policeman said was true then Don had tricked her into believing that they were married. That nice Mr Burke had been pretending – and Don had known it! Her mother had suggested as much earlier on, but Dolly had denied it, accusing her of stirring up trouble between husband and wife. How could she face her mother again – now that all this was happening? She herself had been more than satisfied with her marriage lines with the red sealing wax. Mavis had been so jealous, and Dolly had been so happy as Mrs Donald Wickham . . . and now she felt stupid. Don must have been secretly laughing at her for being so trusting. And now her poor baby would be born on the wrong side of the blanket! Dolly felt like weeping, but the tears refused to flow. She stared at the policeman and sighed deeply.
He said, ‘Look, I’m sorry about all this, but you have to answer my questions. Do you know where your husband is?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you know when he is coming back?’
She shook her head again. Maybe never, she thought miserably.
‘Has he given you any jewellery, Miss Ellerway, and if so, do you still have it? We have a list of stolen items that—’
‘He gave me a diamond ring and said I was never to take it off or it would break the marriage vows, but when he went off I thought he’d never find out so I let Sidney take it to get it valued for me.’
‘Did he now? How kind of Sidney!’ He rolled his eyes, grinning again. ‘Can you describe the ring?’
‘They call them solitaires because they just have one special stone. Solitary, you see. That means “one”. Like solitary confinement in prison. One person in a cell.’ She felt rather proud of that information as she watched him taking notes.
He glanced up at her. ‘Trust me – you won’t see that ring again.’
‘But he’s going to bring it—’ She paused as her thoughts raced on uneasily.
‘Exactly!’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Sidney Wickham is up before the courts any day now and won’t be coming back home for years. He was identified by an honest pawnbroker. Stolen property, Miss Ellerway. That’s what that ring was. You can bet on it!’
‘But it’s mine! It was my wedding ring!’she protested.
‘I’m afraid not. It was never Donald Wickam’s property because it was stolen, so he had no right to be giving it to you and his brother had no right to be trying to pawn it. Don’t you see? You could be charged with receiving stolen goods, but I believe that you did not understand the true situation. The police are after the three perpetrators, not gullible womenfolk.’
Hurt by the slur, Dolly held back a bitter comment. Things were bad enough, she reasoned, without upsetting the police.
By the time the sergeant left, Dolly felt as though her whole life had been a total muddle. She stood on the doorstep and watched the policeman ride away on his bicycle and thought that nothing worse could possibly happen to her.
She was wrong.
‘Mrs Wickham?’ A large middle-aged man had approached her from the opposite direction. He looked what her mother called ‘thuggish’, with a square flat face under a mass of brown hair. As he drew alongside she smelt the whisky on his breath.
‘Mrs Wickham?’ he repeated.
‘Not any longer.’ She sighed.
‘But you do live here, don’t you? ’Cause if you do you owe three weeks’ rent and the boss says “pay up” or sling your hook!’ To emphasize the point he held out a large calloused hand.
Dolly thought about it dispassionately. Did she still
legally
live at number sixteen? It was the Wickhams’ place, but what was the point if Don was gone, Lord knows where, and Sidney was arrested? Did she want to stay there on her own? Probably not. Could she afford to settle the rent arrears? No. But could she bear to go home to Ma and Mave and have them gloat over her misfortunes? Most definitely not.
‘What’s it to be?’ he asked, scratching his matted hair.
His surly tone and total lack of interest depressed her. ‘I was planning to rent out the attic,’ she confided, but her hopes were fading. ‘If I did then I could pay you the rent that’s owed. Would he wait for a week or so?’
‘Don’t ask me, I only collect the cash.’
‘I dare say I could ask him myself.’
He shrugged. ‘And if you don’t find a lodger you’ll owe even more.’
Regretfully, Dolly saw the logic of that and surrendered the idea. ‘Tell your boss I’ll be gone by nightfall,’ she told him, ‘and tell him from me –’ she folded her arms belligerently – ‘that the corner of the front bedroom reeks of damp and the wallpaper’s peeling off. The kitchen window frame is rotten – you can press your finger through it – and there’s a thing like a smelly brown mushroom growing in the cupboard under the stairs. Perhaps he should spend some money on the place before it falls down around the next lodger’s ears!’
His smile revealed neglected teeth. ‘Perhaps if people like you paid their rent on time, he would.’
‘Just tell him!’ she snapped.
‘Tell him yourself.’
There was no answer to that so Dolly went inside, slamming the door behind her, then went upstairs to pack her few belongings. By the time she had finished she knew exactly where she was going and set off with Lydia Daye’s address clutched in her free hand.
Later that day Lydia was polishing the silver – a job she had been doing from childhood and greatly enjoyed. Sitting at the kitchen table in the same kitchen, with cloths and polishes to hand, she had earned approval from her mother for her diligence and always received a penny for her labours which she would spend in the sweet shop on the corner. Now she smiled. She had spent ages in the little shop, which smelled of aniseed balls and chocolate and marzipan and many other smells that she could not name.
At that time she had enjoyed the luxury of being adored by both her parents, and she clearly remembered her excitement when her mother announced that they would soon have an addition to the family as the stork would bring her a baby brother or sister. When he arrived, the baby was named Robert, but there the happy ending rested for a number of years until a third child brought about drastic changes. The new sister died soon after birth, and her mother died a few months later, allegedly from an infection aggravated by an excess of grief.
She glanced from the kitchen window and was reassured to see her father sitting in the garden, well wrapped up against a blustery wind. Beside him Adam played with a bubble pipe and a bowl of soapy water, sending the bubbles high into the air and running after them with squeals of excitement.
Lydia smiled wistfully. The scene brought back memories of her brother Robert when he was the same age and adored by all and sundry – which included Lydia. Her father had doted upon him, but Lydia had never resented the fact that, as Robert grew older, her father paid her less and less attention. The boy’s death had been a devastating blow to everyone, but her father had been half out of his mind with sorrow and the pain of loss.
‘That’s done!’ she exclaimed, resettling the cutlery in its velvet-lined box and closing the lid.
As she was returning it to the dresser, she heard someone rapping on the back door. Opening it she found Adam pointing round the side of the house.
‘There’s a lady,’ he told her.
‘A lady? What do you mean, dear?’
‘She’s sitting on the step. And she’s got bundles and things.’
‘On
our
step? Surely not!’
Only half believing him, Lydia followed him round the side of the house and saw Dolly Wickham on the bottom step, lolling against the door, fanning herself with her hand.
‘Mrs Wickham? I mean, Dolly. What brings you here?’ She reached out a hand, and Dolly grasped it gratefully and allowed herself to be helped to her feet. She was red-faced and breathless from the exertion of her long walk.
‘I’m sorry to bother you . . .’ she began, one hand clutching her side. ‘It’s further than I thought.’
Puzzled by her unexpected visitor, Lydia picked up her bags and helped her round the side of the house and into the kitchen, with Adam prancing along beside them. Once inside the kitchen she refilled the kettle and set it on the stove, and then led her visitor into the front room where they could rest and talk in comfort.
Adam rushed to fetch the kitten and show him off to their visitor, who made admiring noises.
Lydia said, ‘Find a little ball and play with Sooty, Adam. I have to talk to Mrs Wickham.’ Presumably, Dolly’s visit was something to do with the PSD, she thought, intrigued and suddenly hopeful.
For a few moments they discussed Dolly’s health and that of the unborn child, but as soon as they were sipping their tea, Dolly dropped her bombshell.
‘It’s my husband,’ she told Lydia. ‘He’s only skipped off and left me.’
‘Left you? But Dolly, you’ve only just been married!’ Lydia watched a series of emotions flit across Dolly’s face. ‘And the baby’s coming soon. Is he quite mad?’
Dolly blew on her tea and sipped it cautiously. ‘It gets worse,’ she offered.
‘How could it be any worse?’
‘The police are after him, saying he’s robbed a shop in London. Him and some other men. Three of them.’ She averted her eyes as she spoke.
So this was nothing to do with the PSD, thought Lydia, disappointed. She said, ‘And do you believe the police? It sounds quite extraordinary to me.’
‘And me! It sounds blooming ridiculous, but they’ve got the other two men, so they say, and they’ve blown the gaff on Don.’ Her voice shook a little, and she helped herself to another spoonful of sugar and stirred vigorously as if she felt the need for a little more energy. ‘So my husband is a thief, and he’s wanted by the police!’
Lydia watched her curiously. How on earth, she wondered, could Dolly sit there reciting this terrible story without bursting into tears? If she were in Dolly’s shoes she would be totally devastated and quite beyond comfort . . . Unless Dolly was making it all up as a way to elicit pity – and possibly a little cash! Was this alleged betrayal simply a scam? The idea was an unpleasant one, and Lydia thrust it to the back of her mind. Bad things happened. She was usually a good judge of people, and she felt she could trust this brave little woman. At least, for the moment, she would give her the benefit of the doubt.
‘They never even paid the rent!’ Dolly told her. ‘Three weeks was owing, and I didn’t have the money so . . .’ She shrugged, almost spilling what was left of her tea. ‘So I had to get out. And I thought, this is all wrong! About my husband, I mean. It can’t be true . . . Although Don’s not been back and that’s a bit suspicious, don’t you think? And that rotten Sidney took the ring and didn’t bring it back and the sergeant said I could be arrested for wearing a ring that was stolen property!’
Lydia was revising her opinion. This sounded too complicated to be a pretence. And somewhere in Dolly’s story she vaguely sensed there were unfathomable, uncomfortable echoes with her own situation. She stared at Dolly, frowning and listening intently.
‘Who are these other two men?’ she asked at last.
‘One’s his brother Sid. The other’s the reverend who married us. His name’s Willis Burke. They reckon he drove the getaway car after the robbery.’ Seeing the expression on Lydia’s face, Dolly nodded. ‘Yes. He’s the reverend – the man who married me and Don . . . but the police reckon he was a fraud and me and Don aren’t properly wed after all – although the captains of ships can marry people and so can the blacksmith at Gretna Green so why can’t Mr Burke? He was a really nice man, and he gave me some violets and . . . everything.’
‘So are you going back to live with your mother?’
‘No. I hate her. She’s the one went round to the police about my wedding and got poor Mr Burke into trouble.’
‘I expect she was trying to help you, wasn’t she? To stop him from cheating you.’
‘You don’t know her like I do. She’s always hated poor Don, and she was trying to get at him. To prove she was right! If she thinks I’m going to go crawling back she’s—’ She stopped suddenly, peering past Lydia. ‘Is that your wedding?’
‘Yes.’ Lydia handed her the photograph in its silver frame.
Dolly smiled. ‘Pretty dress! What colour was it?’
‘A pale violet with pale-brown lace collar and cuffs.’
‘Lovely!’ She smiled. ‘You’d look nice in violet. I had a cream skirt and jacket with those leg of mutton sleeves. I looked a treat with a white straw hat, although I say so meself. My ma always says you shouldn’t blow your own trumpet! I wish
I’d
had a photo taken, but Don said we couldn’t because it was a very private ceremony.’ She studied the photograph, particularly the groom. ‘I like your husband. He reminds me a lot of Don. Nice and tall. I like tall men. I know short men are nice, too, but I like to look up at Don. I used to think of him as my tall, dark stranger, although he wasn’t a stranger. We grew up on opposite sides of the street!’
She handed back the photograph, and as she did so her face fell. ‘The police said he hit a man and the man died and that makes Don a sort of murderer, even though he didn’t mean it. That’s why he’s disappeared and I want him to come back but then they’ll catch him and might hang him so in a way I have to hope he doesn’t.’ She put a hand over her belly. ‘How could he run off without even waiting to see his baby? It’s not natural.’ Her eyes suddenly misted over. ‘He should have taken us with him!’