The Mantle of God

by Caron Allan

  Hardy was more than usually nervous at the prospect of interviewing the man he had been ordered to detain after delivering his latest report to his superiors. He had requested, and been denied, time to obtain further information and evidence. So here they were. Hardy pulled out the chair and sat down. Ian Smedley-Judd had, of course, refused to speak without his solicitor being present. They had therefore been obliged to wait. The solicitor, seated beside his client, was an expensive one, and not the sort to tolerate young police officers with little experience. For that reason, Superintendent Edward Williams sat beside Hardy. And even though the man had many more years’ experience than either Hardy himself or Sergeant Maple, it had been a long time since he had interviewed a suspect, and Hardy would have felt ten times more confident with his sergeant by his side.

  He tidied his papers and cleared his throat. ‘Mr Smedley-Judd, it seems clear from my enquiries that you are deeply involved in the perpetration of these dinner-time robberies that have been taking place.’ He knew he didn’t sound very confident, or very sure of his facts, but he had been planning on elaborating on his opening sentence. A glance up and he saw that Smedley-Judd was staring at him, or more correctly right through him, looking rather bored. Neither Smedley-Judd nor his solicitor spoke.

  But the superintendent, at this point, leaned towards Hardy and said, rather too loudly for a whisper, ‘You’d better leave this to me, son. I’ve got a bit more experience than you. I’ll soon break the blighter. He’ll be singing in no time, if he knows what’s good for him.’

  It was an unfortunate comment, as not only did it cause the solicitor to lodge a formal complaint, but it also heralded the start of a long and frustrating three-hour stint of the police asking questions which Smedley-Judd and his solicitor steadfastly refused to answer.

  At length, just as it was growing dark outside, the prisoner was returned to his cell and his solicitor went with him for a further discussion. The superintendent and Hardy retired to Hardy’s office for a very welcome cup of tea and a conference.

  Hardy didn’t feel able to suggest that his superior should stand down and allow Sergeant Maple to take his place in the interview room, yet at the same time he couldn’t see any other way to break through the prisoner’s reserve. He stared glumly into his tea as Williams propounded one idea after another for getting ‘the Toff to crack’. Privately Hardy thought the superintendent had seen a few too many detective thrillers at the pictures. That, or possibly not enough. Whatever the reason, the man clearly was not good at reaching people.

  They had Smedley-Judd’s belongings in a large envelope on the desk in front of them. Automatically Hardy began to check through the contents. There was a soft metallic sound and thinking there were coins in the bottom of the envelope, he shook out the rest of the items onto his desk blotter. When he saw what was there, he smiled and said, ‘Sir, I need a warrant to search Mr Smedley-Judd’s art collection room.’

  ‘His...? I thought you had already...?’

  ‘Er, no, sir. His wife said she had no key for the room, and I wasn’t able to arrange a meeting with Mr Smedley-Judd. Every time I called I was told he was out.’

  ‘But what about when you picked him up? Why on earth didn’t you go to the house with a warrant at the time?’

  Hardy hesitated. But then, reminding himself it wasn’t his fault, he said, ‘We searched the rest of the house, but Mr Smedley-Judd said he’d lost the key for that room. The chief superintendant refused a warrant, saying we’d get everything we needed from Mr Smedley-Judd himself, or if not, I could apply for one later.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’m sure it could yield something useful,’ said Hardy, cautiously but persistent.

  ‘Very well, I’ll go and deal with that. Pop down and make sure the so-and-so gets his hot meal, will you. I don’t want him saying he was mistreated on top of everything else. Then get over to the house. I presume you’ll need some men.’

  ‘Just Sergeant Maple, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ The superintendent gave him a long, doubtful look, then nodded. ‘Very well. I just hope to God you find something.’

  ‘Me too, sir.’ Hardy said. He went to give instructions to the officer in charge of the cells. Not that it was necessary, he knew he could rely on the prisoner being properly cared for. But on the off-chance that the superintendent might ask if he had done so, he wanted to be able to say quite truthfully that he had.

  Hardy rounded up Maple and they took a police car to the Smedley-Judd residence in Kensington.

  Mrs Smedley-Judd was at home, Morris informed them, and about to sit down to dinner. Hardy was worried she might have her nephew with her, but when he asked, Morris said she was dining alone. The butler’s manner was rather less friendly than it had been the last time Hardy spoke with him.

  Mrs Smedley-Judd was none too happy at being told they planned to search her husband’s art collection room, and again said she had no key to give them access, and that it was absolutely out of the question that they should break the door down.

  ‘No need for that,’ Hardy said, and held up the key that had been in her husband’s personal belongings. She took one look then turned and walked away.

  The walls of the collection room were bare, as were the table tops, the cabinets and the shelves. The collection—all the fine religious treasures Ian Smedley-Judd had so cherished—were gone. The room stood, neat and bare, like an empty guest room, awaiting the next arrival.

  The two men stood in the doorway and stared in dismay. Maple swore loudly and furiously, whilst Hardy leaned back against the doorframe, his eyes closed.

  ‘Well, now I know why I never managed to catch him at home,’ he said.

  ‘Getting shot of the loot.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Maple employed a number of other colourful phrases to demonstrate his opinion of Mr Smedley-Judd. Then said, suddenly inspired, ‘His wife might know.’

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ Hardy responded, ‘But she’ll never tell us. I think we’ll be very lucky if we find anything of her husband’s collection. He knew we’d be coming, and he made preparations. Just like his ancestors hundreds of years ago.’

  With a heavy heart he turned to leave the room. A thought made him glance back at the little side-table just inside the door. Bending, he saw something that finally gave him cause to smile.

  ‘Evidence envelope, please, Frank.’

  Maple puzzled, handed one over, and watched in silent curiosity as Hardy picked up a tiny scrap of fluff off the carpet, and with as much care as if it had been a sacred relic, placed it inside the envelope which was then sealed, labelled and dated.

  ‘We’ve got him,’ he said. Maple looked sceptical.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, HE had no sooner sat down at his desk than his phone rang. ‘Hardy speaking.’

  ‘Front desk sir, I just wanted to let you know that we’ve had a call from the butler of a Mrs Gerard. Says you know him. Chap called Aitchison? Apparently, they’ve just found Mrs Gerard dead.’

  ‘What?’ Hardy was on his feet. ‘Phone him back, tell him I’m on my way.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Sergeant!’ Hardy yelled as he reached the hallway.

  Maple came running, grabbing his coat.

  ‘Mrs Gerard is dead,’ Hardy said.

  Maple swore. ‘Is that the end of our case, then?’

  ‘I have no idea. I hope to God not.’

  When they arrived at the house, the butler was already standing in the open doorway, watching the street for them. He was pale but composed. As he showed them into the drawing room he told Hardy, ‘I’ve called the doctor though I’m sure he can’t do anything, and Mrs Gerard’s priest is already here, he’s in the kitchen having a cup of tea. Sir, when you’ve finished here, I’d like a word, if I may. It’s quite important.’

  ‘Of course.’ Already Hardy was looking about him, taking in the scene. The room was largely the same as when he had l
ast been there, although the curtains were still closed and the lights were on. The fire had been lit the night before but was now just a heap of cold ash. He was glad nothing had been touched. But his immediate instinct as he took in the scene was that this was a suicide.

  Mrs Gerard was stretched out on a sofa. Her shoes sat neatly side by side on the carpet beside her. A pillow propped the lady’s head, a light, crocheted coverlet draped her body from feet to chin. On the small side-table was an empty bottle. The label indicated that it had contained sleeping pills though of course he had no idea how many had actually been in it. Beside the bottle was a decanter of water and a glass tumbler. The lady’s spectacles sat neatly folded on the side-table, placed on the top of an envelope. Even from his place by the door, he could read the address on the envelope in Mrs Gerard’s large, clear hand. ‘Inspector Hardy.’

  Her eyes were closed. Her hair and face were—as always—immaculate, and her hands were folded on her breast, the string of her rosary caught between her fingers. On her lap lay the massive family Bible he had admired. It lay open at the page showing the Gerard family tree.

  For form’s sake, though it seemed a foregone conclusion, Hardy felt for a pulse. The wrist was chilled and heavy to his touch. There was no sign of life.

  From the doorway, next to the large shape of Sergeant Maple, Aitchison gnawed his knuckle, and watched anxiously. As Hardy stepped away, Aitchison called in a hushed voice, ‘I’m not wrong, am I? She is...?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m afraid she is dead.’ Hardy looked around. He said to Maple, ‘Call the fingerprint chappie, just get him to take a look at the bottle and the glass. I don’t think for a minute there’s any need, but we’d best cover ourselves. I doubt he’ll need to do anything else in the room. Then get the bottle, the glass and the Bible wrapped and taken back to the station. Tell them to be careful with that Bible, it’s a family heirloom. Send for Dr Garrett, too. I’m going to speak with the staff.’

  ‘Shall I send that letter too, or do you want to keep it with you?’

  ‘I’ll keep it with me.’ Hardy turned to Aitchison. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen. I presume everyone’s there?’

  ‘In the staff sitting room, sir, just off the kitchen.’

  ‘Staff sitting room, eh? Very nice.’

  ‘She was a wonderful lady sir, a pleasure to work for. An absolute pleasure, one of a kind, I can tell you.’ Aitchison’s composure threatened to falter. Hardy patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and have a cup of tea.’

  On his return to his office late that afternoon, Hardy finally found time to read the letter attentively. He’d glanced through it at the house, and seen her statement at the beginning that she intended to take her own life. He saw too the big flourish of a signature at the end, and taken with everything else, was satisfied everything was as it seemed. Mrs Gerard had committed suicide. Not that she saw it in quite those terms. Certainly she didn’t feel she would be committing a sin. The priest had confirmed as much, saying she was adamant her death would have a purpose.

  Now, all the interviews at her house had been completed and it was clear beyond doubt that there were no suspicious circumstances. Maple had stayed behind to finish off assisted by a couple of constables.

  Hardy took out the letter he had so carefully folded and placed in his wallet. As he did so, the tiny scrap of fabric fluttered in the air to fall and lay on the carpet. He stooped to pick it up, thinking he still didn’t know quite why it was so significant.

  Opening the envelope, he pulled out the foolscap sheet of paper, closely written on both sides in the same handwriting as the envelope, as the notes in the Bible, that Aitchison had confirmed was Mrs Gerard’s own hand.

  Mrs Gerard wrote:

  ‘I am not insane. Some may think one has to be insane to take one’s own life, or else very weak, but I say to them, sometimes it is saner and more courageous to see one’s future, unendingly forlorn and bleak in a prison cell, and to make an alternative choice. I see myself as a martyr, like so many of my ancestors, giving up my life voluntarily in the hope that something useful may come of it.

  ‘I would like to explain what has been going on. It’s a little complicated, but it’s vital that you, my charming Inspector Hardy, understand why I, and my associates, did what we did. Yes, it was in part for mere material gain—I’m by no means as financially secure as you probably imagine. And Ian and Gareth, my old friends, go through money like it was water running through their hands.

  ‘But there was another reason, far more important, to me at least.’

  Hardy paused, turned to look around the room, with a strange sense of coming out of a dream. He saw his desk and chair and went to sit down to read the rest of the letter in comfort.

  ‘In 1305, my ancestors, and a few other wealthy landowners, commissioned the creation of a new set of vestments for the little church that opened up on our estate. We were minor royalty then, and aspired to greater status in King Edward’s realm. A marriage was arranged between the eldest son of the Gerard family and a princess from Navarre. So the vestments were in part to honour the coming princess, and to impress her family with our piety and wealth.

  ‘By the time Henry VIII betrayed our Faith, the vestments were already very old and quite fragile. In 1605, three hundred years after the original commissioning of the vestments and the marriage of that young couple, James I was relentlessly pursuing and destroying Catholic churches, families and estates. My ancestors, the Gerards, and three of their closest Catholic connections: The Garnetts, from one of whose daughters the Smedley-Judds are proudly descended; the Moyers in Hertfordshire, another proud old family, and a family by the name of Radleigh, once Catholic but they recanted to save their worthless hides five hundred years ago, though the new Bishop is a sympathiser and closet Papist. These families divided the most precious vestment, the Gerard Chasuble, as it was then known, into five pieces, in the fervent hope that one piece at least, but God willing, all five, would survive the turbulent times and see the restoration of the Faith. The plan was to protect the parts at all costs, until such a time as they could be sewn back together and take their place once more in the celebration of the true rites and ceremonies of the Church.

  ‘No doubt at this point you are shaking your head. No doubt you think, why all this fuss for a bit of old cloth. I could ask you why young men in their thousands, even tens of thousands, died for the sake of a flag—another bit of old cloth—in the Great War. It is the same principle. The cloth is a symbol of something far, far greater than oneself. In the case of the Gerard Chasuble, my ancestor, Lord Hugh Gerard referred to it as ‘The Mantle of God’. For him, it was more valuable than his own life.

  ‘I may say, Inspector, that I have been terribly frustrated by that little scrap you have. I can only guess where you obtained it, and if you hadn’t given it to lovely little Dottie, I would never have known that someone close to me socially or geographically was the bearer of the fifth piece. You have no idea how I was at once tortured by not knowing exactly where it was, yet exultant at knowing it had survived after all these years. How wonderful!’

  The rest of the letter went on to explain how she, and James Melville, whose real name was Jimmy McKay, and who was the illegitimate son of her sister, had met up with Mrs Gerard’s acquaintances the Smedley-Judds, and hatched a plot. With the aid of two former cell-mates of Melville’s, one of whom was Cedric Meyer, along with three men recruited by Gareth Smedley-Judd, they had perpetrated the robberies to obtain all the Catholic relics they could, with special emphasis on searching for the fifth piece of the chasuble, the right sleeve, which still eluded them. Mrs Gerard was very vexed over the location of this last piece of the mantle. The second piece had been carefully preserved in Ian Smedley-Judd’s collection, the Moyer family had hidden the third piece carefully away, and the fourth piece, one of the sleeves, had been discovered in a drawer Bishop Radleigh’s home, but was still in Dr Melville’s possession. The members
of the gang had taken it in turns to participate in the robberies, imagining it would make the cases harder to solve if they were not always carried out by the same people. They always had someone at the party who would disappear to the W.C. at the crucial moment and let the robbers into the house, tipping them off regarding the number of staff and their whereabouts. It was a system that had worked very well for them for a time.

  Mrs Gerard had closed the letter with, ‘That is everything I wanted to tell you. I have taken the pills, and already, I feel so drowsy. I am grateful that I will sleep my way into the next world, and I fully believe I will receive my crown for a race well run. Sincerest regards, Millicent Gerard.’

  Hardy read through the letter four times, made notes regarding the criminal activities mentioned, then sat for a time deep in thought.

  ‘It’s not Duck,’ announced Maple, bursting in to disturb his thoughts an hour later. ‘The tattoo. Remember the witness said it looked like it said duck? But it’s not. Leastways, not according to this. I think you’re going to be pleased when I tell you what just came through in a telegram from Scotland.’

  Hardy set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t imagine what Maple was going to tell him, but he could tell from his expression that it was good.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s Duke.’

  Hardy was still none the wiser. Maple perched on the end of the desk and handed Hardy the telegram. Hardy looked at it and let out a long, low whistle.

  ‘I never would have guessed that in a million years.’

  ‘I know! Don’t that beat all! Duke Street prison in Glasgow. Well, someone did say they thought it could be a prison tattoo, so hey presto! I’ve sent them a further request for information about the conviction, the dates and so forth. I told them it’s urgent so shouldn’t be too long, I hope. But they says it’s quite common for the convicts to do their tattoos themselves, usually on their arm or shoulder, in that blue ink like the sailors use. It starts out that quite bright blue but usually fades to a horrid kind of messy navy-blue over time. Anyway. So now we know.’