by Caron Allan
Beneath the book shelves, on both the right and the left-hand walls of the room, were many, many shallow drawers, some half-open and stuffed with envelopes and packets from which spilled threads, ribbons, small samples and great swathes of fabric, all labelled in the same small, neat hand. Dottie was about to pick one up to get a better look, when Melville’s voice suddenly bellowed:
‘Don’t touch that, it’s priceless!’
Jumping half out of her skin and biting back the retort that perhaps, in that case, it ought to be more carefully stored, she instead offered an apologetic smile and folded her hands in front of her.
He turned back to the microscope and said, ‘Hmm,’ once more. Then queried, ‘Where did you say you found this, again?’
Flora stifled a yawn. Caught off-guard, Dottie wracked her brains to think of something plausible. ‘Er, well I didn’t say. I—er—that is to say, we—um...’ She directed a look of sheer panic at Flora, shaking her head as if to say, I don’t know what to tell him.
‘We came across it in our granny’s attic. She recently passed away and we’ve been clearing out the house so it can be sold,’ Flora said, and she managed to inject a note of boredom into her tone that was not entirely fictitious. Not for the first time, Dottie wondered whether she should be concerned over her sister’s ability to lie so convincingly and without the least qualm.
‘I see. Just this tiny scrap? On its own?’ He sounded politely disbelieving.
‘It was part of a larger piece of fabric,’ Flora said.
‘How large exactly?’ He turned to stare at Flora with those beautiful blue eyes. Dottie had the feeling he was still peering through the microscope at a specimen, trying to discover its secrets.
‘It’s hard to say,’ Flora hedged, ‘it’s so dark in granny’s attic. And it was amongst lots of bits and bobs in a trunk.’
‘Hmm,’ he said and turned away.
There was another long silence. Dottie’s attention was beginning to wander again. She looked at the desk beside the table which bore the microscope. It was a very neat desk. No typewriter, no papers, no photographs of a loving wife or doting parents. There was a neatly folded length of black silk, and a pair of dressmaker’s shears. It was the only tidy space in the whole room.
He straightened and turned away from the microscope. ‘I’d like to keep this, if I may, and run some tests.’
‘What kind of tests?’ Dottie asked.
‘Oh, well it’s rather complicated to explain to the layperson,’ he told her with a patronising smile, ‘but to put it simply, I shall combine microscopic samples of the cloth with various solutions, and these will help me to learn more about the nature of the fabric.’
‘But surely...’ Flora began, and at the same time, Dottie said, ‘But surely that will destroy this piece of fabric?’
There was an odd still moment that seemed to stretch between them like a taut wire. No one spoke, or even seemed to breathe. Then he looked from one to the other of them and he flashed Dottie another smile, this time more charming, ‘Well yes, but at least then we’ll know what it is. You still have the rest of the fabric in granny’s attic, after all.’ His tone was gentle, persuasive, almost teasing. Dottie felt like an unreasonable child.
‘But I don’t want...’
‘Look, you asked me to help you,’ he said with a touch of asperity, ‘that’s all I’m trying to do.’ He raked a hand through his floppy fringe.
‘I realise that,’ Dottie said in a small voice, ‘and I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I don’t want you to cut this up into tiny pieces. I thought you’d just take one look at it and say, ‘oh yes, that’s 18th century Indian cotton’, or something like that. I don’t want it destroyed.’
‘You’ve got the rest of the fabric,’ he pointed out again, and his tone was sharp with annoyance. Dottie felt herself blushing. She felt embarrassed for having taken up his valuable time with her childish errand then refusing his help when he offered it.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said repeated, ‘please let me have it back. I’m afraid we have to go now.’
He stared at her for a few seconds, jaw clenched and lips pressed together. Dottie felt he was going to be very angry, but finally he simply took a little inward breath, then smiled and said, ‘Certainly,’ and he removed the scrap from the microscope slide and put it into her hand.
She felt an unaccountable relief to put the scrap back into its paper and safely away in her handbag.
Without quite noticing how, she realised they were walking along the dark hallway again, back to the public gallery of the museum and as he held the door open for them, he smiled once again, and in a warm, friendly voice, said, ‘Do forgive me, I’m afraid we academics are rather prone to getting wrapped up in our work and have a tendency to forget about social pleasantries. I’m afraid I got a little carried away. Sorry for trying to cut up your fabric—I forgot myself there for a moment.’
There in the brightly lit colourful gallery, it was easy to relax and feel that she had imagined that odd moment in his office. Dottie smiled back at him and told him he was forgiven. Flora was looking at some royal robes in a nearby glass case, and when she ventured a comment about them, he hurried to her side to explain. Dottie drifted after him.
He really was so very—intense. Physically attractive, yes, but on top of that he had a kind of magnetism that sparked her interest. He turned, caught her staring at him, and she blushed and turned away. For another ten minutes they followed him around as he pointed out some of his favourite exhibits. As they were about to leave, he held out his hand to Flora who shook it, and then to Dottie, who did the same, but he trapped her hand between both of his and said, ‘I’m really so sorry about my madness earlier. Please let me make it up to you. Will you allow me to take you to dinner?’
Surprised, flushed, Dottie answered a shy ‘yes’, and gave him her address and telephone number which he scribbled down in a tiny notebook with an even tinier pencil stub, then he promised to call for her the following Wednesday at seven o’clock.
‘Well!’ said Flora, when they reached the chilly street.
‘Oh dear!’ Dottie groaned, ‘do you think I should have declined?’
‘Don’t be silly, he’s gorgeous!’ Flora told her with a laugh, ‘even if he is a bit—how did he put it? Academic?’
‘Hmm,’ Dottie said, wrinkling her nose. ‘I can’t picture him making polite conversation with Mother, can you?’
‘It’s only dinner,’ Flora reminded her. ‘You don’t have to marry him. You realise we still know nothing about that dratted bit of fabric?’
‘It’s odd,’ Dottie said coming back to her main concern, ‘As I said in there just now I really thought that, being an expert, he would take one look at it and immediately know exactly what it was. I really thought he would just shrug and say ‘oh yes that’s cotton from somewhere-or-other’ and that would be it. But no, he had to try and turn it into a chemistry experiment.’
‘Your face! I thought you were going to slap him, or burst into tears, or wrestle him to the ground for it. I hate to think how possessive you’ll be over something really important, like a baby or a wedding ring!’
Dottie halted in the street, and had to apologise to two people who cannoned into her. She bit her lip. ‘I wish I hadn’t said I’d have dinner with him.’
‘Don’t be silly, he’s very charming when he puts his mind to it. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time, and if you don’t, well, you don’t need to see him again.’
‘But...’
‘Dottie! Come along, and stop worrying. It’s only one dinner. Dinner with an extremely handsome—and, no doubt, interesting—man.’
‘I know,’ Dottie said, and they continued on their way. It was only dinner, that was all. Not a life-sentence. She would have to keep reminding herself.
William Hardy was on his way out the front door of the police station when a call came through to the front desk and the duty sergeant called him bac
k.
Hardy leaned against the tall counter with a sigh and waited for the sergeant to write down the particulars and end the call.
‘Another robbery?’ Hardy said as soon as the sergeant had hung up the receiver.
‘Yes sir. Kensington. Here’s the address. The home of Mr Ian Smedley-Judd. Stockbroker. Was having a dinner party; said they’d barely had time to take their seats when masked men burst in, holding them at gunpoint and demanding all their valuables. Said the men left within ten minutes of their arrival. All very polished and well-rehearsed.’
‘They would be, it’s not the first of these we’ve had. Right, call Maple and get him to meet me there. And as many uniformed constables as you can find.’
‘And the fingerprint chappie?’
‘Yes, though I doubt he’ll find anything. It seems all criminals these days know to wear gloves. It’s such a shame there are so many novels to teach crooks how to run the show!’ Hardy began to turn away and then turned back to offer a wry grin to the desk sergeant. ‘And please telephone to my mother and let her know I won’t be home for dinner.’
The sergeant sketched him a salute. ‘Very good sir. I’m afraid this latest bunch don’t much care if people get their dinner.’
‘No, indeed. And I don’t know which is worse, the robbery they’ve committed or them keeping me from my evening meal. Goodnight Sergeant.’
Mr Smedley-Judd resided in a rather lovely part of Kensington: quiet, leafy, close to the park, far from the unsightly slums and the docks. The residence was an imposing one, built over six floors, including a basement of kitchens and storerooms, and an attic full of servants’ quarters. Even in the gloom of a late winter’s evening, the house shone startling white, the doors and windows the easily picked-out rectangles of a child’s drawing.
A butler opened the front door as soon as the inspector knocked, and made none of the usual difficulty of suggesting the police officer should avail himself of the tradesmen’s entrance. Clearly the evening’s events had shattered the butler’s customary placid confidence.
‘Come in, come in, Inspector, you’re a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you.’ He was already halfway along the hall, leaving the front door wide open. He collected himself, and pushing past Hardy, hurried back to close it. ‘Forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on,’ he said with a worried smile. ‘What a thing. Come this way, come this way, sir.’
‘My men will be arriving any time now,’ Hardy said, ‘along with our fingerprint expert. I hope I can count on everyone being amenable.’
‘Oh definitely. You’ll have no trouble from anyone, sir, I guarantee it. Come this way, Mr Smedley-Judd said he would see you immediately.’
The carpet was thick and quite new, and in a deep shade of peacock-blue that was a little over-bright for Hardy’s more conservative sense of style. All the walls appeared to be in good decorative order. A few paintings hung on the walls, spaced out neatly where only forty years earlier, a Victorian taste would have crowded in many, many more. Altogether the home gave the impression of comfort and wealth without ostentation.
The sound of voices came from a large room on his immediate right, but the butler, who told Hardy his name was Morris, led him further along the hall and in through a doorway on the left, behind the main staircase.
It was a modest but attractive study. Here again the décor was immaculate, and of superior quality. Well-polished wood gleamed, the glass of cabinet doors and lamps were shining and streak-free, and the leather of the chairs looked waxed and supple. One man was seated behind the wide expanse of a desk, and another man stood nearby. They were talking, and drinking brandy from lovely crystal glasses.
‘Inspector Hardy, sir,’ the butler announced and withdrew.
‘Ah Inspector. I’m so glad to see you.’ The man behind the desk got to his feet. ‘I’m Ian Smedley-Judd. And this is my brother Gareth.’
‘How do you do, sir. And you, sir,’ Hardy said. Reassured by Hardy’s ‘one of us’ accent, Smedley-Judd shook Hardy’s hand then resumed his seat and invited Hardy to take a seat too. Gareth Smedley-Judd pulled over another chair for himself, and sat. Hardy noticed the strong family resemblance between the brothers in spite of an age difference of probably ten years or more. Hardy said, ‘So tell me what happened.’
‘Well Inspector, I had invited a few friends and business acquaintances to the house for dinner this evening, and just after seven-thirty, we took our seats in the dining room, and before the soup was even served, five men rushed in and held us all at gunpoint. They demanded our valuables. Everything happened so quickly. They made us hand over cigar cases, rings, pocketbooks; the ladies had to give up their necklaces and other jewellery. Then, with two of the men holding guns on us, and one guarding the doorway, the other two swine went around the house, helping themselves to other things. My wife’s jewellery box, my daughter’s, a few small paintings, some silver and gold items.’
Hardy glanced around the room, and noted two places where empty nails indicated a small missing picture. The crucifix was still in place above the bookcase on the back wall of the study. Ian Smedley-Judd had broken off to take a sip of his brandy. Now he added, ‘The footman tried to call the police but one of the robbers caught him and coshed him. There’s a doctor with him now.’
‘No one else was hurt?’
‘No. And I’m jolly grateful for it. Thank God they only coshed the footman, I half-expected them to shoot the poor fellow.’
‘And then they left?’
‘Yes, out the back, through the service yard. Gone before any of us reached the gate.’
‘Well thank you, sir. I’m afraid there will be quite a lot of rather tedious questions for you and your guests to answer, but I promise you, we will do everything in our power to catch the men who did this and hopefully to restore your property to you.’
‘That’s the second time within a month it’s happened,’ Smedley-Judd said. ‘Oh, not here. There was a robbery at my brother’s house three weeks ago, same circumstances. Exactly the same situation. Shouldn’t be at all surprised if it wasn’t the same villains too.’
‘Really?’ Hardy said. ‘I haven’t heard of it.’
Gareth Smedley-Judd lit a cigarette. ‘You wouldn’t have, old chap,’ he said, ‘Different police force. We come under Hertfordshire Police. I live just outside Hitchin.’
‘I’ll contact them, sir,’ Hardy promised. ‘We may be able to assist one another in this. And now sir, I’d like to speak with your guests.’
It was almost six hours later that Hardy finally reached his home. In the kitchen, the fire had long been banked up for the night, and his food was covered by a cloth and left on top of the range. The food looked rather the worse for wear. Then with a powerful sense of gratitude he saw that either his sister or his mother had put ready a tray of sandwiches with a huge slice of cake and a thermos flask of hot tea.
When he finally went up the stairs to his bed, it was half past two. As he came out of the bathroom, his mother was there on the landing, tying her dressing gown about her, her face an expression of concern. She kissed his cheek.
‘Is everything all right, dear?’
‘Yes, Mother. Just a robbery. Nothing for you to worry about. Thank you for the sandwiches, I was very pleased to see those. But you shouldn’t have troubled to get up, I’m going to bed myself now, I’m all in. Good night.’
His bed springs creaked as he sat on the side of the bed and pulled off shoes and socks, then his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. He thought of looking out of the window to see the moon which was full, but it was too much of an effort, and without undressing further, he lay down, and immediately his thoughts plunged down into darkness and sleep.
Chapter Four
AS IT WAS GROWING LIGHT, Hardy stirred in his sleep. A foreboding enveloped him, and he knew a new day had dawned, a new working day that yawned ahead, tedious, unending, exhausting. And worse still, he knew with a sinking feeling that when he opened his eyes, the
face that, in his dream, had smiled at him from the pillow beside his own, would be gone. He would be alone. He kept his eyes closed for a few moments longer. The alarm had not yet gone off so he knew he could afford a few more minutes to lie there and attempt to recall the vivid colours and emotions that were his only when he slept. The coming of day chased away romance, passion and the sense of someone warm and near, someone who loved him.
Before the money had run out and his father had died, William Hardy had gone to Oxford to study law. His future, as he had imagined it back then in those arrogant, rose-tinted days, had consisted of comfort, wealth, status, late breakfasts, long lunches, and rounds of golf with friends, with perhaps the odd appearance in a sensational court case which would bring him the respect and admiration of his peers. It had not entailed getting up shortly after dawn, of working twelve, fifteen or sometimes even eighteen hours a day, often seven days a week, nor the worry of trying to make ends meet. Of ensuring bills were paid on time, or of the guilt he felt at the hardships his mother and sister suffered daily, hardships they had never faced in life until recent years.
