by Caron Allan
Hardy sighed. That was the difficult bit.
‘Oh no, not Mrs Carmichael!’ Dottie wailed. ‘How terrible! Oh, poor Mrs Carmichael!’
The initial shock over, Dottie subsided, and sat. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Their mother also seemed shocked to hear of the death. Flora was vaguely aware of surprise. Surely her mother hadn’t known Mrs Carmichael half so well as Dottie, and yet she seemed so very upset.
Hardy had rung the Gascoignes to ask them to break the news for him. ‘I’m very sorry to impose, but I need to ask a favour of you. I’m afraid Mrs Carmichael was killed last night, and I need someone to tell Dottie. I can’t get away for a while yet, and I don’t want her to find out by seeing it in the newspaper, I know how fond of the old lady Dottie is, or rather, was,’ he’d said, and George had wholeheartedly agreed with him. He and Flora had gone to the Mandersons’ first thing in the morning to break the news.
Now as Flora sat watching her sister and her mother, she decided there was little to choose between them in terms of their response to the news.
‘It was supposed to look like an accident,’ Flora said. ‘At least, according to William it was.’
‘Then why is William involved?’ Mrs Manderson asked, and it was only later that Flora realised her mother had used his first name. ‘Surely he is investigating these robberies?’
‘William seems to think there may be a connection as Mrs Carmichael was a guest at some of the homes where there was a robbery. He said he thought she knew something she hadn’t told him.’
Tears were still rolling down Dottie’s cheeks. ‘But what about the warehouse? What about the orders? What about the mannequins and the customers?’
‘I’ve no idea, Dottie, darling,’ said Flora.
The maid came to the door and Hardy gave her his hat and coat, and said he had an appointment with her mistress. He had rung her earlier and found that she had no guests for dinner and could see him that evening.
Mrs Gerard looked up from writing a letter. If she was surprised to see him, or even dismayed at all, she quickly concealed it, very graciously inviting him to take a seat, adding, ‘Please excuse me for a moment, Inspector, I’ll just quickly finish this. You know how hard it is to keep up with one’s correspondence, and I’m afraid this letter to my sister is very overdue. Please ring the bell for tea, there’s a good fellow. Though if you prefer it, you could have something stronger.’
‘Tea is fine for me, thank you.’ He obliged her, then resumed his seat on the sofa facing her. He wondered what she was writing. He owed his own sister a letter, he remembered. Mrs Gerard was right, it was hard to keep up a regular correspondence.
The room was a peaceful one, elegantly decorated in an older style but free of the clutter so fashionable during Mrs Gerard’s younger days. A great book, bound in faded rubbed leather, reposed on a table by the window and as the maid came in with the tray and paused to exchange a few words with Mrs Gerard, Hardy got to his feet and went over to take a look at it.
It was of course a Bible. He carefully opened it, and noticed it was even older than he had imagined. The edges of the pages were yellowed, in some places slightly torn or creased, and the gilt was fading here and there where many hands had touched the book to turn the pages over the decades. Inside the front cover, he was glad to see the family tree he had half-expected to find. Books like this old Bible were handed down through the family and each generation added their own names. Quite literally, their names were entered into the Book. He had only just located Mrs Gerard’s name when she called to him, somewhat sharply, and asked him to join her. No doubt she was afraid he would damage her family heirloom. He closed it with supreme gentleness.
The tea was poured, the maid left the room, taking Mrs Gerard’s sealed letter with her, and the lady of the house turned her attention to Hardy.
‘Now then, Inspector, what can I do for you? I know you wouldn’t simply pay me a social call.’
Her words reminded him of the visit to the Manderson house a few short weeks earlier. ‘I might,’ he had said to Dottie then, hoping she would flirt with him. It seemed to him, he had spent the last few months continually hoping she would flirt with him. Coming back to his work, he smiled at Mrs Gerard.
‘I’m sorry to trouble again. I just wanted to ask you for a few details, if I may. I shan’t take up a lot of your time.’
‘Oh, I have plenty of time for chatting with a charming young man!’ His hostess gave him a broad smile in reply but her eyes remained wary.
‘Well we’ve had a little bit of a breakthrough with these robberies,’ he said. All lies, of course, there’d been no such thing. He actually had nothing but ideas, possibilities, and a great deal of guesswork. ‘And that being the case, I need to verify some of the items of jewellery that have been recovered. I also need the details of your insurance claim, just for my own records, you understand. You know how tedious all this paperwork is, and how one needs to dot every I and cross every T. If I could give half the time I devote to paperwork to the investigation, I’m sure I’d be a lot further on.’
She looked uncomfortable. She congratulated him on his success, but her hands clutched at one another in her lap, trembling and restless.
‘Oh dear, I’m not sure if I can remember...’
‘Just the name of the company would do. I’ll set my sergeant onto finding out their address, so never you mind about that.’
She still hesitated. Just for a moment he thought she was going to refuse outright, but in the end, she said, ‘Well it’s Rainham and Clive, in Holborn. But I haven’t actually made a claim, as I was waiting until the crime was solved and my property recovered.’
Hardy poured himself a second cup of tea, and quirked an eyebrow at her, holding the pot above her cup. She shook her head.
‘Oh no, Inspector, not for me.’
He set the pot down, and with a relaxed, friendly smile, he said, ‘I wish all the witnesses had as much faith in the police as you have, Mrs Gerard. I don’t mind telling you, some people have been very difficult, and they constantly telephone me asking for a report. It takes up so much time.’
They chatted about the weather, and by the time he took his leave, Mrs Gerard was much more relaxed. So much the better, he thought, if she was off her guard.
At the corner of the street, he hailed a cab and got it to take him back to the police station.
Chapter Eighteen
MAPLE WAS HALFWAY THROUGH a sausage roll of gigantic proportions. His feet were on the desk, and on seeing Hardy suddenly appear in the doorway, Maple spluttered and almost fell on the floor.
‘Bill, you blighter, you might warn a bloke!’
Hardy grinned. ‘When you’ve finished your office picnic, I want you to contact an insurance company for me. It’s Rainham and Clive of Holborn. Find out what items Mrs Gerard has insured with them, when, and for how much. Ask if she’s made any claims at all.’ He turned to go to his own office, then paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, and find out if they insure any of the other guests at any of the robberies. Not that I’m expecting they do, it would be too much to hope for.’
‘They’ll be gone home hours ago. Like normal people do,’ Maple protested.
‘Use your initiative, then!’ Hardy called over his shoulder. Maple waited until he could be sure his boss was out of range then said several choice things about what Hardy could do with his initiative.
In his office, Hardy leaned against his desk and looked at the board again. The room was almost in darkness, the light coming through the frosted glass of the grating near the ceiling showed that outside the sky was almost black.
He stayed there, filled with a quiet sense of elation. Things were coming together.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Inside there was the scrap of fabric pressed flat between two pound notes. He took it out and lay it on his desk. Then crossed the room to put on the light.
Blinking in the sudden brilliance, he sat down again
to stare at the tiny piece of cloth and to think about what Dottie had told him. It filled his mind with a new range of possibilities. And the things he already knew, coupled with those new possibilities began to create in his mind a complete and complex picture. He put the scrap away again, then crossed the room and put out the light. He was on the point of leaving but turned to sit back down at his desk in the darkness. There was no one waiting for him at home.
An hour later, Maple found him still sitting there at his desk, completely engulfed in darkness.
‘Thought you’d gone home,’ was the sergeant’s comment. Silence greeted his words. ‘You asleep?’ he asked, louder this time.
‘I know what happened,’ Hardy said softly. ‘I know who, almost. And I know why, more or less. I even know how. Partly. I just need to find the evidence.’
Maple leaned against the frame of the door and let out a long low whistle. ‘So you’ve solved the case, then? Or—you know—you’re getting there. Want to tell me about it?’
‘It’s a bit tentative, but it’s the only way everything makes sense.’
‘Well, life doesn’t usually make sense. I mean, look what’s happening in Europe. So if you’ve got it even half worked out, that’s pretty good. Want to tell me about it?’ he added, for the second time. There was a long silence.
‘Bill?’
Silence again. If he didn’t know otherwise, Maple could have sworn he was addressing an empty room.
‘Bill!’ he said again, sharply.
‘Hmm?’
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘Oh. No. I just want to...’
‘In that case, I’ll get off. I’m taking Janet to the pictures. To see that Desert thing you disliked so much.’
‘Hmm.’
There was a long pause. Then from the doorway, Maple said, ‘Good night, Frank, enjoy your evening, Frank. Give my regards to Janet, Frank.’ After a moment’s pause he added, ‘I’ve left my notes on that insurance query on my desk. It’s not much help, just the one pearl necklace and matching earrings and brooch on their register, as well as a few other small bits and pieces. And she hasn’t even put in a claim for the pearls yet. And since the robbery it’s been, what? Five weeks?’
Thirty seconds later, Hardy looked up from his desk. ‘Hmm?’
The following morning, the director of the London Metropolitan Museum was not a happy man, and Hardy hadn’t even asked him anything yet, apart from explaining the reason for his visit.
The director, a Mr Falke, crossed his office to open the door and speak to the efficient-looking young woman typing at the desk in the little outer room. In heavily accented but very correct English he said, ‘Please bring us refreshments, Miss Walters.’ She made a reply, though Hardy couldn’t make out what she said.
The small errand had given Mr Falke both thinking time and the chance to compose himself. When he returned to sit behind his desk, he had quite obviously come to a decision.
‘May I speak frankly, Inspector?’
Hardy nodded. ‘Please do, Mr Falke.’
‘Dr Melville was offered his position by my predecessor, who resigned due to ill health at the start of this year. I have serious concerns about the veracity of Dr Melville’s qualifications and experience. Not that I have any fault to find with his work, you understand; that has been above reproach. And certainly, his knowledge is extensive. In addition, his exhibitions have brought in a steady stream of visitors to the museum.’
The door opened, and the secretary came in with the tray, which Mr Falke leapt up gallantly to take from her. If his manners were perfectly correct, the smile ‘secretly’ exchanged between the two of them was anything but, Hardy thought. Inwardly he smiled and shook his head at the romantic folly of the human race. Outwardly he preserved an impassive policeman’s stare.
‘And yet you’re not satisfied?’ Hardy prompted once the door had closed once again and the director had returned to his seat.
Mr Falke leaned his elbows on the desk and stretched his long neck forward to gaze at Hardy beseechingly. ‘I just don’t know what to do. Rumours have reached me of dishonest dealings and I’ve noticed for myself how often Melville is absent during work hours. Oh, he always has the reasons, I must have just missed him, he had to run to some department or other on an urgent matter, or he had to meet with a benefactor who wishes to make a donation to the museum. But there is something wrong here. Not financially, I don’t mean that. I am talking of artefacts, potential exhibits. Treasures, if you will.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you take milk or lemon in your tea, Inspector?’
‘Milk, please.’
‘A deplorable English habit, but one which I’m afraid I have grown to enjoy.’
‘Where are you from originally, Mr Falke? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Not at all. I am from Austria. I came here originally to study history at Oxford, that was in 1913. I met my lovely wife there, and so I stayed. Sadly, she passed away two years ago. But yes, I stayed on after my degrees. All through the last war.’
‘That must have been difficult for you.’
‘It was difficult for everyone, Inspector. No doubt you are too young to remember. But mark my words, it will happen again.’
‘So you are not admirer of the new German Chancellor?’
‘Hmm. That little man. Inspector, I tell you now, he is a warmonger and a villain. And if I were still in my native land, I would doubtless be shot just for saying so. I’m very much afraid there will soon be another ‘war to end all wars’. Until we humans can change fundamentally, we will always be at war.’
It was a pessimistic view, but one that coincided very closely with Hardy’s own. ‘Wars and rumours of war,’ he said softly. The director nodded sadly.
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘There are certainly a lot of changes going on over there.’
‘Yes, and not for the better. This new camp now, that is most definitely not a good thing, and there will doubtless be more to follow. I believe Herr Hitler wishes to send his piggies to market.’
Hardy didn’t understand. Possibly his confusion showed in his face, because Falke said in a hushed voice, ‘It is just my little joke, Inspector. And not a very good one either. Because you see, we Jews do not eat the pork sausages, and this camp that Herr Hitler has created, it is really just a slaughterhouse. Just you wait and see.’
He handed Hardy his tea. Silence stole over the room. Hardy was thinking about what the man had said, and comparing it to what he had read in the newspapers. He had a sense of unease in the pit of his stomach. Could there really be another European war? Surely not. And yet...
They might have been two friends talking politics and philosophy in any gentleman’s club. Hardy would have liked to stay longer, to discuss other topics. There was something about Mr Falke that reminded him of his tutors at Oxford, and he welcomed the half-forgotten stimulus to his intellect.
Mr Falke cleared his throat and brought Hardy back to the present. ‘The good Dr Melville, now. I have grave doubts that he is genuinely a doctor of any kind. I have written to Edinburgh university to check, but I have not yet had their reply.’
‘Surely he gave references?’
‘Indeed. But I find that one reference was from Melville’s own aunt.’
Hardy sat forward. ‘Would that be a Mrs Gerard, by any chance?’
If Mr Falke was surprised, he didn’t bother to show it, but merely nodded. ‘It would. And the other referee, who spoke so highly of Dr Melville’s curation of his private collection, is in fact a family friend. And so you see...’
‘A Mr Smedley-Judd, perhaps?’
Mr Falke’s smile was a bitter one. ‘The fact that you know their names seems to confirm my worst fears.’
‘I’m afraid that seems rather likely, Mr Falke.’
The secretary tapped and put her head round the door. ‘Inspector? I’ve had a call from the police station asking for you to go back as s
oon as possible. A Sergeant Maple says to tell you ‘we’ve got Daphne’s bag’, I do hope that makes sense?’
‘That makes perfect sense, yes, thank you very much.’
Hardy left a few minutes later, and he had a lot to think about. Mr Falke, shaking Hardy’s hand, promised to let him know what he heard from Edinburgh university. But no news could compare to the excitement he felt knowing that Daphne Medhurst’s handbag had been found.
Back at the police station, Hardy looked at the handbag. He quickly reread the statement from the policeman who’d found it concealed by dustbins behind a shop, not fifty yards from the alleyway where Daphne Medhurst had been killed.
His initial annoyance and sense of failure that his men had not found the bag sooner was somewhat ameliorated by the fact that the shopkeeper had been having some work done the day Daphne’s body had been discovered, and there had been workmen, tools and materials all over the yard behind the shop that day, making access impossible, although the night before, at the time of the crime, it had been only too accessible.
So that explained that. They hadn’t been incompetent, merely unlucky. Relieved, Hardy smiled at the little diagram the policeman had provided, copied from the original one in his notebook. It showed just where all the contents of the bag had been found scattered, and their position in relation to the bag itself. A lipstick and powder compact were shown as being a foot or so to the north, a small diary-address book to the south. On the north-west side, there had been a small amount of loose change, whilst the south-west was the site of the empty purse, and a handkerchief, still bearing the outline of Daphne Medhurst’s painted mouth.
The illustration included a partial footprint, which was unfortunately plain and ordinary, with no distinguishing characteristics. Still, Hardy gave the young man ten out of ten for effort, and felt certain it wouldn’t be long before the bright youngster was in plain clothes.
The lining of the bag had been ripped out, shredded into tatters of frayed artificial silk of a rather bright pink. The bag was a small one, for evening use, decorated with probably hundreds of tiny black beads, and with a flimsy narrow chain for a handle. Not an expensive item, but Hardy knew how important bags were to women. This one had clearly been thoroughly searched for something. And Hardy had a good idea what that something might be.