by Caron Allan
‘Right,’ Hardy said, unable to disguise his sense of triumph, ‘We’ve got him! We’re going to the London Metropolitan Museum.’
‘Day trip or work?’
‘Work, of course. I’m going to make your day.’
‘Ooh, are we arresting that idiot Melville?’
‘We are,’ Hardy confirmed with a grin.
The London Metropolitan Museum had closed by the time they arrived. But Maple pounded on the door until the night-watchman, pulling out a cosh, came to threaten them with the police. At that point Hardy pulled out his warrant card and the night-watchman, red-faced, let them in.
The defiance went out of James Melville as soon as he looked up and saw them at his door. In Melville’s office, Hardy pulled out a drawer at random, and was pleasantly surprised by what he found there. Pulling out his ever-useful handkerchief, he took careful hold of the item and held it up.
Melville glanced at the object then turned away, briefly closing his eyes and giving a small involuntary shake of the head.
‘I assume this is not yours?’ Hardy asked. Melville said nothing, trying to back away, but Maple was there, solid and blocking the whole of the doorway. ‘I think you probably intended to dispose of it, and then you forgot, didn’t you?’ Hardy continued with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Out of sight, out of mind, don’t they say? I’m the same. Always forget the little details.’
He opened the catch, still with the handkerchief wrapped around his hand, fumbling with it and wondering how women managed to open and shut their bags with one hand and without even looking. He got it open, and peered inside.
The first thing he saw was her purse. The second thing he saw was his own handkerchief, given to her months ago, and now laundered and pressed and lying at the bottom of the bag. A soft warmth stole over him. He looked at Maple.
‘Arrest him for the mugging of Miss Dorothy Manderson. There may be further charges relating to his involvement in armed robbery and also three charges of murder.’
‘Now wait a minute...!’ Melville shouted, but was marched away, protesting all the while. Maple had Melville by the arm and was stating the caution. But Hardy didn’t hear. He turned his attention back to the bag.
The lining had been ripped out, just as it had in Daphne Medhurst’s handbag. The only difference here was that Dottie was—mercifully—still alive. The various items were also still all there inside the bag.
In the drawer there were two further items of interest. One was a tiny pot of make-up. The other was a large piece of undyed silk wrapped around something soft.
As soon as he began to unwrap the silk folds, he knew what it contained. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he could feel goosebumps prickling his forearms. With the utmost care he spread it out on Melville’s desk. He didn’t realise he was holding his breath.
It was a large square of fabric—actually not quite square—there was a slight curve to one side, and neat stitching along that length told Hardy that it was, in fact, a hem. He rotated the fabric, and now he could make sense of the picture. Two figures knelt in prayer beside a tree. At the base of the tree and running in front of the figures, was a narrow river, worked in tiny pearls which glistened in the electric light. The fruits on the tree were undoubtedly rubies. The hair was stitched with gold thread, and the stitching went first in one direction, then in another, creating the effect of waves of hair. Rubies and emeralds adorned the garments, whilst sapphires made their eyes. And beside the tree, curling suggestively around the gold-worked trunk, was the dark form of a snake, its tongue forked menacingly and even after all these hundreds of years, still glittering with silver strands.
The mantle of God.
Hardy felt a strange and almost overwhelming emotion wash over him. He felt awestruck, yes, by the resilience of the delicate and very fine workmanship, and that this section of the garment had survived. But through all of that, was his sudden desire to protect the mantle at all costs. Even if it cost him his life. It wasn’t just a bit of old cloth, it was—a symbol. He just wasn’t quite sure what it represented to him.
Most of the surface of what Dottie had told him was probably velvet had gone long ago. In several places the fabric was worn right through to the base warp, threadbare. Yet here and there a glorious emerald green shone out, vibrant and still alive, more than six hundred years after it was first commissioned and created.
With a sigh, Hardy wrapped it up again with the greatest care. Debating what to do with it next, and recalling the heavy rain outside, he pressed it as carefully as he could into Dottie’s handbag, and with that under his arm, he took a last look around the room, and then left, snapping off the light and closing the door on James Melville’s little empire.
‘Where’s the last piece of the mantle?’ was Hardy’s question, and it was clear from the look on Melville’s face that it was an unexpected one.
Melville had intended to remain silent, but ignoring his solicitor, he leaned forward, his elbows on the table. The tattoo, no longer covered with make-up, was clearly visible, and it did indeed say ‘Duke St.’ Hardy now knew that Dr James Melville, really just plain Jimmy McKay, had spent two years incarcerated for theft, at Duke Street prison in Glasgow.
Melville said, ‘What do you know about the mantle?’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it? I’m sure you’d welcome the chance to show us what you know, Dr Melville.’
‘I could have been a doctor. I’ve done enough research, all meticulously conducted within the ethical and procedural guidelines of the universities of both Oxford and Edinburgh. But it was my background, you see. It tells against me. Oh, it’s all perfectly acceptable on my mother’s side—but my father, oh dear me no. A simple dockyard worker, hers for one glorious weekend, leaving her with me as a little memento, before returning to his wife. And then of course, there’s my little falling out with the law in my younger days. So no, all in all, not quite the right kind of person to be awarded a professorship, in spite of my academic achievements.’
‘No one could doubt either your knowledge or your commitment to your studies,’ Hardy said. ‘Even Mr Falke said he had nothing to fault in your professional ability.’
‘That weasel!’ Melville snarled. ‘Always sniffing around, trying to find out what I was up to. What research has he ever carried out, that’s what I’d like to know!’ He realised he was getting too loud, for he halted abruptly and took a sip from his glass of water before continuing in a quieter voice. ‘Aye, well, they were happy times, this last couple of years at the museum. I suppose I knew it wouldn’t last forever.’
‘And the mantle?’ Hardy repeated gently.
‘Well, my aunt Mrs Gerard has one piece, the top back section. And Ian Smedley-Judd has another, the left front. I have the third piece no doubt you’ve found it, and some people in Hertfordshire have another. We’re not sure where the fifth piece is, we’ve looked everywhere we could think of.’
‘And when you say you’ve looked everywhere, you mean you’ve searched the houses where the robberies that you were involved in, took place?’
Melville gave Hardy a knowing look. Hardy realised he should have been more subtle. Why would Melville compromise himself at this stage? Hardy realised he should have led around to the robberies more carefully, he might have got more out of Melville if he had. But there was one piece of information he had that Melville didn’t know. He leaned forward to say, with genuine sympathy, ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that your aunt Mrs Gerard took her own life last night. She was found dead this morning by her butler, Mr Aitchison.’
For a moment no one spoke, nothing moved. Time seemed to stand still as Melville absorbed this information. Colour drained slowly from his face. In a voice scarcely more than a whisper he said, ‘She’s dead?’
Hardy nodded. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t make a thing like that up. I can allow your solicitor to take some time to confirm it for you if you wish.’
‘How?’
>
‘Sleeping pills.’
Melville heaved a long slow sigh, and stared at his hands folded on the table in front of him. After another moment he said, more to himself than anyone else, ‘Auntie Millie is dead.’
‘I’m afraid she left a very full account before she died,’ Hardy felt almost guilty at giving him this information, yet he wasn’t manipulating Melville: it was the truth, after all, and Melville had a right to know. He saw from his expression that Melville knew exactly what the implication of that information was. He sat up straight in the chair and Hardy knew he was about to hear Melville’s confession.
The solicitor, clearly sensing the shift in the room, leaned forward to whisper something to Melville, who shook his head impatiently. Melville responded by answering Hardy’s previous question.
‘I admit I have searched all those houses where the robberies took place, and a few others besides. I admit I was involved in the robberies. And I also admit I attacked Miss Manderson, which I deeply regret. I am very glad she suffered no serious injury. Other than that, I have never hurt anyone.’
‘You held people at gunpoint. Elderly people, pregnant women, young people. You held Dottie at gunpoint.’
‘True.’ Melville bit his lip. ‘I would never have hurt her. Or anyone else.’
‘You would never have hurt her? You mugged her in the street and left her lying on the pavement! And what about Daphne Medhurst?’
‘That wasn’t me. It was that ass Smedley-Judd.’
‘Which one?’
‘The youngster, Gareth. The stupid one.’
‘And Muriel Carmichael? What about the young police constable shot at the Mandersons’ house? He was only twenty-one, he had his whole life ahead of him.’
Melville was clearly shaken. But his response was short. ‘The same.’
The solicitor, a look of alarm on his face, hurriedly interposed. ‘I’d like some time in private with my client. I’m afraid I really must insist.’
Melville gave him a scornful glance. ‘I’m going to tell them everything. What’s the point now of keeping anything back? I just need you to keep me from the gallows. I didn’t kill anyone, or even hurt them.’
Maple produced his ink bottle and pen, and laid the statement form on the desk in front of him, then Dr James Melville began his confession. It was fast approaching ten o’clock in the morning. They worked all through lunch and tea. At last by six o’clock, and at length, with every I dotted and every T crossed, Hardy felt he could finally leave.
Chapter Twenty
THERE WERE NOT MANY mourners at the graveside as Daphne Medhurst was laid to rest. Her father was there, of course, looking shrunken and aged, his expression one not of grief but of confusion, as if he couldn’t understand how his daughter came to be lying under the ground in a pine box.
His sister had travelled up from Southsea, and she was there only to support her brother, Hardy quickly determined. Her mouth was set in a line, her jaw tense, and at every stage her hand was on the Major’s arm, guiding and consoling. The police were represented by Hardy and Maple, the two of them together forming a substantial percentage of the total number of mourners, as the only others in attendance besides the vicar were Mr and Mrs Manderson, with Dottie and Flora.
It was a miserable service. A fine spring morning, the sun shone, the sky was blue, daffodils bobbed vivid heads here and there. Halfway through the final prayer, a squirrel scampered over to look at what was going on and sat observing them for several minutes. If the weather was anything to go by, it should have been an occasion for happiness.
They struggled through a stretched-thin version of Abide With Me, and then it was all mercifully over. Miss Medhurst led her brother away to a waiting taxi. She’d already thanked everyone for coming before the service started, and had made it clear that they would not be invited to return to the Major’s house for refreshments afterwards.
‘He’s not at all well,’ she confided to Hardy. ‘I’m going to take him back with me right away. We’ll get someone to sort out everything at the house later. I just need to get him away.’
The Major, as biddable as a child, looked vaguely round then at a soft word from her, got into the taxi and they drove away.
Hardy felt the weight of Daphne’s death hanging about his shoulders.
Maple murmured something about getting off, and Hardy nodded. In another cemetery across the city, another service was about to take place, this time for Constable Daniel Paige, only twenty-one years of age and killed in the line of duty. The commissioner and the assistant commissioner had promised to attend and offer the Met’s sympathies to the young man’s mother and father. There were already plans for a special honour to be posthumously awarded.
‘Bill,’ Flora’s voice cut into his reverie, and he felt a slight surprise at her addressing him so informally. Not that he minded at all. ‘Will you come back to our house for coffee and sandwiches? You can’t go straight back to work without any lunch.’
He was so tempted to accept. His stomach growled, though mercifully not loudly enough for anyone else to hear. Dottie was watching him, and he oh-so-nearly accepted Flora’s offer. But he had Ian Smedley-Judd in a holding cell. He needed to get back. He made his apologies and turned away before Dottie’s smile and her lovely eyes persuaded him to follow her to the ends of the earth.
Dottie watched him go with something approaching rage. She couldn’t make him out, as she told her sister at the first available opportunity.
‘One minute he’s my best friend, holding my hand and telling me things about the investigation and looking as though he wanted to kiss me, then in the very next he’s ignoring me and rushing off!’
Laughing and shaking her head at Dottie’s temper, Flora said, ‘Dottie, darling! You know how busy he is. And it’s such a responsible job. He can’t just do what he wants all the time. He’s got to find out who did these terrible things.’
‘He already knows that!’ Dottie exclaimed. ‘So why can’t he simply arrest them and then come and take me out dancing?’
‘Does he dance?’ Flora asked. Dottie frowned.
‘If he doesn’t, he’d better soon learn. I’m not marrying a man who can’t—or won’t—dance.’
Flora laughed again. ‘Oh, so we’re planning our wedding now?’
‘I’ve got to marry him,’ Dottie grumbled, ‘it’s the only way I’ll ever see anything of him.’
‘Good afternoon, it’s Inspector Davies here, of the Hertfordshire Police. We had the pleasure of you chaps paying us a visit a couple of weeks ago. I’ve got something I think you’re going to like.’
Hardy smiled. Not that his colleague at the other end of the line could see it, of course. ‘What is it, Inspector? Please tell me you’ve just solved my case for me.’ His case was coming together well, but he was always ready for more good news. After being up half the night all he wanted was to close the case and get something to eat and then get some sleep.
‘I wish I could, old chap. But we might be able to give you a hand. We went to Smedley-Judd’s to follow up on some of that information you sent us, and what do you think? While we were there, the London brother’s butler rang up from Kensington and thinking my sergeant was the other butler, told him that Ian Smedley-Judd, Mrs Gerard and the Scot had been arrested, that the police knew everything, and that if Mr Gareth knew what was good for him, he’d clear out to South America while the coast was clear.’ Inspector Davies paused to draw breath, adding somewhat ruefully, ‘We brought Mr Gareth in on the strength of that, but he’s not saying anything, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Hardy told him. ‘Just tell him you don’t need him to talk as his brother has already told us everything, that Gareth was the mastermind behind the whole thing, the robberies and the three murders. That should get him talking. There’s nothing like a bit of sibling rivalry to loosen the tongue. Oh and, let him know Mrs Gerard has killed herself, and left a signed confession.’
‘Is that tru
e?’ Davies sounded excited.
‘Oh yes,’ Hardy said, ‘the last bit’s true. Not the bit about his brother. He hasn’t said a word either, up to now at least. I think he’ll tell us plenty now he knows we’ve got his little brother. But Mrs Gerard did kill herself in the early hours of yesterday morning, and she left a note which explicitly states that the Smedley-Judds and Melville were members of the gang. That’s all perfectly true.’
‘What’s that?’ Ian Smedley-Judd asked. Hardy had just placed a small brown envelope on the table as he sat down opposite Smedley-Judd and his solicitor. A lot of the bluster had gone out of the prisoner since their conversation the day before, Hardy noticed. The stubble and lank hair made the stockbroker look a lot less imposing than was customary, and his cheeks were pale. Perhaps that was what a night in police custody did for you? Or possibly it was just the terrible food.
‘It’s something from your special art collection room,’ Hardy said.
‘That room’s empty,’ Smedley-Judd replied. His voice held a triumphant note.
‘It is now,’ Hardy said, unruffled. ‘I’m sure you thought you’d covered your tracks. But I found this,’ he patted the envelope. ‘It’s not much, but taken with everything else we have, I’m sure it will be enough to ensure you pay the ultimate price for what you’ve done.’
‘And what precisely has my client done, I’d very much like to know, Inspector.’ The solicitor imbued the title with as much distaste as possible. His complacency irked Hardy, and suddenly, and for the first time, he felt glad that fate had ensured he ended up on this side of the interview table, instead of on the other, defending snakes like Smedley-Judd or Melville.