The Mantle of God

by Caron Allan

  He leaned against the door for a moment, then with a shake of the head, William Hardy closed the door and returned to the kitchen, which seemed warm and welcoming now, even though Dottie was no longer there.

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT DAY, THE WEDNESDAY after she had started work at the studio, and ready to drop from the exhaustion of hanging about waiting, Dottie was finally called to do her part.

  If she’d thought this indicated a sudden flurry of activity or excitement, she was wrong. There followed two long hours of standing beside a mirror with a hairbrush in her hand, clad only in a pale pink silk negligee over her underwear.

  ‘This is most definitely not the glamorous life I expected,’ she told the mirror crossly.

  ‘I know what you mean, love,’ confided another voice. It belonged to a young girl positioned on the other side of the mirrored partition. She began to tell Dottie all about her hopes for getting a proper start in the acting profession, ending with, ‘It’s taken me a year to get this blooming part. If it takes another year to get my next job, I’ll be out on the street, I won’t be able to pay my rent. And there’s no way I can go home to my mother.’

  Dottie cast a rueful look down at her attire. ‘No indeed. Mine will be furious if she hears about this. She’ll probably pack me off to a convent.’

  ‘Mine will think I’m possessed or something. She’ll have the priest round straight away to exorcise me. I’m not exaggerating.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Dottie said, and at that moment the director’s assistant called for quiet on set. Dottie held her breath, waiting to see if the star could finally remember how she had to move and stand. Dottie was supposed to be conveying the impression of someone who had just that moment snatched up a hairbrush to do her hair between dress models, and not at all like a young woman who was cold, bored, and absolutely certain she’d need to stay with her sister for a few days to escape the maternal wrath that awaited her at home.

  Everyone’s patience was finally rewarded. The star, Marguerite Hutchings, renowned for her ravishing figure and long blonde hair, though not for her intelligence or wit, successfully entered the scene without knocking over the set wall. She then closed the door slowly and carefully behind her without pulling off the doorknob, moved across the short space to position herself in front of the mirror beside Dottie, managing to achieve this object without tripping over the rug on the floor, or her own feet, or losing the feather boa from about her shoulders.

  At the mirror, she successfully picked up the other brush, started to brush her hair with it then flung it down, this time without smashing the mirror, and threw herself into a sobbing fit on Dottie’s chilly, waiting shoulder.

  Dottie’s sole action, to pat the star on the back consolingly, was accomplished without a hitch and the director’s assistant shouted ‘Cut!’ in ringing triumphant tones.

  ‘Well done, that was remarkable,’ Dottie told the star perfectly sincerely. Dottie was genuinely surprised the actress had finally done everything required of her. The mood in the place had lightened considerably.

  The star was taken off to lie down and recover from her exertions, and the director’s assistant told Dottie she could go, adding that she could draw her wages from the clerk, and he gave her a chit of paper to enable her to do just that.

  Dottie went to say goodbye to Judith Parsons and Esme. She needed to return the negligee in any case, and she wanted to ask Miss Parsons something.

  She found the wardrobe mistress engaged in yet another heated dispute with Esme over yet another piece of tulle, this time in a violent shade of purple.

  Dottie was relieved of the negligée by a tearful Esme, still muttering, ‘Evil old bag,’ under her breath. With a sympathetic smile, Dottie followed Miss Parsons to her desk in the corner, where tea was made. Dottie was really glad to receive a cup, warming her hands on the china. She unburdened herself regarding the morning’s work.

  ‘There’s a reason some girls choose the stage,’ said Miss Parsons, ‘and it’s not because of their looks. Here even the plain ones can pick up a wealthy husband, and all they need to do is look just slightly decorative. They’d never make a living for themselves. Let’s face it, most of ‘em don’t have the brains the good Lord gave a rabbit, so they’ve got to marry well or find themselves a sugar daddy. And that Hutchings girl is walking out with a cabinet minister, by all accounts. He’s bought her a flat and everything. Though of course, his wife don’t know that.’

  They talked of this and that. Dottie had a second cup of tea. Over the last few days she’d developed a respect for the formidable wardrobe mistress and her wealth of knowledge, both general and more specifically costume-related. Having debated with herself over and over again since her arrival at the studio, Dottie had come to a decision.

  Feeling rather like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Dottie pulled up her hem and unpinned the tiny scrap of fabric William Hardy had given her. She lay it on the desk in front of Miss Parsons.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ Dottie asked. She found she was holding her breath, her heart was pounding as she watched Judith Parsons set down her teacup and with a puzzled look, take up the tiny piece and turn it this way and that in the dim lamplight, as Mrs Carmichael had done, as Dottie herself had done, and even the loathsome James Melville.

  Even before Miss Parsons spoke, Dottie knew she was finally going to hear something significant. Here at last was the answer she’d been looking for. Goosebumps stood out on her arms, and she hugged herself to prevent a shiver.

  Miss Parsons gave the scrap back to Dottie and turned off the little green-shaded desk lamp. She took her glasses off her rather long thin nose and set them down on the desk. She fixed a straight look on Dottie.

  ‘Well, I don’t know where you got that. And I’m not going to ask. But, seeing as you’ve asked me about it, I’ll tell you what I think.’

  Dottie’s heart pounded, if possible, even harder and faster. If Miss Parsons next words were, ‘And don’t tell anyone you heard this from me,’ she could not have felt more excited.

  William Hardy presented himself to Chief Superintendant Smithers promptly at nine o’clock on the morning after the funeral. He reflected that the fact he was capable of doing so, and looking fairly neat and tidy, able to talk sense and stand upright, was entirely due to the intervention of Miss Manderson and her splendid right hook. And of course, her scrambled eggs and toast. When he thought about how close he had come to just throwing it all away... it was amazing how different things could look in the light of a new day.

  ‘Well, well, Hardy, come in, sit down, my dear fellow. Dashed hard lines, losing one’s mother. Condolences. Must say you’re looking better than I expected under the circumstances. All credit to you. Ready to pick up the reins, I expect. As you know we’ve had in an officer from the Metropolitan Police headquarters at Scotland Yard. An arrest was made, some crooked antiques dealer who had some of the items from the first burglary. But you’ll no doubt have seen yesterday’s paper, so you’ll know that there was another robbery on Sunday evening. I had hoped to be able to tell you that you could cross the dinner party robberies off your list but it now seems otherwise. Must be the same people, I’m sure. Everything about this latest case looks the same.’

  ‘Have we released the suspect, sir?’

  ‘Um no, it seems likely he’s just one of the gang, operating out of the docks, or so we thought, supposed to have contacts in Holland, none too particular about the provenance of the stuff. We haven’t got anything useful out of him as yet. I say ‘we’, I know nothing about it really, it was the new chappie, very efficient, I’m sure, if a bit too public school for my...er...’ the chief super seemed to suddenly think better of what he was about to say, possibly because Hardy was wearing his old school tie. After a pause, Smithers continued, ‘What we need, Hardy, is information. We need hard facts. We need to put this whole sorry mess to bed, and be damned quick about it.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. I’ll cert
ainly get straight to it, sir, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Good, good. I’ve decided to take all your other cases off your plate, so to speak, let you focus on these robberies. Sergeant Maple’s already passed on all the paperwork for the other cases, so you’ll have no distractions. The higher-ups are getting pressure from the public and even Parliament itself about this, so I want you to get on with it. We need a quick resolution to these robberies. Well I’ll let Hayward fill you in on what he’s been up to in your absence. You’ll have to look lively, he’s on his way back to Scotland Yard. Right, well. Glad to have you back, of course. Hard lines, of course, but that is life, I suppose. Dashed hard lines. Let me know if you need anything else. Door’s always open. Good day to you.’

  And he was out again in the corridor, nodding to the chief super’s assistant and the secretary, and making his way back down the draughty stairs to his own office.

  A man of about forty-five was there, carefully slotting papers and notebooks into a cardboard box. He had a toothbrush moustache and slicked back, mirror-smooth hair. Hardy detested him on sight. However, he made an effort to remain polite, and entered the room, a smile on his face and his hand outstretched.

  ‘Inspector Hayward? Glad I didn’t miss you. I’m William Hardy. I hear you’ve been holding the fort while I’ve been off.’

  Hayward set down the notebook he was holding, and advanced round the desk to shake Hardy’s hand, his own hot and sticky, and as small as a woman’s.

  ‘My dear fellow. Very nice to meet you, and of course, sympathies on your loss. Very, very sad indeed. A boy needs his mother. Very sad. No doubt you’ll be glad to get back to work to take your mind off things.’

  It was what Dottie had said, but delivered without her compassion and sincerity. Also that comment about a boy needing his mother rubbed his pride up the wrong way. Hardy saw no reason as yet to change his initial opinion of Hayward. Who, it appeared, still had things to say. ‘But take it from me, it does get a little easier with time. I’ve been through most of life’s crises at one time or another, and I’m usually right about these things.’

  Clearly, Hayward was quite the sage, thought Hardy irritably. He tried to maintain his friendly demeanour in spite of feeling patronised. After all, the fellow would be gone soon, and things could get back to normal.

  ‘Yes indeed, nothing like routine, is there?’ Hardy responded. ‘Well, once again...’

  ‘You’ll no doubt have heard that I’ve cracked your case for you. I expect that’s been playing on your mind too. Quite the little teaser, wasn’t it? But there, all done bar a little rounding up of the rest of the gang. There’s nothing worse than feeling as though one is bumping one’s head against a brick wall. I’ve found that often all it takes is a pair of fresh eyes going over what you’ve no doubt gone over a hundred times already. Can’t see the wood for the trees, what?

  ‘But don’t blame yourself, young fellow, I’ve got a good few years’ more experience than you. It’ll be the work of a moment to pull the rest of the gang in and get the confessions we need. I’ve got rid of all your other cases for you, pulled a few strings, called in some favours, all done and dusted. So there’s nothing too onerous for you left to do, but it’ll ease you back into things, give your confidence a much-needed boost. Well, I’ll be off. Got to get back to the Yard, you know. All the paperwork’s been done, and as I said, no doubt the chappie we’ve got in the clink has had time to think and is ready to tell you the rest of the names. I think that’s everything.’ He patted his suit pockets, found his pipe and tobacco pouch, and began to fill the pipe. ‘Could I trouble you for a light, old chap?’

  Hardy felt a small victory in being able to say perfectly honestly, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t smoke. Perhaps my sergeant...?’

  Taken aback, but not deflated, Hayward clamped his pipe between his teeth, picked up his cardboard box and held out his free hand to Hardy. ‘Short and sweet, wasn’t it? Nice to meet you, laddie. Good luck. Take my advice and don’t worry so much, it’ll come with time, it’ll come. Who knows, we might even see you at the Yard one day.’

  Hayward then side-stepped Hardy and left the office. Hardy was aware of a simmering rage. He sat at his almost empty desk—was it really that bright shade of ochre, he didn’t recall ever seeing the surface of the desk before—and waited for a full five minutes. By the end of that time he felt slightly calmer, and he went in search of his favourite sidekick, Sergeant Frank Maple.

  ‘I’m back, Frank, thought I’d better let you know.’

  Maple got to his feet and gave Hardy a hearty hand-shake that in the pub would have turned into a back-slapping, saying in a lowered voice, ‘Bill! I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Has that idiot Hayward gone?’

  ‘Yes. Though before he left he very kindly treated me to a lecture on how good he is at his job and how bad I am at mine. I feel so greatly edified by his wisdom.’

  ‘He’s a total w...’ but whatever Maple had been about to say was drowned out as the telephone bell jangled, making both men jump.

  A few minutes later they were setting off on a drive to an address well outside of their London jurisdiction, in Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire, a short distance further north than Hitchin where they’d been before, but at least they knew most of the roads now. The local police had rung in response to Maple’s widespread enquiries about armed robberies, and thought they had found another, related robbery that bore similar traits to that of the one in Hitchin, and could therefore be of interest to the Met. It seemed that an armed robbery had taken place at the home of a Mrs Emmeline Foster just a few days earlier.

  ‘The lady had been having a dinner party when gunmen broke in. Sounds like another one for our list,’ Maple added.

  ‘It’s old. Very old. I’m sure it’s velvet, though the pile has rubbed away over time. It’s as thin as tissue paper in places. Velvet used to be made and imported from abroad, Spain, the Middle East, places like that, then embroidered, by hand obviously, in this country by skilled craftsmen or more often, women. There was a time, and I’m going back five or six, even seven hundred years, now, there was a time when the finest embroidery was found in this country, and royalty, nobles and all manner of influential people all around the world sought out the expertise of English artisans.’

  ‘But not this,’ Dottie stammered, shocked. ‘This can’t be...you’re not saying, surely you’re not, that this is hundreds of years old? The best part of five or six hundred years old? It can’t possibly...half a century...’

  ‘Or more. Yes, I am, my dear.’

  ‘But...’ Dottie opened her hand, damp with the heat in the crowded warehouse. The scrap curled and stuck to her skin. She flattened it out, pressing it gently, reverently, until it was straight. In a whisper she continued, half to herself, ‘Not this. This can’t be...’ Her voice failed her. Everything was falling into place in her mind. Her thoughts adjusted themselves and began to make sense. She looked at the innocent scrap again, and felt the prickle of tears.

  Miss Parsons patted her hand, gently folding Dottie’s fingers down over it. ‘Yes, my dear, it’s the best part of easily five or six hundred years old. I’m not an expert, but I’ve seen something like this before. But if you go to a museum or to Westminster Abbey or any cathedral or an important country house, you might see one, though probably not as old as this. It’s a piece from a chasuble or a cope or something of that sort, I’d stake my reputation on that. It’s a pity there isn’t more of it.’ She fixed Dottie with a sudden sharp look. ‘Unless of course you have the rest of it?’

  To Dottie’s hasty shake of the head, she added, ‘Oh well, it’d probably only bring you worry, anyway.’

  ‘A chasuble?’

  ‘Or some kind of clerical vestment. The chasuble is the colourful, sleeveless, open-fronted thing they wear over the alb, which is the white, long-sleeved loose smock-type garment. Or it could be from a cope worn about the shoulders, a kind of cape. They still wear these in ch
urches everywhere. Anglican as well as Catholic. The churches used to commission these garments for the priests. Or they might be ordered for a special service, such as the marriage of royalty or nobles, coronations, investitures, special visitations, anything like that. Or they could even be donated by wealthy patrons. In any case, they were fabulously crafted, complex works of art really, not just a simple covering for a priest to wear when conducting mass.’

  ‘So, it’s velvet. And it’s from a much bigger piece. And rather old, which explains why it’s so faded and patchy,’ Dottie summarised. The act of doing so calmed her nerves.

  ‘Yes dear. The thread was usually flax or silk. There were two main stitches, I’ll show you on this bit of cotton.’ Judith picked up a small remnant of fabric, left over from the shortening of a petticoat, and from the pincushion she took a needle with about eight inches of purple thread hanging from it. She leaned towards Dottie, and made a couple of stitches.

  ‘Now you see, that’s your basic split-stitch. And this one,’ she made a few more stitches, this time bringing the needle back up from underneath to ‘pin’ long, single stitches in place. ‘This one is the underside couching. And these were the two main stitches used for creating the outlines of shapes and patterns, and for filling them in. All the decoration would be worked in thread across the ground of the fabric, like painting on a canvas, but with thread. For the very wealthy patrons, or for special pieces, the thread could be covered in pure gold or silver. There would be figures, scenes from the Bible or lives of the saints or kings. When the garments were brand new, they would have been marvellously bright and colourful, and incredibly skilful, intricate creations. The mainly uneducated congregation could learn about the Church and God from looking at these images, just by watching the priest as he celebrated Mass.’

  ‘Would it be worth a lot of money today?’ Dottie asked. ‘A whole one, I mean?’