the purloined parure 3

 

Chapter 3

 

“Take your time, Mickey, but don’t string it out,” said Alexander, when he had his prisoner sat down with mug files, a cup of tea, and an iced bun, Mickey’s choice for a snack.  “I have some telephoning to do, but if you call the lad in the office, he’ll send me down.”

“If he’s in ‘ere, I’ll find im,” said Cosher.

 

Alexander returned to his office, and put through a call to the records office, where he discovered that the property in question had belonged to a Mrs. Gertrude Beauchamp, relict of George Arthur Beauchamp, gent. Probate being a matter of public record, he discovered that he needed to speak to Mr. Albert Pickle, of Pickle, Lilley, and Dill.

But not until he had any suggestions of who the body might be.

He went down to records.

“That’s nice timing, Mr. Armitage,” said Cosher.

“What, you ran out of tea?”

Cosher sniggered.

“Well, yerse, but I wasn’t expectin’ a second cuppa,” he said. “I fahnd the Weasel, workin’ on wot ‘e would of looked like.”

Alexander looked at the picture.

“Marty Beauchamp, alias Martin Beach, alias George Powder.”

“Wot, is that ‘ow you says it, like Beecham’s Powders?” said Cosher. “I fort it was Bo-champ.”

“No, like Cholmondely, Beauchamp is one of those old names which is not spelled how it is said,” said Alexander. “Well, that definitely helps.  I’ll have them send you another cuppa before you go back to the cells, and here’s a bar of Cadbury’s to keep you company. I have a solicitor to lean on.”

“’Ave fun, Mr. Armitage,” said Cosher. “Reckon I’ll see you in court, and then in abaht four years.”

“Something like that, Mickey,” said Alexander.

 

oOoOo

 

“Mr. Pickle? This is Inspector Armitage of Scotland Yard, I need to speak about the last will and testament of your client, Mrs. Gertrude Beauchamp, and any potential beneficiaries.”

“Well, that is most irregular whilst probate is being proved, Inspector, since one of the beneficiaries is not happy. Moreover, the house has been burgled.”

“When are they ever happy?” said Alexander. “You have a problem. At least you do if one of your beneficiaries is Martin Beauchamp.”

There was a long silence.

“Go on,” said Pickle.

“He’s dead, and possibly killed by one of your other beneficiaries,” said Alexander. “He was discovered by a sneak thief who, being much affected through his war experiences – he’s an old customer of mine – unfortunately went to some lengths to get rid of the body.”

“Maybe he killed him,” said Pickle.

“The leopard doesn’t change its spots nor the Ethiopian his skin,” said Alexander. “And whilst I don’t say that the Bible is a police manual, it does include some of the earliest tales of forensics in the world, and it’s a well known fact that crooks don’t change their methods. He was most disturbed by the working-over your man had, but unfortunately we won’t get any evidence of that from the body; he told me all about it, and we’re digging up the remains this afternoon, which you are welcome to attend.”

“Yes, I believe I should. Most distressing! How did your crook know who it was?”

“I sat him down with our mug shots of criminals because he opined that the house had been gone over very thoroughly before he got there, and it seemed reasonable to suppose that the body belonged to someone caught by another someone in the act, and... interrogated. I’ve got a squad going over the house for fingerprints and other evidence, and it cannot be ruled out that some of what was taken was sold already by Martin Beauchamp.”

“I see. Well, it’s mostly small pieces of furniture and books that seem to have gone.”

“Can I confirm the terms of the will, please?”

“Yes, I suppose you must. A few small personal bequests to servants, and the bulk of the estate to be sold and the proceeds shared between her three sons, or, if they predeceased her, their heirs and successors pro rata, which is to say the father’s share to be split amongst any offspring. It only affects Marty, whose father, George, died before his mother.”

“So, the rumour that there is a fabulous parure is just rumour?” asked Alexander. “Or is that included in the ‘to be sold and split?’”

“No, the rumour is true. Mrs. Beauchamp was a beauty in her time and was... well, she had a few lovers. And one of them gifted her with the parure. Her will says, and I quote, “whoever finds the parure may have it; it came to me by sheer luck, and let it pass on by sheer luck, so long as they can retain it for a year and a day.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said Alexander. “You could read that as being anyone, servant, sneak thief, nosy copper or whatever.”

“There’s that rider, of course,” said Pickle. “Are you registering discovery?”

“No, but I may be registering discovery on the part of my sneak thief,” said Alexander. “In which case, I’d be bound to care for it on his behalf whilst he’s in stir.”

“Good God!”

“He is, but I fancy that a one-time courtesan with that merry an outlook on the world would think it a good joke.”

“To be honest, it would make Mrs. Beauchamp laugh,” said Mr. Pickle, reluctantly. “Especially if he was handsome.”

“He’s as ugly as sin,” said Alexander, cheerfully. “But he has what you might call a pleasant look. And he has a sense of humour too.”

“Oh, she would have liked him, then,” said Mr. Pickle. “I’ve seen the thing, so I can recognise it; a fabulous piece of bijouterie with tiara, necklace, hair ornaments, earrings, rings, bracelets and an outsize brooch which also fastens onto the necklace as an extra dangling part.”

“It sounds hideous,” said Alexander, frankly.

“It is,” said Mr. Pickle. “But the lady attracted the attention of a close relative of the Sultan of Zanzibar.”

“Dear me!” said Alexander. “How very exotic!”

“Yes, and then she married a reclusive bibliophile when she decided she was old enough for her sexual charms to be on the wane,” said Pickle.

“And how old was that?” asked Alexander.

“Twenty five,” said Pickle. “At the height of her beauty, in my opinion, judging by the portrait her husband had painted of her; but the other side of height is decline, and she did very well for herself. The other jewellery, which is in the bank, will see a clear quarter million in today’s money.”

Alexander whistled.

“That’s two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to whittle down the competition, never mind the parure.”

“I would like to say that my clients would not do such a thing, but I think I will merely say, ‘dear me, the policeman’s mind,’” said Mr. Pickle.

“And one more thing,” said Alexander, “Who else was in the house with the old lady when she died?”

“Oh, only the nurse,” said Pickle.

“I’ll need details about her.”

“Yes, I’ll let you know.”

 

 

It was not yet ten-thirty, so Alexander strolled up to Orme Court.  It was a mile and a half or so, and he went through Hyde Park for the last leg of the journey. December was relatively pleasant after the cold fogs in November, and Alexander enjoyed the thin sun filtering through the light mist, turning the park into the sort of fairyland where the statue of Peter Pan might be imagined to be real.

“Good morning, Peter,” said Alexander, to the statue. He hurried out of the park and across the road and into Orme Court. The uniformed policeman outside the house was a giveaway which of the late Georgian buildings was the one he wanted. They were uniform in some respects with others in the region, and yet each one with individual features within the Palladian style of the upright, five-storey buildings. Each had their classical proportions, right down to the areas below ground, behind railings but the stonework varied, and the porticoes of the front doors were different. Many were now apartments, and doubtless that would be the fate of this one, too, when it was sold. It seemed a shame that such a gracious building should be broken up, and yet, housing was always needed, and it was too big for a single person, or even a couple.  A couple with servants, and children... perhaps he would talk to Mr. Pickle and put in a bid. He nodded to the bobby, and started to run up the stairs to the front door.

“Excuse me, sir, you can’t go in there,” said the policeman, managing to get in front of him.

“You’re very new, aren’t you?” said Alexander, amused.

“What has that to do with it, sir?” said the lad. “I do my duty as well as anyone.”

“One of your duties should be to recognise senior officers in from Scotland Yard, lad. Now you’ve met one.” He handed over his warrant card.

The young constable stared at it for a moment, then snapped to attention.

“I’m sorry, sir!” he said.

“Next time, ask to see someone’s identity document rather than telling them they can’t go somewhere, and if they aren’t someone with a right, then you say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, you are not authorised to enter.’ I’m not offended, but I can think of a few who would be, because however good at his job a detective may be, it still takes all sorts, and some are little Kaisers.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir, and thanks for the warning. I thought you were dressed too well to be with Scotland Yard.”

Alexander laughed.

“You’re welcome. And well observed; I have independent means, which causes me some hassles from some of the little Kaisers who resent it. But carry on observing that well, and who knows? You might end up working with me one day. What’s your name?”

“Joe Munday, sir. Seven one four.

 

Alexander went to find the team he had sent.

“Harris! Anything interesting?” he asked.

“More prints than one o’ them illegal presses in Soho,” said Sergeant Harris.

“No, surely not? I don’t think I can face nude thumbprints with delicate pieces of lace in strategic places,” said Alexander.

“How you do take one literal, sir,” said Harris.

“You ought to know me by now,” said Alexander. “Many of them will belong to the old woman, and of course, her sons and grandsons, and that’s no help as one of them turns out to be the dead guy and he may have been killed by another of them.”

“Well, that’s a lot of help,” said Harris. “Wot we have got is a load o’ blood, four teef, two fingernails, and some bloody tools.”

“Well, that corroborates what poor Cosher Stubbins said,” said Alexander. “He had a nasty turn when he found the body.”

“I reckon anyone might, if it was a messed up as the body parts and blood suggests,” said Harris. “We was expecting it, and I had to send one of the lads to go and be sick outside. He found the first fingernail and asked what it was.”

Alexander shuddered.

“According to Stubbins, the fingers were pretty mangled.”

“So, are we talking about a nut job?”

“No, we’re talking about a very greedy man... or possibly woman... who is either one who got a taste for killing during the war, or who hasn’t tasted war and hasn’t been more than sated with blood and death.”

Harris nodded.

“Borderline nut job, even so,” he said.

“There’s a difference between that and insane within the meaning of the act,” said Alexander. “I think chummy is well aware of what he was doing and that it was wrong. However, that’s neither here nor there. Our body is the oldest of the old woman’s grandchildren, I sent a lad over to Somerset House to find out; I’ve asked for their army records, and the solicitor is attending the excompostation of Marty Beauchamp this afternoon.”

“The ex- what?” asked Harris.

“Exhumation, strictly speaking, but as he’s been composted, we’ll be lucky to get much.”

“Gawdstrewf!” said Harris. “Imagine eatin’ your peas wiv your Sund’y roast, and thinking, I growed this on a bloke called Marty Beauchamp. Gives me the willies, that does.”

“It’s what was done to him when he was alive that gives me the willies,” said Alexander. “Poor little bastard, and no answer he could give that would satisfy.”

“People who do things like that ought never to see the light of day,” said Harris.

“I’m with you there,” said Alexander, grimly.  “And it’s up to us to produce a sufficiency of body of evidence in the absence of a truly speaking body, to get chummy hung.”

“Not easy, sir. Stupid fellow, Mickey Stubbins.”

“I know, but you imagine it, Harris; where were you serving?”

“Verdun, sir.”

“Well, there you are. You’re slipping into a strange house in the middle of the night, expecting it to be empty. You put your foot on something soft and it sits up in the moonlight with a horrible groan as you expel the gases of decomposition, and the smell of them hits it. I bet you’d be right back at Verdun, and hearing the guns in your head, and you want to clear your foxhole of that thing, and dispose of it somehow.”

“Oh, I ain’t disputin’ that Cosher wanted it gone. But did he ‘ave to be so bleedin efficient abaht it!”

“He is quite an efficient little fellow, you know,” said Alexander.  “Just as well he never went in for disposing of bodies for people; imagine trying to sort thirty or so different people’s partial teeth from inside the compost.”

“Gawdelpusall, let’s hope he doesn’t take it up as a business, after this job,” said Harris.

“I rather fancy that Weasel, as he called poor Marty, will be his companion on too many nights in jail for him to fancy that idea,” said Alexander, who fancied that at least the nightmares might be fewer since Mickey had shared his experiences with a man who understood.