The Mantle of God

by Caron Allan

  She quickly changed her skirt, remembering to remove the pin and the scrap of fabric from the torn hem of the skirt she’d taken off and put them into the hem of the new skirt. As she did so, in her mind’s eye she saw again the earlier scene: Melville fawning at her knees on the floor. His ludicrous, and, she realised now, completely fake marriage proposal. Now she seemed to see the scene as it really was. The back of his hand had been bleeding, which had nothing to do with the slamming of her knee into his nose. It was bleeding before that. He had scratched his hand on the pin on her skirt hem. He had been trying to get the fabric piece.

  She felt even more outraged, and a little bit afraid. How close he had come to getting the scrap. ‘Serve him right if I’d accepted his stinking proposal,’ she told herself, hugging herself to keep from shivering.

  From downstairs there was the sound of voices then the front door slammed. Covertly she observed Dr Melville and Mrs Gerard together descend the steps to the street. They paused in conversation for several minutes, Dr Melville still attempting to staunch the bleeding.

  How odd, Dottie thought. She hadn’t realised how well Melville and Mrs Gerard knew each other. Their demeanours were not at all those of casual acquaintances commiserating over an eventful tea, or an unsuccessful proposal. Their heads were bent close together, in spite of his injury and their conversation appeared quiet and hurried. He was shaking his head to something Mrs Gerard had asked him. Her hand was on his arm. She glanced back at the house, and Dottie drew back still further behind the curtain, even though she knew they couldn’t possibly see her.

  Just then two other guests came out of the house, and Dottie watched as Mrs Gerard and Dr Melville stepped apart a little and turned to nod and smile banalities at the other two who moved off to their own car, leaving Dr Melville and Mrs Gerard to hurry away together. By leaning out of the window as far as she could, Dottie saw that they walked to the end of the road, then hailed a cab and they both got in together and drove away.

  Clearly, then, they were far better acquainted than was generally known.

  Blissfully unaware of the eventful afternoon tea at the Mandersons’, William Hardy was at home with his feet up on the coffee table in the little sitting room, and a small glass of whisky in his hand. He had come home early, taking his work with him. He felt certain it was going to be a long evening so decided he might as well get comfortable. He was reading witness statements.

  How many times he had read through them already, he didn’t know, but although he had initially sat down with them half an hour earlier, with no other expectation than that something, anything, might strike him, now he was aware of a growing sense of excitement.

  A small detail had struck him, and a further small detail had followed that, and now, he was convinced he had an important clue in his hands.

  This was the part of his job he liked, he realised. So often, especially of late, he had wrestled with the notion that he was not suited to his career, but at moments like this, he knew beyond doubt that he was doing what he was not only gifted at, but that he loved. It was this that he loved, this bringing together of small details to create a credible, even pleasing, picture of events.

  And it had just happened again. He got out his notebook and began to write.

  An hour later he knocked on the Mandersons’ front door. Janet opened it, and through her association with Frank Maple, saw a friend standing there, not just a visitor. She grinned at him and stepped back for him to enter.

  ‘Oh my Gawd, Mr Hardy, you’ll never guess what!’

  He gave her a questioning look, but said nothing.

  ‘Mrs Manderson’s in a terrible fury. Miss Dottie’s had a proposal from that rather dishy Dr Melville, and she only went and punched him on the nose! Blood and crockery everywhere, the tables overturned, and Miss Dottie in her room, scared to come down, I should think!’

  She paused for breath. The inspector, usually so correct in his behaviour, was openly gawping at her, torn between laughter and trying to remain polite. Finally recollecting that he was in fact, a visitor, Janet said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Do you want me to take your coat? Are you expected?’

  ‘Er, no. And no. I just called on the off-chance. It—it was Miss Manderson I hoped to see.’

  ‘If I was you, I’d take her out for a while. The drawing room is a complete mess and Mrs M is in the morning room, and in the worst mood. I’m not sure she’d be very welcoming...’

  ‘Perhaps you could ask Miss Manderson if she’d do me the honour...’

  But Janet was already halfway up the stairs, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Half a mo!’

  Hardy waited, full of intense feelings that had nothing to do with what he now regarded as a break in the case. He hoped neither of Dottie’s parents would come out. He didn’t feel like being polite and making small-talk. He heard the sound of hurrying feet and glanced up, expecting to see Janet returning, but it was Dottie herself.

  She grabbed her coat, grabbed his arm, and ran him out of the door and down the steps. He felt light-hearted, as if they were playing truant from their lessons. They were halfway along the street, laughing, before she stopped to put on her coat. He took it from her and held it so she could slip her hand into the sleeve.

  ‘Did Janet tell you what happened?’

  ‘Only very briefly. Am I to congratulate you?’

  ‘On making an unholy mess and infuriating my mother? Yes.’ She turned to look into his face, her eyes laughing into his. That was the moment he knew what he felt for her was truly love and not some mere obsession. He toyed with the idea of dropping to his knees right there in the street to beg for her hand, but felt she’d probably had enough of marriage proposals for one day. Instead he contented himself with straightening the back of her collar and offering her his arm.

  ‘Sounds like you need to escape for a while. Tea?’

  ‘It’s almost six o’clock.’

  ‘An early dinner, then?’

  ‘All right. Thank you. I feel so naughty, running out of the house like that. But really, it’s better to let Mother cool down a bit before attempting to explain. Though I’m afraid even when she knows what happened, she still won’t forgive me.’

  They found a seat in a small restaurant, right at the back, away from the windows and a bunch of noisy, already-tipsy students. Hardy ordered their food, and a drink each, then he sat back, suddenly aware that he was actually, finally, out with her. She watched him closely, her hazel eyes steady and grave.

  ‘So, why did you come to rescue me?’ she asked. He began to tell her about his small details and watched as her eyes grew round like those of a child listening to a thrilling adventure story. She immediately picked up on the things he thought were significant, yet she made him feel he had been intelligent in seeing the clues. She was able to confirm his suspicions.

  William watched in amusement as Dottie leaned forward and rolled back the hem of her skirt. She pulled out a dressmaker’s pin that was there, dumping the pin in the ashtray on the table. She put the scrap of material in his hand. Uncurling his fingers, he saw the tiny scrap he had originally entrusted to her so many weeks earlier, it seemed like the distant past.

  She straightened her skirt, which he reluctantly admitted was better for his blood pressure, though he had greatly enjoyed the sight of her slender legs, long but shapely, encased in the fine thread of her stockings, far finer than those his sister wore. He wondered idly how much it cost her father to keep Dottie Manderson in clothes and stockings and other necessary items. With a sense of dismay, he realised it was likely to be well beyond the pocket of a police inspector.

  She was staring at him, and he realised she had spoken and was waiting for his response. He had no idea what she had said, and felt compelled to admit it.

  ‘I said,’ she repeated, ‘that it would be safer for you to keep this, as I’m beginning to think it’s behind all the trouble I’ve been having.’

  Really, she was thinking, flash these m
en a bit of knee or ankle and they go completely to pieces! Was it really so hard to leer at a girl’s legs and listen to what she was saying and come up with a sensible response? He was a little flushed, she noted, and his pupils were dilated. He seemed flustered and had forgotten how to behave in public. He had definitely gone to pieces. On the other hand, it was rather nice to know that even though she was almost the ripe old age of twenty—no longer a child, but a mature woman—that she still had the ability to knock a chap for six. Also, she added to herself, it was nice to know William’s professionalism could slip a little now and then.

  ‘Hmm,’ was all he said. He took out his tatty leather wallet and carefully placed the scrap between two pound notes to keep it flat and safe.

  She began to tell him everything Flora and she had discovered in Canterbury. He listened with flattering intensity, without once interrupting, and when she had finished, he simply nodded and said, ‘Y-es, it’s all starting to make sense. That is very interesting.’

  But rather than elaborate on this, or tell her what he was thinking, he turned to her and reached across the table to take her hand.

  Wild imaginings raced through her mind. Was he about to propose? Surely not, he couldn’t, surely... idiot, she told herself, of course he wasn’t. But nevertheless, she was aware of an acute pang of disappointment when he said, ‘Look here...’

  ‘What? Why are you looking so serious? Don’t you ever smile?’

  He smiled then. She was entranced. How rarely she had seen him smile. His teeth were nice, white and even, and his often rather chilly blue eyes were suddenly warm and bright. The corners of both eyes and mouth lifted, the eyes crinkling at the edges. She smiled back, and he, in return, was also entranced.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, tearing her eyes away after what felt like an eternity. Her hands were not quite steady so she folded them in her lap. ‘Now what was it you were going to say?’

  ‘Just that I really don’t like the idea of this dinner party of yours going ahead. I’m very concerned...’

  Her smile faded. ‘I am too, but my mother insists. I could take to my bed and pretend I was sick—believe me, I’ve thought about it—but she wouldn’t allow it. She’s made up her mind I’m afraid, so we’re rather stuck with it.’

  ‘Now look,’ he said, and the eyes were chilly again. He was angry but not with her, and she knew it was only because he was worried.

  She patted his hand. ‘I know, William, dear, but there it is. As you will soon discover, you simply can’t argue with my mother. I’m sure everything will be all right. You’ll have it all figured out by then, I know you will. Everything will be quite all right. Surely we’re not the only people having a big dinner party? Besides, we’re no match socially for the likes of the previous victims mentioned in the papers.’

  But in her heart, she wasn’t quite as sure as she’d sounded.

  Seeing that she was getting upset, he changed the subject. ‘Have you noticed that Catholicism keeps cropping up?’ He kept his voice low, afraid of causing offence to anyone seated nearby.

  ‘Not especially.’ She frowned at him, thinking. ‘But then, we’re not Catholics, we’re very much Anglican, which is just the same, if you ask me.’

  ‘We are too. And yes, it’s all much of a muchness in my view. But for some... I suspect Ian Smedley-Judd is a Catholic—there’s a crucifix hanging up in his study. And he collects religious art.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean... And anyway, what if he is?’

  ‘Exactly. What if he is?’ Hardy thought for a moment then continued. ‘Right after my father died—and we lost our home, my family and I were looking for temporary lodgings until we knew more about our situation, the kind of home we could afford to rent, that sort of thing. I remember a good few of the lodging houses I went to had signs in the front window. ‘No Blacks, No Jews, No Catholics’. And a whole list of other things people couldn’t be or have. No children. No dock workers. No Irish. No unemployed. Makes you wonder who they did take. There is still so much prejudice about, even today. Some of it is directed at Catholics.’

  ‘My grandmother used to refuse to take on Catholic servants. I have no idea why. She had a ‘thing’ about them. That’s how my mother put it, anyway. You and I would call it prejudice, or bigotry, now. But it’s still very common. I had dinner with a young man once and my mother said, ‘You needn’t think you can marry him, you know, he’s a Papist.’ Honestly, in this day and age! I mean, surely we were all Catholics once? Before Henry and his blasted Reformation.’

  He nodded. He was about to mention the Irish situation, but she said, ‘Mrs Gerard once told me she had a great uncle who was excommunicated by the Pope. ‘My grandparents never mentioned him again,’ was what she told me. The shame was felt throughout the family. Some of her ancestors were even executed. So obviously she is a Catholic, and a very committed one. Do you think this is relevant to the robberies?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but certainly there’s something suggestive in it. I think all our dinner party hosts and hostesses were Catholic.’

  ‘What sort of religious art does Smedley-Judd collect?’ she asked, coming back what he’d said.

  ‘No idea. I haven’t been able to get into his little secret room to look at it.’

  ‘What if it’s something connected with that little scrap of cloth?’

  ‘Just what I was thinking myself. But how? And why?’

  ‘You told me the scrap of cloth was amongst Archie Dunne’s effects when he died. Where did he get it anyway?’

  He stared at her. ‘I’d give a week’s wages to know the answer to that one. Got any ideas?’

  She shook her head. Her hair curled about her ears. He wanted to touch it, push it back, stroke her cheek. He folded his arms and leaned back. She said, ‘Not really, I can only guess it came from his wife. Was the handwriting on the paper his?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you mean, from his wife?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, how many young men go about with bits of cloth on their person? It was wrapped up as if it was something important. Which clearly it is, with what we now know, and the mugging and even the robbery at my house. So how did he get it and why did he keep it? Most men, most women too, would look at it and think it was just rubbish and throw it away. So he, or whoever wrote that note it was wrapped in, clearly knew exactly what it was, and were keeping it for some specific purpose. I don’t know much about Archie, but no one’s suggested he was any kind of expert in ancient relics.’

  ‘And Susan was?’

  ‘Susan came from a proud old, very wealthy, very Catholic family. And they come from Hertfordshire, where there was a lot of anti-Catholic violence during the Reformation and for years afterwards. I can far more easily imagine her family having something of that sort than Archie. His family are all what my mother calls nouveaux riches.’

  ‘Hmm. Mine would have called it that too, come to think of it. Well that’s certainly given me something to think about. It could link in with my robberies.’

  They said goodbye outside. He wanted to kiss her, she was absolutely sure, and as they ended up with a kind of hybrid handshake-hug, she longed to be in his arms and held safe. She walked home feeling cold, with a growing sense of dread deep inside. How she wanted to cancel the wretched dinner party.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘WHAT A SHAME DIANA isn’t here,’ George said, setting the tray of drinks down on the garden table. ‘I can’t believe it’s turned out so nice today. Spring has well and truly sprung.’ He peered at the jugs on the tray. ‘Let me see, a classic mint julep or daiquiri? Or something of my own invention? Flora, my love?’

  ‘Mint julep, of course,’ she said, stretching out her glass. ‘I don’t know why but since the baby started, I just can’t drink daiquiris like I used to. And I don’t advise anyone to try George’s own concoction. It’s lethal.’

  ‘George, really!’ said her mother sternly.

  Changing the subject hastily
, Flora said, referring back to George’s comment, ‘Everyone’s here except poor Diana. How perfectly rotten to get pneumonia at this time of year. It has been quite damp lately, hasn’t it?’

  Mr and Mrs Manderson both received a tall glass bearing a strange assortment of fruit pieces and curling strips of peel.

  ‘Is there any actual drink in this?’ Mr Manderson peered into his glass.

  A few feet away, and awkwardly propped in a deckchair for the first time in her life, George’s mother, Mrs Cynthia Dulaisne Gascoigne, commented that drinks nowadays seemed to be far more about appearance than the quality of the refreshment they offered. She added, ‘Yes, poor dear Diana. You know, George, what a martyr your sister is to her chest. She has been so ill this past winter, first with bronchitis and then it turned to pneumonia, and really we were so anxious about her, weren’t we, Piers?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Piers Gascoigne de la Gascoigne.

  ‘Of course, she’s over the worst of it now, but so, so weak and run down,’ Mrs Gascoigne continued brightly; she paused to take a sip of her drink, grimaced and set it aside. ‘The doctor absolutely insisted that she needed to right away for a full three months, he said, didn’t he, Piers, she needs to completely relax and convalesce.’

  ‘Hmm,’ repeated her husband, and Dottie felt that he really sounded as if he didn’t care a fig for his daughter’s wellbeing.

  ‘So where has she gone?’ Dottie asked. Mrs Gascoigne was frowning at her husband, but turned a bright smile on Dottie, and Flora beside her.

  ‘Oh! To Scarborough. Yes, the healthy seaside air. She’s gone to stay with her old nanny. So suitable, and of course the old lady is an absolute treasure and was so thrilled to have Diana, for as long as it takes her to fully recover her strength.’