The Mantle of God

by Caron Allan

  The thought of her death reminded him of his mother. Since her funeral he’d had little time to think of her. He had not even replied to his sister’s letter. Nor his uncle’s. He really must make more of an effort. And tomorrow, he should, he really wanted to, go to the cemetery and lay some fresh flowers on his mother’s grave.

  He felt bowed down by the weight of all these worries on his shoulders, and yet the one that pressed hardest and heaviest upon him was the one he could least bear to think about. Her expression! So cold, so clearly angry, and so, so very like her mother’s stern, forbidding countenance. Would Dottie Manderson ever be his friend again?

  It was late afternoon at Carmichael and Jennings: Exclusive Modes for Discerning Ladies. ‘Come in, Dot, do, my dear.’ Mrs Carmichael, looking vaster than ever, was already at her desk, her shoes discarded just inside the office door. The rehearsal was over and Dottie was presenting herself at the office as requested.

  ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well after your attack last week. That bruise’ll soon go.’ Mrs Carmichael motioned for Dottie to take a seat. She offered sherry which Dottie declined as always. Mrs Carmichael poured herself a generous glassful and leaned back, glass in hand, and regarded Dottie. She decided it would be best just to get to the point.

  ‘Do you remember that tiny piece of material you showed me a while back?’

  Dottie nodded. She was immediately on her guard, Mrs Carmichael noticed.

  ‘Do you still have it? It didn’t mean much at the time, but somehow I just couldn’t get it out of my mind, so I asked a few friends what they thought it could be. It turns out it could be something quite interesting. They told me what to look for. I’d love another quick look at it, if I may?’

  Dottie’s eyes were fixed firmly on her. For the first time in their two-year acquaintance, Mrs Carmichael felt the core of stubbornness, that quiet, yet determined ‘something’ in Dottie that would not be budged. She knew, before Dottie couched her polite refusal, that it was no good.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Carmichael, but I’m afraid I don’t have it anymore. It didn’t seem important so I just threw it away.’

  The girl stammered over the word ‘threw’ and Mrs Carmichael knew it was a lie. But there was nothing to be gained in pressing her. She simply sat back and took another long swallow of her sherry, then topped up the glass and changed the subject. Really, she reflected with a sense of irony, if the whole of the item had been given into Dottie’s safe-keeping, it couldn’t have been more closely guarded. If this was how she was with just a tiny piece of the hem...

  The following morning began very early in Inspector Hardy’s office.

  ‘How did the robbers get to the Smedley-Judds’, d’you think, Guv?’

  Hardy sighed. What Maple had just asked raised two problems in Hardy’s mind. The first was his annoyance over Maple’s new tendency to keep calling him Guv, like a character out of some cheap novel. The second was that the sergeant, leaning beside him against the desk, and staring at the board, had just asked an incredibly insightful question.

  ‘Why didn’t we think of that before? You’re a genius, Frank, and I am a prize idiot.’

  ‘The way I see it,’ said Maple as if Hardy had not spoken, ‘If it was me I wouldn’t want to risk walking, even if I didn’t have far to go. Especially once I’d got the loot to carry.’

  ‘Me either. Of course they wouldn’t. There’s no knowing how quickly the police might arrive, or someone, several people even, might be bold enough to give chase.’

  ‘Or daft enough.’

  ‘Or daft enough. In spite of the weapons. So they’d need to have transport.’

  ‘Yes Guv.’

  Hardy sighed again. ‘Frank...’

  ‘The other thing what’s bothering me, sort of the same thing, really...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They’d have to have transport to get to Hemel Hempstead and to Hitchin. Even Oxford’s not exactly right on the doorstep.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So that means they’ve got to be free to come and go. Not working long hours for instance, or got someone keeping an eye on them. Not working somewhere where they’ll be missed.’

  ‘Not watching the kids,’ Hardy added. Maple directed a look of scorn at his boss.

  ‘They’re all blokes. They’re not going to be minding the kids.’

  ‘They might,’ Hardy said. ‘Working class women often work in the evening, and they go out as soon as their husbands get home from work. So, once the husbands come in, they have to watch the children.’

  Maple’s scorn heightened. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Don’t be daft, Bill. No self-respecting bloke is going to be stuck looking after the kids. That’s women’s work.’

  Hardy said nothing, but privately thought his idea was sound. The robbers were men who had the freedom and the means to travel around to commit their crimes.

  ‘And you’re assuming they’re working class again. Most of them wouldn’t even have their own car. Only your lot can afford to run a car. In any case, they couldn’t use their own cars, it’d be too risky. What if they was seen? If you like, I’ll check up on car thefts around the time of the robberies, see if I can find out anything that seems relevant. But I don’t think it’ll get us anywhere. Bill?’

  But Hardy was deep in thought, apparently staring at the board, yet not seeing what was in front of him. He was mentally going through information, processing what they knew, puzzling and sifting.

  Maple was gone for half an hour and returned looking disappointed. The piece of paper in his hand held just one incidence of car theft on or about the time of one of the robberies. He held it out to Hardy, who ignored it, saying instead, ‘What does Wotherspoon’s son-in-law do for a living?’

  ‘What, young Cedric? Well he’s a...’ Maple halted as his thoughts caught up with his mouth. He grinned at Hardy. ‘Guv, Bill, mate, you’re a bloody marvel! Cedric is a cab driver.’

  Hardy nodded, satisfied. ‘Thought so. What shall we do first, have another chat with Wotherspoon, or pick up Cedric?’

  ‘Wotherspoon. And if you like, I’ll get a uniform to bring in Cedric. That will save us a lot of running around. But first, let’s go and get some lunch at the pub.’

  ‘You go, I’m not hungry.’ Hardy turned and moved around his desk to sit in his chair. He certainly looked fed-up, Maple thought, then he remembered Daphne Medhurst.

  ‘Bill?’ he began. This time Hardy heard him and looked up. Maple said, ‘I’m really sorry about the young lady, Bill.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m more angry than grief-stricken. I’d only seen her a couple of times, and as I said, we weren’t suited.’ He broke off. This was all old ground, and he drew the line at taking away her character now she was dead by saying anything about her behaviour. His mother’s admonition of ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,’ was too well-ingrained to allow him to be too truthful about Daphne. Instead he softly added, ‘But whatever she was, she didn’t deserve to die in an alley.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Maple said, ‘She was quite tall and slim, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A bit like Miss Dottie.’

  ‘I suppose so, though there’s the world of difference between the two, and Miss Manderson’s hair is dark brown, not Daphne’s auburn colour. And Dottie is at least two inches taller than Daphne was.’

  ‘Yes, but if you didn’t see the two of them together, you mightn’t notice that. I suppose most of us chaps go for the same kind of girl.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Hardy’s tone was sharper than he intended. Not that Maple minded. He simply shrugged.

  ‘All I’m saying is, you, like all us blokes, like the same thing. You like ‘em tall and slender and dark. Whereas I like ‘em a bit shorter and rounder and softer and fairer. You like a woman what’s tall like you, to make you more of a match. I’m as tall as you but it doesn’t worry me that Ja
net’s a bit of a titch. Plus, I like a girl with a bit of meat on her.’ His hands carved the approximate outline of a figure eight in the air.

  Hardy said nothing. His thoughts were racing. He felt as though something had slotted into place in his mind. Two parts, previously separate, had come together to form one, larger part of the same picture.

  ‘Are you saying...?’

  ‘All I’m saying is, what if the attack on Daphne...’

  ‘...Medhurst was actually intended for Dottie Manderson? For God’s sake man, why are we hanging around?’

  Hardy was out of his chair and wrenching open the door, grabbing his coat and hat at the same time. Maple heard his racing feet pounding the corridor, and in a rather more leisurely manner, he got to his feet. He strolled to the door, turned out the light and ambled towards the front desk. Hardy was already on his way back, all frantic action and frustration. ‘Come on, for God’s sake, Frank...!’

  ‘Er, Bill...?’ Maple called. Hardy halted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the Mandersons’, of course!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ Hardy looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He was on the point of losing his temper. He stood there, breathing hard, and clenching his fists.

  ‘Why are we going to the Mandersons’? To begin with, I doubt Miss Dottie will be at home, and then again, what are you going to do? Tell her someone is trying to kill her?’

  Hardy stared at him, floundering, like a fish lying on the bank taking its last few gasps of air. ‘Well...’

  ‘No, Guv,’ Maple said firmly, ‘We need to talk to Wotherspoon and Cedric. We need to look at both these two cases from a new angle.’

  ‘Miss Medhurst’s death is nothing to do with the robberies!’ Hardy yelled, but mid-sentence he began to question that. He fell silent and thought for a moment. What if it wasn’t just the two cases of Daphne’s death and Dottie’s mugging that were connected, but also the robberies? What if all his three crimes were actually one? But why? How?

  ‘You need a beer, Guv,’ Maple said, and pulling Hardy by the arm, he led him outside and down the street to their favourite lunchtime haunt.

  As they went inside, Hardy said with feeling, ‘Please stop calling me Guv.’

  ‘At the moment, I feel like calling you quite a few other names. And there’s you pretending you’re not mad about Dottie Manderson.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?’ Hardy asked, smiling at the telephone receiver as his sister told him all her news. He raised an eyebrow at her reply and then laughed. She was enjoying herself now she was beginning to recover from the shock of losing their mother. She was being pampered and spoilt by their aunt and uncle, and it was doing her the world of good. It made him happy to hear her sounding almost like her old self, full of all the places she had been and the people she had met. When the call ended, he felt reassured. It was a weight off his mind to know she and their younger brother were safe and happy.

  As soon as he’d finished speaking to Eleanor, he asked the operator to put through a call to his married sister Celia, then he talked with her for ten minutes, mainly about her baby and the latest thing the little one had learned to do. From her surprise at his questions and her excited comments, William suspected he showed far more interest in the child than the child’s own father. The telephone was a large expense, but one he didn’t regret for a moment. At least the Met contributed towards the cost, as the telephone was the primary means of contacting him for work purposes.

  Satisfied that his family were all well, and furnished with everyone’s news, he sat at the kitchen table with a fresh pot of tea. It was so quiet in the house, but he refused to give in to the urge to visualise his mother at the head of the table, telling him to wrap up warmly or asking what time he’d be in for dinner. Equally, he couldn’t allow himself to picture Dottie there either. He felt in a kind of no man’s land, in limbo, neither single nor married, but waiting, as always, for something to happen.

  He put on the radio, and concentrated on drinking his tea. His thoughts always came back to Dottie, he realised. Was he in love with her, or was he simply obsessed? Every woman he met, he compared to her. He thought about her continually, night and day. Especially night, he admitted to himself. How different she was to all the women he came across both socially and professionally, even compared with the woman he had been engaged to just four years earlier, and thought he was madly in love with. That had been nothing to how he felt about Dottie. How different Dottie was to Daphne Medhurst, for example. He briefly entertained a daydream of taking Dottie to the cinema. If she had initiated the embrace that Daphne had wanted, he knew he’d have had no difficulty whatsoever responding. If only he had the chance...

  He poured another cup of tea. Still thinking, in his mind he pictured Dottie, and also Daphne. Although he was a police officer, he didn’t believe in capital punishment, if asked he’d probably say he believed life was sacred. Daphne, flighty, artificial and shallow, had not deserved to die. Someone had to pay for what they had done to her, and it was his job to make sure they did so.

  He was forced to conclude that Maple was right, there was a superficial similarity between the two women, especially if one only saw them at night. ‘And if someone saw them with me,’ he added as the sudden realisation hit him. A cold feeling seemed to settle somewhere inside.

  It began to seem entirely possible, even probable, that Daphne been killed by mistake. Mistaken for Dottie. Dottie herself had also been attacked. Dottie’s home had been broken into, her room searched. It was Dottie, not Daphne, who was being watched, stalked, attacked. Dottie. Who was about to have a dinner party to celebrate her birthday.

  Hardy’s tea was growing cold. He sat there in the kitchen, the radio whispering softly to itself, the embers of the fire dying away.

  Dottie.

  But why?

  ‘No Mother, I’m sorry but I can’t! How did you even...?’

  ‘Dorothy, I don’t know why you’re being so tiresome about this. Please just give me this bit of cloth or whatever it is. Clearly it’s putting you—and all of us, my dear—in danger. I will keep it safe and out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Mother, I can’t...’

  ‘Dorothy, for goodness’ sake, for once in your life, just do as I ask!’ Her mother’s voice rose sharply, but even now, as Dottie watched her mother’s face, she could see she wasn’t angry, although her precise emotion was hard to gauge. Dottie was about to shake her head, and to venture a fuller explanation, but her mother simply threw up her hands and stormed out of the room.

  The newspaper dropped on the other side of the room, and her father quirked an eyebrow at his daughter. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Just some bit of stuff Inspector Hardy gave me. He wanted me to try to find out what it was.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why won’t you give it to your mother?’

  ‘I’ve got to give it back to the inspector. I can’t give it to anyone else because it’s part of an investigation. I suppose I should have told her that.’

  There was a pause. Then he said, ‘And why does your mother want it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘It’s not like her to give up so easily, though.’ Dottie commented. The newspaper was repositioned. There was no response from behind it.

  Dottie frowned. Everyone seemed to know about the tiny scrap. And everyone seemed to want it. She felt angry that someone was trying to use her mother to get it from her.

  Dinner was long over in the Manderson household, and Mr and Mrs Manderson retired to the drawing to sit by the fire. Spring was still not quite upon them, and the evening was typically damp and chilly for London. They sat side by side on the sofa nearest the fire, and, because they were alone, Mrs Manderson leaned into her husband and he placed an arm about her shoulders and sett
led his cheek on her hair. He thought how like the early days of their marriage it was, just the two of them, and the firelight. Sometimes he missed those days.

  His wife continued the same conversation that had vexed her throughout dinner. ‘I just can’t decide what to do for the best, Herbert. I hardly like to cancel this dinner party at this late stage, but what if the inspector is right?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Herbert? Are you attending?’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said again, and placed a kiss carefully on her forehead. She treated him to a playful slap.

  ‘Behave yourself and listen to what I’m saying.’

  ‘I am listening,’ he protested, nevertheless risking another quick kiss. ‘You’ve said the same thing for the last hour and a half. And I’ve told you at least five times, we need to think about it and make a decision in the morning.’

  She was biting her lip, lost in thought. He said, ‘And what was all that fuss about some piece of fabric?’

  But she just looked at him and shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, just a favour someone asked me to do. But coming back to this party, what if we don’t cancel, and these—these gunmen break in? Suppose someone is hurt? And we’ve already had one break-in, I really don’t care to have another.’

  ‘No dear, of course not,’ Herbert Manderson sighed, got up and went in search of a newspaper.

  Meanwhile, Dottie was out with Flora and George and a group of friends at a rather rowdy dance at a ballroom. Flora had decided to sit this dance out, and Dottie sat with her and they watched the band and the couples on the dancefloor. Flora was enjoying Dottie’s latest gossip, which led after a number of twists to James Melville. ‘Dr Melville has a tattoo? I can hardly believe it.’