by Caron Allan
Hardy ticked it all off on his fingers. ‘We have a confession from a Mr Wotherspoon about his involvement in the receipt and disposal of stolen goods. We have a confession from Mr Wotherspoon’s son-in-law, Cedric Meyer, who has told us about you and your chums using his taxicab to travel to the houses where the robberies took place, here in London, in Oxfordshire and in Hertfordshire.’
‘Once again, Inspector, it seems I must explain to you that my client has no involvement in these terrible crimes. Nor are any of these people known to him. Really, Inspector, this is a disgrace. I must insist...’
Hardy continued as if the solicitor hadn’t spoken. ‘We have a confession from James Melville, also known as Jimmy McKay. He has a record for theft and robbery with violence, and has told us a great deal relating to his own role in the robberies, and how you were related to those too.’
‘Jimmy McKay?’ Smedley-Judd was if possible even paler.
His solicitor began to shake his head. ‘Once again, Inspector...’
‘Yes, Jimmy McKay,’ Hardy said to Smedley-Judd. ‘His aunt, Mrs Millicent Gerard, committed suicide the night before last. Before she did so, she made a full and frank confession to her priest, and then she wrote it all down in a letter for me. As soon as Jimmy heard about his aunt, he told us everything.’
Smedley-Judd seemed to have nothing to say, though Hardy could see he was thinking furiously. Hardy went on, ‘In addition, we have witness statements, we have just received a phone call in which the main points of your brother’s confession were read to us. I’m sorry to say he did not manage to evade police in Hertfordshire. In fact, it was the local police who intercepted the phone call you instructed your butler Morris to make, telling your brother to get out while he could.’
Hardy put the envelope back into his pocket. He looked at Smedley-Judd, looking right into his eyes ‘If I were you, I’d make a full confession too, in the hope of clemency. I’m afraid there’s not much doubt that you will be convicted. Now, it’s almost four o’clock. I’ll get some tea sent in, and we can make a start. How about it?’
‘Mr Smedley-Judd, I really must advise...’
‘You can go, Brownlow. I’ve made up my mind. I can see I’m not going to get out of this. Will my brother hang, Inspector?’
Hardy barely noticed the solicitor pick up his attaché case and with an air of injured pride, leave the room. ‘For the murder of two innocent women, Daphne Medhurst and Muriel Carmichael, not to mention a young policeman? Yes, I’m afraid there’s very little doubt about that.’
Ian Smedley-Judd hung his head. His shoulders heaved. ‘My little brother,’ he said, his voice distorted by emotion. ‘He has grown up to be the most cold, ruthless...You’d never believe he could become upset about the death of a pet rabbit, would you? And yet he was such a sensitive little boy. As a man...’ he sighed. ‘It’s all over, I know that. None of this was supposed to happen. No one was supposed to get hurt. It was Melville who knocked down the first girl and ran off with her bag. Not that it contained what we were looking for. I didn’t have the stomach for hurting anyone, it all got too brutal for my taste. Gareth couldn’t believe Melville let her live. So he took over. It was Gareth who had the next go at getting the scrap. That was the girl at the cinema. Of course, it was only later we realised Gareth had killed the wrong girl. He thought it was Miss Manderson again. A terrible business. I know Major Medhurst. As one father to another, I know what a dreadful thing we’ve done. Will you let him know how sorry I am? It was never meant to be like this. Never.’
‘Will you tell us how it was meant to be? Sergeant Maple will write down what you say. I’ll send for that tea. We might as well be comfortable, we’ll be here for a while.’
‘Speaking of which, perhaps I might use the—er—the facilities before we get started?’ Smedley-Judd said.
‘Yes, of course. Sergeant Maple will send for someone to escort you.’
‘Go and see what’s keeping them, will you Frank? It’s been ten minutes.’ Hardy said. Maple leapt to his feet and left the room. Steam curled up into the air above the three teacups on the table in front of him. It was colder in the room than he’d realised, though outside it was a lovely, if chilly, Spring day. Summer would soon be here, he thought. He thought of Dottie, thought of her in a light pretty dress, thought of walking hand in hand with her somewhere leafy with flowers and birdsong, and then he would kneel before her and say...
‘He’s dead!’
Snapping out of his daydream, and surging to his feet, Hardy stared at Maple.
‘What?’
‘Hung himself in the lav. Nothing can be done for him, he’s a goner. I can’t believe it.’
Hardy raced up the stairs to the gentlemen’s WC. On the tiled floor was Smedley-Judd, Dr Garrett was kneeling beside him and already shaking his head. In the corner of the room, the young police constable stood wringing his hands in despair. It was the same bright young chap who had found Daphne Medhurst’s handbag. No doubt this new blot on his record would outweigh his usefulness on that occasion. There was no need to remind him that even for a call of nature, prisoners were not to be left alone.
Hardy, furious and frustrated, slammed back against the wall. Although he already knew the answer, he asked, ‘What happened?’
Almost in tears, the young constable said, ‘Well sir, he went into the stall, to—you know, relieve himself—and it seems he stood on the side of the toilet, wrapped the chain around his neck and then just—jumped. I heard the noise, well, it was...he almost knocked down the door as he fell against it, and he pulled the cistern down as he went, which is why...’
‘Why we’re up to our ankles in water.’ Hardy turned to Garrett, already knowing it was hopeless. Garrett simply shook his head and put his stethoscope away.
She was waiting for him by the window and spotted him immediately as he came up the steps to the house. She ran to open the door, and he couldn’t help himself, he was so glad to see her, he simply swept her up into his arms.
But before he could kiss her, her mother appeared, saying severely, ‘Please close that door, Dorothy, there is such a cold breeze today. Inspector Hardy, how are you? Do go through to the drawing room. I’m afraid my husband is out, and I am just about to go out myself, but I imagine that will not inconvenience you. Dorothy, do ring for some tea for the inspector, I’m sure he could do with it. He looks as though he has had a long day.’
Meekly Hardy went into the drawing room. Dottie, equally meekly, rang for tea. They sat in opposite armchairs, and didn’t know quite how to start. Mrs Manderson, popping in briefly to say goodbye, appeared to approve their arrangements.
He showed Dottie the letter Mrs Gerard had left. She was distressed to hear of the old woman’s suicide, but her sorrow was soon forgotten as he began to tell her everything, explaining about Melville’s involvement and that Gareth Smedley-Judd, inconsolable at the death of his brother, had also made a full confession. Then of course, Hardy had needed to write up his reports, and meet with his superiors to discuss the case and agree that it was now closed. The chief superintendent had not been happy that two of the perpetrators had been allowed to take their own lives, though as the Commissioner himself had pointed out, it saved the public the expense of two trials, and said that considering his lack of experience, that Hardy had acquitted himself admirably.
The Daughters of Esther had taken off their cloaks.
They stood about awkwardly, as if feeling naked. Their new, self-proclaimed leader, the redoubtable Mrs Manderson, surveyed them with approval. With embarrassment the women began to meet the eyes of the others they had known were in the order but had pretended not to recognise.
‘Now then,’ Mrs Manderson said briskly. ‘Let’s have our tea and I will tell you about the further changes I plan to make. We’ll have no more secrecy, no more pretence. We are going to be openly doing good in the community and proud of our achievements. Just as Queen Esther helped her people in a time of crisis, so shall we. I s
hall canvass you all for ideas of how to raise funds and expand our spheres of influence.’
Within ten minutes, animated conversation of an unprecedented volume had broken out amongst the women. One woman was even heard to laugh. It was a liberating sensation for them all.
Exhaustion had finally claimed him, and his eyes closed, his head sank against the cushioned winged back of the chair, and he went down into a deep sleep. He had barely slept in the last twenty-four hours, or indeed for several days before that.
Dottie gently removed the cup and saucer from his hand, and set them on the tray which sat on the table. She looked at him for a moment, a little embarrassed, yet aware for the first time of a curious sense of possessiveness. After a brief hesitating doubt, and a glance at the door to make sure it was closed, she went to him, and stooping over him, loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. His eyes fluttered open for a single fleeting second, and his smile was warm and unguarded, a lover’s smile.
She paused once more, then she turned and ran lightly into the hall, up the stairs to her room, caught up the counterpane from her bed and hurried back down with it. She caught her breath on the threshold, half afraid her mother, or anyone else, would have unexpectedly come home to intrude, or that he would be wide awake again. She pushed the door open.
He still slept. No one else was there. Dottie covered him with the counterpane, brushed his hair back from his eyes with a flutter of her fingers. At the touch, his eyes opened again, hazy with sleep, and he murmured, ‘This is how it will always be,’ then he slept again. She passed two fingers over his cheekbone, tracing the contours of his face, down towards his chin, feeling the roughness of the stubble against her fingertips. He didn’t stir. Bolder, she touched his lower lip with her forefinger. Then stroked her finger up again, along his eyebrow and down the straight line of his nose. She breathed out softly, and clasped her hands together. If they were married, she thought, she could snuggle into the chair with him, under the same counterpane, put her arms around him and sleep with her head on his shoulder.
Idiot, she reminded herself, if they were married he wouldn’t have had to sleep in the chair. He could have gone up to bed. And she too could have...She blushed at the thought of sharing a bed with him, this stranger, this man, of feeling his arms about her, the taste of his lips on hers, then with a guilty start, she thrust the thoughts away, thinking of what her mother would say about such disgraceful imaginings.
Dottie backed away to sit in the chair opposite him, busying her hands with another shawl for her sister’s coming baby, her eyes fixed on his face and her own jumbled thoughts.
When her mother came home two hours later, he had gone, and the counterpane was back on Dottie’s bed.
Epilogue
IT WAS ALMOST A YEAR later that the Mantle of God finally went on display at the London Metropolitan Museum. On the day that the display was opened to the public, James Melville, also known as James McKay began his twenty-five years for armed robbery, robbery with violence, conspiracy to commit a violent crime, and as an accessory to three murders. Three other men were convicted of similar crimes, and were to serve sentences of ten to twenty-five years. Wilfred Walter Wotherspoon and his son-in-law Cedric Meyer both received two-year suspended sentences in return for their help in the capture of the other members of the gang.
Gareth Smedley-Judd, sentenced to death for the unlawful killing of Daphne Medhurst, Muriel Carmichael and the killing of the young police constable, Daniel Paige, was hanged in a gloomy prison yard on a wet Thursday, and was mourned by no one.
At the museum, with his secretary, now also his fiancée, Miss Walters hovering in the background, Mr Falke proudly showed William and Dottie the huge glass case where the chasuble held pride of place. Her hand through William’s arm, Dottie stood before the case and with the others, a silence descending on them as they looked at the garment.
The five pieces had been reunited, and the seams that joined them together were almost invisible. The mantle was draped on a dummy rather like a dressmaker’s form, to give the full effect of the front and back of the garment.
Dottie had a lump in her throat as she looked at the embroidered scenes: the Garden of Eden and the Expulsion from Paradise on the left front, the baptism of Jesus and the beheading of John the Baptist in his prison cell on the right front, the first miracle at the wedding in Cana on the bottom half of the back panel, and at the top in the centre of the back, the Annunciation: the figure of Mary adorned in pearls and rubies, gold thread and silver, a gleaming halo surrounding her entire form, and the wings of the angel still gloriously bright more than six hundred years after they were created. Tucked away at the top of one sleeve was a green-worked hill and a cross, whilst on the other sleeve, the one that had so frustratingly evaded Mrs Gerard and her cronies, the one where a tiny piece had been cut off but had been so carefully reattached, there was a glorious starburst, and beneath it, a tiny manger, filled with gold straw and waiting...
Was it worth the lives that had died to protect it? She couldn’t say for sure, but as she drank in the ancient workmanship—workwomanship—she corrected herself, thinking of those women who had laboured to create the glorious wealth of colour and design, she thought if it was hers, she might, just might, have given her life to keep it safe.
The End
I hope you enjoyed this book. If you did, you might like to read on...
Here’s a little taster for the next book, which is
Scotch Mist: a Dottie Manderson mystery novella
Due for publication April 2018
ANNA MCHUGH GLARED through the prison bars at the sprawling body. When the figure did not immediately acknowledge her presence, she aimed a kick through the bars at the foot hanging off the end of the narrow cot.
‘Hey, idiot! I haven’t got all day to wait around for you, so let’s get going.’
The figure on the cot stretched and yawned in a leisurely manner, as if awaking from a deep refreshing sleep. He got to his feet and gave her what he clearly believed was a cheeky smile, but she glared at him again and turned on her heels. ‘If you’re no’ in the street in one minute, you’ll have to walk back.’ She went through to the waiting area at the front of the police station, and said to the officer behind the desk. ‘He’s ready to leave now, if that’s all right.’
The police officer gave her a grin as he turned to fetch the keys out of a cupboard behind him. ‘I know you said he was at home with you all night. But we all know it was him what took that deer from the Hall. And the Laird of the Hall is also a very good friend of the Procurator. So maybe try and keep your man home at night, m’dear, if you don’t want him to go to prison for a long while.’
She watched him go through to unlock the cell door. ‘He’s no my man,’ she said softly. Her man was at home, behind the bar of his public house, and he would be ready with his belt when he heard she’d given William Hardy an alibi for the previous night. Her heart felt heavy, she dreaded going home. But what else could she do? She couldn’t let Will go to jail. She went out into the sunshine to the little car she’d borrowed from the pub.
It seemed everything she did for Will got her into trouble. How could he have given up her name like that, even to get himself out of a tight spot? Surely he knew by now the price she would pay for that? Her mind whispered that her mother would have said a gentleman never betrayed a lady’s confidence. But William Hardy was no gentleman, and she doubted he would say she was a lady, either. Why did she let him do this to her? If she could only get him out of her life—and her heart—perhaps her husband wouldn’t find so much fault in her. Which would mean far fewer bruises.
She sat behind the wheel, waiting. And waiting. She told herself she’d just give him a minute, then it became two more, and then another five. Finally after almost fifteen minutes the man came out, swaggering as he came, proud as punch of his exploits. Along the street someone cheered, and Will raised his fist in a gesture of triumph. Anna sighed. Ho
w was another night in the cells anything to be proud of?
DOTTIE MANDERSON SIGHED for the tenth time. Her knitting lay forgotten on the arm of her chair. She stared into the fire. April was proving almost as chilly as March, and that day’s so-called April shower had been a torrential downpour that had lasted for four hours. Ordinarily she’d have been at work at the warehouse of Carmichael and Jennings, (Exclusive Modes for Discerning Ladies), showing gowns and suits to Mrs Carmichael’s clients, or at least having fittings and rehearsals.
But Mrs Carmichael had been horribly murdered just two weeks earlier, and the warehouse was silent, in a kind of limbo, with no business being done. Like the other mannequins, Dottie had no idea what was going to happen either to her job or the warehouse itself, or to the half-planned autumn/winter collection. The place just wouldn’t be the same without the large, formidable woman shouting orders in her strident East London accent, scattering the girls here and there. Dottie found she just couldn’t picture a future for the warehouse her late employer had spent her whole life building up single-handedly.
It was so upsetting. She couldn’t bear to think about Mrs Carmichael being pushed down the stairs of her own home in the middle of the night. In recent months Dottie had known several people who had died unpleasant deaths. But the death of Mrs Carmichael, who had been a friend as well as an employer, had hit her hard and she found herself continually on the verge of tears, not wanting to think about it, yet finding it was the only thing she could think about.
On top of that, she was so bored. So much of her life had revolved around working at the warehouse, and now time hung heavily on her; she had no idea how to get through the day. Her mother had tried to interest her in a little ladylike charity work, but that held no appeal for her. Let the older women do that sort of thing.
Her father had suggested a job—something genteel and undemanding, a little typewriting, perhaps—but again this did not inspire her.
