by Caron Allan
‘Ah, well, I – er...’
‘It’s no good pretending, I know you wouldn’t have called on me unless you had to. So, as I said before, what’s up?’
He gave her a grin. ‘I might call on you, especially if I thought your mother might be out.’
‘She’s not,’ Dottie said, ‘she’s upstairs bullying my father who is in bed with a cold.’
‘Ah, oh dear, then I’d better...’
‘Be quick? Yes, you better had.’
‘I was going to say, I’d better ask you to give both your parents my best wishes.’
The door opened.
‘Tea,’ said Janet and she set down a tray. She seemed to take an age to pour out a cup of tea for the inspector only, then she did an odd hybrid bow-curtsey and with cheeks flaming, left the room, leaving Dottie to pour her own drink.
‘I’m sorry there’s no cake,’ Dottie said, ‘Mother’s put Father on a diet, which means none of us gets any treats at the moment.’
‘Never mind,’ he said. He clutched his cup and saucer. Perhaps having something to do with his hands gave him courage for he said, ‘Do you remember when Archie Dunne died?’
Dottie raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d hardly forget,’ she said, seeing it was I who found him bleeding to death on the ground.’
‘Ah, oh yes, indeed. Dreadful business.’ He allowed the clock above the fireplace time to loudly tick four times before saying, ‘I have been wondering if he said anything to you that night. Anything that might have slipped your mind?’
‘No,’ Dottie said, and watched him closely. What on earth did he mean?
‘Oh? And you’re quite, quite sure about that?’
‘Quite sure, thank you. If he’d said anything other than just singing those few words from that song, I would have told you.’
‘Well, if you’re sure...’ he repeated doubtfully.
‘I think I would have remembered,’ she replied somewhat waspishly. Then, curiosity getting the better of her, she added, ‘Why do you ask?’
He poured himself another cup of tea, stirred in milk and one teaspoon of sugar. Her mother wouldn’t like that, Dottie thought, as far as Mother was concerned, the milk absolutely had to go in first. For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. He gulped down at least half his tea before finally saying, ‘If I was to say to you ‘the mantle of God’, what would that mean to you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard that before. What does it mean?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything to you? You’ve never heard anyone say those words?’
She shook her head again. ‘I told you, no.’ She blushed a little as in her mind’s eye she saw a kind of gigantic shelf over a huge fireplace in heaven, and a clock and a few photos in silver frames sitting on the shelf. She pushed the image aside and told him firmly, ‘This is the first time I’ve ever heard those words, and I can’t imagine what they might mean.’
He said nothing, but drank the rest of his tea. Two can play at this game, Dottie thought, and forcing herself to hold back any questions that might be begging to be asked, she sat back in her chair and regarded him in silence. Silence filled the room. Silence and the ticking of that dratted clock on the mantelpiece, she thought. She looked at his face. She saw now how pale he was, and that great hollows lay beneath his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. She poured him another cup of tea, adding milk and sugar as he had done, and passed him the cup and saucer.
‘Tell me about it, if you like,’ she said gently.
He drank his third cup of tea and set down his cup on the table. He ran a hand over his eyes and forehead as if trying to wake himself up. Dottie wondered what he would do if she were to go over to him and sit on his lap and stroke his tired face. But no doubt, she reminded herself sternly, if I did such a ridiculous thing, that is the precise moment Mother would walk into the room, and she’d have forty fits and pack me off to a convent. Dottie remained where she was, her hands neatly folded in her lap.
He cleared his throat. He offered her a crooked smile.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘we’ve got so many cases on at the moment, yet all can I think about is this – this conundrum.’ He sighed again, and she waited. In his own time he would tell her, she realised.
‘I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a policeman,’ he said, and she looked at him in astonishment. Before she could comment he continued, ‘we’ve had a suicide, two armed robberies, an attack on a pr – er – on a good time girl, a domestic battery, a kidnapping and three break-and-enters in the last two weeks. You’d think that would be enough to keep me busy. But no, all I can think about is this.’
He took a small brown envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘It’s quite all right you can open it. You can take out what’s inside.’
She looked inside and saw a tiny scrap of fabric, badly faded, no more than the length of her little finger and only twice or three times the width. There was a line of stitching across one corner. There was also a small piece of paper which had been folded over and over to create a parcel. She smoothed out the paper on the knee of her dress. There were words printed in black ink: ‘the mantle of God.’
She stared at the items, then looked up at him questioningly.
The scrap of material was wrapped inside the piece of paper to make a little package. And this little package was found by the police doctor when he examined the body of Archie Dunne. It was tucked in a pocket on the inside of his evening coat. Officially it’s been set down as ‘of no significant value’ in the investigation. But yet...’ he rubbed his face again, this time with both hands.
‘The mantle of God,’ Dottie repeated, pondering the meaning. ‘Mantle as in a cloak or something? An ancient word for a coat or something similar.’
He nodded. ‘I assume so, but...’
‘Shall I ring for some more tea? Or what about a sandwich? Are you hungry? You look completely...’
‘I’m sorry, I really must be going. Thank you for your time.’
She held out the scrap of fabric and the paper but he shook his head.
‘Will you do me a huge favour? Will you see if you can find out anything about it? I really can’t afford to spend the time on something my superiors have discounted as important. And at the moment I don’t have any free time or I’d try to do some research myself. It’s just – it feels important, or at least, relevant, but I haven’t the proof to justify the manpower or time...’
‘Of course.’
He was on his feet, heading for the door, when he recollected his manners and came back. He shook her hand, then seemingly on impulse, bent to kiss her cheek.
‘Bless you,’ he said, and squeezed her hand before leaving.
Dottie sat down and gazed into space. She felt on the verge of tears, suddenly, and wanted so much to call him back.
Chapter Two
She looked at the fabric again. Going to the window, she studied the scrap in the natural light. The material was badly faded and worn, but here and there were traces of some of the surface.
The scrap felt warm and butter-soft in her hand, and had no great weight or stiffness to it. It was a kind of faded pinky red colour, but here and there in the less-worn places, there was a trace of a deeper red, with more—she couldn’t quite think how to describe the texture—it was denser, plusher.
The stitching was a pale warm colour like that of oatmeal or old stalks of wheat. The stitches were worked close together, with no discernible fabric showing through. At one end of the piece of fabric, where the line of stitching reached the edge, a short length of thread hung loose, perhaps an inch and a half in length.
She sighed. She still knew nothing. It was the kind of scrap that one would normally throw away, or the very thrifty housewife might save to add to the stuffing for a cushion. Insignificant. Worthless. Yet it meant something to William, as she privately called him, and so if it was important to him, she would find out everything she could about it.
; The hall clock chimed the hour, and Dottie, suddenly panicking, swept up the packet he’d given her with the mysterious writing, and ran upstairs to get ready. She had to be at Carmichael and Jennings’ for a later afternoon showing and cocktail party.
She was almost late. A road accident held up the bus she was in, and she sat there, hands gripped tightly in her lap, as the precious minutes ticked by. Inside the bus it was stuffy and musty-smelling. Outside, a chilly rain fell upon the now-dark streets. How she wished it were Spring. She longed for lighter evenings and sunshine.
The bus showed no sign of moving, stuck as it was in a crowd of traffic at a junction. Up ahead, there was shouting and a glare of lights. Dottie brought her thoughts back to the scrap of fabric and the enigmatic words on the paper it had been so carefully wrapped in.
What could it mean, she wondered. The mantle of God. She smiled as she recalled her first mental image of a crowded overmantel. Wrong mantle, she thought. This clearly referred to a garment, not a piece of furniture. But how could God wear an item of clothing.
The bus lurched forward suddenly as the road ahead finally cleared, and it was all she could do not to shout, ‘Hurrah!’
What kind of garment would God wear? She thought of the statues in churches, of the paintings she had seen in galleries and museums.
Usually the Christ-figures in those were shown on the cross, clad only in a modest cloth, or if depicted in other scenes from the Bible, speaking to crowds for example, wearing long robes covered by a cloak...
...a cloak. That had to be it! The cloak. Was this anything to do with the Daughters of Esther and their gold cloaks? Dottie’s thoughts leap from the memory of the gold cloaks to Leonora and her bloody knife, to Susan Dunne, sitting dead in her armchair, her eyes open in horror, her throat open and gushing blood.
Nausea passed over Dottie and she shivered with it. The plump matron beside her patted her knee and said, ‘Never mind, Dearie, we’ll be there in a minute, and you can get yourself warmed up.’
The show went well. Dottie moved and turned mechanically, her mind busy on the puzzle of the fabric, her body well-versed in the movements required to show the gowns and costumes to the small eager group of Mrs Carmichael’s exclusive clients.
Everything went without a hitch, and when the show was over, the food and drink was carried in and set out upon tables in the long room. The mannequins went backstage to change into their ordinary clothes, and the few of them favoured by Mrs Carmichael were invited to join the great lady and her client for the cocktail party.
Dottie, a glass of sherry in her hand, stood in the doorway of the room and wondered where to go. Mrs Carmichael didn’t like her girls to huddle in a corner and chat, they were still at work, so she wanted them to be out in the room, circling and smiling and talking to the clients. Now that the show was over, some of the ladies had been joined by gentlemen, and more than one man looked hopefully in Dottie’s direction.
Avoiding those she already knew to be insufferable, she wandered aimlessly about the room, a smile fixed on her face, occasionally nodding to someone or calling out a non-committal, ‘Good evening, how nice to see you again.’
Mrs Carmichael was in full flow with a group of people, three ladies and a gentleman. One of the ladies was clearly hanging devotedly on Mrs Carmichael’s every word, the others appeared merely polite, not really attending to everything the great woman was saying.
Dottie smiled to herself as she heard Mrs Carmichael’s robust East End tones outlining all the advantages of natural fibres over the new man-made artificial fabrics. Certainly Mrs Carmichael knew her stuff, which was to be expected as she had often told Dottie she started in the business ten years before the Great Victoria had passed away.
A thought now came to Dottie. And she made her way over to join the group. Standing at Mrs Carmichael’s elbow, she seemed to see her boss anew, now recognising for the first time the knowledge and expertise contained behind the vast bosom and the unflattering spectacles that reposed thereupon on a beaded ribbon, ever ready to decipher the ridiculously tiny writing everyone seemed to employ these days.
When there was a lull, and Mrs Carmichael’s admirers had to turn away to greet friends, Dottie said, ‘Mrs Carmichael, please could I have a few moments of your time after the party?’
Mrs Carmichael cast a practised eye over Dottie.
‘Well, you’ve not got yourself into trouble, I know, so you must be going to leave me to get married.’
‘Not at all,’ Dottie responded, blushing furiously, ‘I just want to ask your advice about something.’
Relieved, Mrs Carmichael told her to come to the office once everyone had gone. Pleased about that, and confident she was going to make some progress, Dottie felt lighter and happier, and applied herself vigorously to socialising with the clients and enhancing Mrs Carmichael’s considerable reputation for running a quality establishment of fashion design and costumier to the discerning lady.
Chapter Three
Mrs Carmichael, ushering Dottie into the little windowless room she called her office, began to divest herself of the less comfortable parts of her attire: first, the tight, high-heeled shoes, then the heavy necklace and earrings, then the hat was yanked off and flung on the desk, followed by the silvery stole.
Mrs Carmichael, much lighter and more at ease, sat and invited Dottie to do the same.
‘Takes it out of you, all this socialising. At least it does when you get to my age,’ she told Dottie. She stretched out her stockinged feet with an expression of blissful relief, wiggled her toes and rotated her ankles several times in each direction. ‘Coo, that’s better. My poor feet. The things we do to sell a few frocks.’
Mrs Carmichael waddled over to a drinks cabinet and poured herself a neat gin, then quirked an eyebrow at Dottie who hastily declined.
‘I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you, Dot,’ Mrs Carmichael said as she returned to her chair and sank into it once more with a groan. ‘I can’t tell you how worried I was when you said you wanted to talk to me. I made sure you was going to say you was getting married or had got yourself into trouble.’ She glanced at Dottie’s hot and embarrassed face again. ‘But there, you’re a good girl, and a sensible one. Now I’ve been approached by a big studio. They need some girls to help out. There’s a picture being made, it’s about mannequins who are spies, and all set in the fashion world. I was thinking of you. Oh, it’s all perfectly decent,’ she added, seeing Dottie’s expression, ‘nothing nasty. It’s a proper film, with some well-known people in it.’ She reeled off a few names, and Dottie recognised several. ‘The money will be very good, I should think. They need a couple of girls, as I said, for background scenes, catwalks, a few tasteful dressing room scenes, no nudity, nothing risky. Just girls in outfits patting their hair or putting on lipstick, that sort of thing. What do you say? Shall I put you forward, or do you need to check with Dear Mama?’
Mrs Carmichael was a clever woman. A clever, self-made woman. There was no Mr Carmichael. There never had been. Like many women of her time, she found it expedient to adopt Mrs, it lent an air of respectability and wisdom to her business. She had worked her way up from scullery maid for a designer at age 12—she’d lied about her age—to where she was today: owner of her own fashion house, owner of her own lovely home in a nice area of London, possessor of cars, jewels, furs, servants, a holiday villa on the south coast. All the girls who worked for her, including Dottie, would have been surprised to know she was a self-made millionairess. And nothing could have been better calculated to push Dottie to make the required decision than her last comment. Or do you need to check with Dear Mama.
Dottie, blushing, immediately said, ‘No, of course I don’t. I’ll do it, Mrs Carmichael. Please put my name forward.’ She paused then added, leaning forward, and speaking softly, ‘and you’re quite sure it is perfectly—respectable? I couldn’t do anything...’
‘Nor would I ask you to, Dottie, dear. No, take it from me, it will be p
erfectly respectable. Now I just need to think of one or two more to send them.’
‘Gracie?’ Dottie suggested.
‘Bless you, dear. You haven’t heard, then? Got herself into trouble. The boy from the docks. He’s a bad ‘un too, I told her when she first started seeing him.’
Her face crimson again, Dottie tried to nod sagely, feeling quite proud of herself for discussing such a topic so matter-of-factly. ‘Oh dear, poor Gracie. I wonder what will happen?’
‘Well that mother of hers is a poor stick, so it’s hardly surprising.’ Mrs Carmichael said.
‘Things have been very difficult for Gracie and her family since her father died, it must be two years ago now.’
‘Must be. As you say. Poor Gracie. These girls will fall for a smooth talker who takes ‘em out and splashes the money.’
Mrs Carmichael finished her gin and set the glass aside. She looked at Dottie and said, ‘no young man in your life?’
‘Oh no,’ Dottie replied hastily.
‘Good thing too, don’t want to throw yourself away too young. Not that you’ll need to. Did I hear your sister’s had some good news?’
‘Yes, um—Flora is expecting a baby. She’s delighted, of course. In fact, we all are.’
‘Very nice too. Is she keeping well?’
Dottie affirmed that Flora was well apart from a little nausea now and again. She sensed the time had come. ‘Mrs Carmichael,’ she began, ‘I would like to ask you something. Do you know much about fabric? I mean, not about patterns or fashions, but the material itself?’
‘Well, a bit more than most, I daresay,’ Mrs Carmichael admitted, and her interest was definitely piqued.
Dottie carefully extracted the tiny scrap of fabric from the paper wrapping and held it out to Mrs Carmichael, who took it, and after a glance, laid it on the surface of her desk. She turned on the desk lamp, opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass. She turned the cloth this way and that under the lamp as she examined carefully for several minutes.