the purloined parure 6

 

Chapter 6

 

The meeting with the family, arranged through Mr. Pickle, was to take place in the house of Mr. Alec Beauchamp.

Alexander rang the door of the house in Queens Road[1]; the sons had not spread far from the family home. All had bought houses within a few hundred yards of Orme Court.

He met Mr. Pickle hurrying to join him at the door, escorting a dignified-looking lady in black.

“Oh, Mr. Armitage, this is Mrs. Rose Beauchamp, which is to say, Mrs. George Beauchamp.”

“You have advised her of...” Alexander tailed off.

“Mr. Pickle has told me that my son, Marty, died when trying to find the parure and that he was murdered brutally by another, whom you presume to be a member of the family,” said Mrs. Beauchamp. “I would not doubt it, though I believe the existence of the parure was well-known. I know my son was a weak character, sadly like the whole family, but he was my son, and I loved him, and he never did anyone any harm. Any more than my poor husband did, even if he did inherit both his father’s love of books and lack of scruples in obtaining them.”

“I will do my best to find your son’s killer,” said Alexander. Rose Beauchamp inclined her head.

They were let in at this moment by a male servant.

“I got on well with Gertrude,” said Rose. “She was everything that would have shocked my parents, but she sympathised with my frustrations over George. He was much like his father; weak men, with a laxity of morals which did not show itself until temptation reared its head. Gertrude married George Arthur because he represented respectability, stability, and a good enough income for her not to have to sell off her jewels one by one. She was his passion, next to his books. And that is what is the chief jewel of the estate; the books.”

“I believe those stolen have been uncovered, for a small fee,” said Alexander. “I set another bibliophile to track them down.”

“Thank you; I married George because I am, myself, a bibliophile,” said Rose. “And because he was handsome, and better read than any of my other suitors. Marty was my joy once I realised how very flawed poor George was, but, alas, when a son is sent off to school at seven years old, it is hard for a mother to exert any influence on him, as he fears being called a mother’s boy.”

“Frederick?” asked Alexander.

“Quite,” said Rose. “No thief, Fred, but a bully. I suspect him of killing my boy.”

“I hear you,” said Alexander. “I will be taking your testimony here, and what I find out elsewhere, into consideration. Though I fancy it was a colder man than a hot-tempered bully who killed your son.”

“I see,” said Rose. “Shall we go in?” she motioned the door to which the servant had led them.

 

The drawing room was a large space in the town house, easily able to accommodate them all. It was tastefully decorated in a lightish blue and dull gold. It was definitely a reminder of the prewar days, opulent, tasteful, and dark. Alexander saw Rose to a comfortable-looking chair covered in dull gold velvet, and looked around. Seven people were already in residence, one had to assume that the man with the full set, naval fashion, sat on the sofa, was Alec, with his wife beside him. Penelope, that was her name. Penelope had long since lost her figure, and filled much of the rest of the nominally three-person sofa.  She had a knitting bag beside her and was knitting something rather fluffy. In her bag was a novel which Alexander was fairly certain was ‘Captain Blood,’ by Rafael Sabatini.

“We share a taste in literature, Mrs. Beauchamp,” he said.

She looked up, and her face transformed from sulky fat woman into a beam of innocent pleasure.

“What, a policeman likes pirate stories?” she asked.

“I’m planning on auditioning for Frederick from ‘Pirates of Penzance’ when I manage to move to the quiet Oxfordshire village which has an active amateur dramatics group,” said Alexander. “Besides, Peter Blood is the goodie, forced into piracy.”

“I like Agatha Christie, too, but my husband says I have deplorable taste,” said Penelope Beauchamp. “I never solve them, of course.”

“Your taste is deplorable, and I am sure the fellow doesn’t want to hear about it,” snapped her husband.

“My mother reads Agatha Christie, and I have to say, her characterisations are good, even if I think she sometimes cheats by leaving things out,” said Alexander. “And don’t call me a ‘fellow,’ old boy. It rather shows up your own ignorance and reminds me that you never progressed past lieutenant in the navy.

“You’re not telling me you are naval!” demanded Alec Beauchamp.

“Good Lord, no; I wouldn’t want to be,” said Alexander. “But I think you will find that a major equates to a naval captain, and I believe there are two or three ranks between lieutenant and captain. And all police, from the humblest traffic bobby up, still hold the king’s warrant, and are therefore warrant officers. Your attitude to the police force in referring to me as a ‘fellow’ is deplorable and not consonant with your position as a gentleman.”

“You appear to have been told, brother,” said another older man, coming in with a still-beautiful woman and two youths. The woman kissed the air each side of Penelope’s cheeks.

“Still reading tripe, Penelope? You should read James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses,’” said the third Mrs.  Beauchamp.

“I have no problem sleeping, Daphne, so I don’t need it, thank you,” said Penelope.

Alexander had to suppress a chuckle.

The beautiful, beautifully turned-out and made-up figure of the third Beauchamp wife recoiled almost as if she was slapped, and then smiled a poisonous smile.

“I’m sure sleeping is something you are very good at, darling, it takes no thought,” she said.

“Ding ding,” said Alexander.

“You said what?” said Mr. Pickle.

“End of round one,” said Alexander.

Penelope gave him an uncertain look, and Daphne gave him a filthy one.

“Everyone here?” said Alexander.

“Yes, but I don’t know why you are,” said Arthur. “All you have to do is to arrest whoever stole our goods and return them to us to be probated.”

“Oh, that’s done and dusted,” said Alexander. “I wanted to meet you to speak about Marty’s murder.”

The silence was palpable.

“Come now, what’s this?” boomed Alec.

“Alec, dear, I do wish you would not try to sound like a fog-horn when you are discomforted,” said Penelope. “You almost made me drop a stitch.”

“Martin Beauchamp made an abortive effort to find the parure,” said Alexander. “Someone caught him in the act, believed he had succeeded, and proceeded to torture him quite brutally... I’m sorry, Mrs. Rose, but I have to talk about it.”

“I understand,” said Rose. “I want justice for my son, and I will not fall apart at you. I, at least, am a lady.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Rose,” said Daphne, icily.

“You were a show-girl when you married Arthur,” said Rose.

“And I’m a shop girl, common as muck, and not ashamed of it,” said Penelope.

“Which makes you more of a lady than those who pretend,” said Rose. “Don’t mind me, dear, I’m upset about my son.”

“And you think my Freddy did it,” said Penelope.

“I did, but something the inspector said makes me wonder,” said Rose.

“Can’t we get on without the women bickering? Can’t you make them shut up so you can tell us the details, officer?” asked the younger of the two youths.

“Oh, a police officer loves families bickering,” said Alexander, cheerfully. “All that dirty linen on display is a balm to our hearts.”

“I didn’t kill Marty,” said the big, sullen-looking man sitting by the window. “He was a dirty little sneak-thief, and always was, but I didn’t kill him.”

“I don’t know why he was looking for the supposed parure,” said Alec.  “I’ve always doubted that it even existed.”

“Oh, it exists,” said Alexander. “It was found by the sneak thief who fell over Marty’s body, and who let me know about murder most foul. After, I am sorry to say, he lost his head, supposing himself to be back on the Somme, and buried it in his own compost heap.”

“Some of these fellows are such cowards, and claim of bad dreams since the war,” said Freddy, with a superior smile.

“You’re such an arse, Freddy, just because you have fists instead of brains,” said the youngest of the three who had been there at the start, presumably Eric. “I earned the same medal as you, and I have nightmares.”

“Most people with any imagination do,” said Alexander. “One of my dear friends dragged himself out of his burning aeroplane and I still have nightmares about carrying him through the mud when he reached us, and in the nightmare, the mud is stickier, and the distance to go increases as I carry him, and the fire around us gets denser.”

Eric looked at him, nodded, and put out a hand. Alexander shook it.

“Infantry?” asked Eric.

“Tank corps,” said Alexander. “I was seconded from cavalry.”

“We were glad of you chaps,” said Eric.

“Believe me, we were glad to be backed by the infantry,” said Alexander.

The third of those brothers cleared his throat.

“War reminiscences despite, can we move on about my larcenous cousin?” he asked.

“Oh, you must be Thomas,” said Alexander, equably. “I wouldn’t throw any stones about being larcenous, if I were you, it’s still tagged on your record that you were suspected of being involved in the sale of rations which almost caused a mutiny. And your commanding officer, who was... oh, yes, your father.”

“It’s all lies!” squealled Thomas.

“It was a preposterous fabrication,” said Alec.

“These violent and horrid men, I hate that my dear boys are related to them,” said Daphne. “We all know that Freddy had been beating on Marty since they were little, it’s quite preposterous that you have not yet arrested him.”

“Funnily enough, ma’am, being a free country we have a law of ‘innocent until proven guilty,’” said Alexander. “And so I am here to take the statements of all of you regarding your movements on the night in question.  The lab boys are fairly sure that he was killed on the night of Sunday tenth of this month.”

This was based on the build up of decompositional gasses to make the body groan when Mickey had stood on him, but no foaming from nose and mouth. Mickey had found him on the fifteenth, and had been nicked on Monday the eighteenth after the job on Cohen’s shop. He had admitted, reluctantly, that he had cased the joint on the previous Saturday night, and found no obvious way in, the reason he had used his Gas Man persona. It was now Wednesday the twentieth.

“Why are we the only suspects?” demanded Alec. “What about my mother’s servants? They must have known the rumour of the parure. And what do you mean, it was taken by the sneak thief? I trust you have returned it to Pickle, it can be sold and the monies divided like the rest of the estate.”

“Oh that would not do at all, not at all,” said Pickle. “The will did not specify that it was to go to anyone in the family who found it, but to anyone who found it, and could keep it for a year and a day.”

Eric gave a crack of laughter.

“So, this little thief nabbed it, did the right thing by Marty and got himself nicked for it, and as a result, he might lose out on the incunabulae, but the parure sits in an evidence locker for the time he’s inside meaning he holds onto it for a year and a day.  Oh, that’s rich, and some moral justice for him feeling compassion for poor Marty.”

The silence was very loud and the atmosphere seemed to come from the arctic.

“Not strictly true,” said Alexander. “The little thief asked me to take the parure into my own safe keeping, and so I have care of it whilst he is inside.”

“That’s scarcely safe if it’s as fabulous as is rumoured,” said the older of the two youths. “I don’t know what your salary is, but it can’t be enough to have decent safeguards.”

“It is fortunate that I am independently wealthy,” said Alexander. “I have an apartment in Bloomsbury.”

“You certainly don’t get that, on a copper’s pay,” said Freddy, with a coarse laugh. “Of course, if crims are in the habit of letting you look after their goods, with a bit that falls off for you as perks....”

“Are you implying that I take bribes?” asked Alexander.

“Well, obviously,” said Freddy. “Everyone does, and you’ve found yourself a new twist to the racket.”

“Mr. Beauchamp,” said Alexander, “As you have impugned my honesty in front of witnesses including your own solicitor, I need you to come into Scotland Yard to swear out a complaint that you believe me to be a crooked cop, because I intend to sue you for every penny that you have, since my position as independently wealthy makes such accusations very serious.”

“Don’t be silly, why would I care? It ain’t a complaint,” said Freddy.

“In that case it sounds like a prelude to bribing a police officer, in which case, you must consider yourself under arrest,” said Alexander. “You should consider that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. I am not going to put up with your filthy imputations.”

Freddy lost his temper as Alexander advanced upon him with handcuffs, and took a swing at him. Alexander swayed out of the way.

“Little pipsqueak,” growled Freddy, dropping into a fighting stance.

Alexander relaxed and waited for him to make the first move.

“Freddy, don’t be a fool,” said Alec.

Freddy came in, punching. If a blow landed, Alexander knew that it would hurt. He dodged as best he might in the heavily-furnished space, and fell backwards over a footstool. Freddy laughed, and came in swinging a foot.

Alexander, trained in Cossack dancing, rolled onto his shoulder-blades and bounced up, landing in a squat on his feet, seizing the kicking foot to turn and twist it.

Freddy went down heavily, with a cry of pain. Alexander pulled his arms behind him, and snapped the cuffs on him.

“Now I will be adding assaulting a police officer to attempting to bribe a police officer,” he growled.

“Hey, Fred’s just a bit hot-headed,” said Charley, the older of the two younger ones. “Are you going to put him in jail?”

“Until he apologises for his cracks about being on the take; and he can cool his heels overnight, and if he apologises nicely I will only see him in booked on assault and attempting to cause grievous bodily harm. A man who is drunk enough to use his fists is forgivable. A man who will kick a man on the ground is a criminal.”

“Freddy didn’t mean it,” said Thomas. “He’s just hot tempered.”

“And I’m just bruised and angry and I do mean it,” said Alexander, evenly. “Now, before that disgusting display, I believe you were going to tell me about Gertrude Beauchamp’s servants. And I am displeased with Mr. Pickle who told me that the only person with the old woman was her nurse.”

“Well, yes, she was alone apart from the nurse,” said Pickle.

“But your clients contradict that, and say she had servants,” said Alexander.

“I... I wasn’t counting them as people with her,” said Pickle.

“You’re perilously close to having me run you in as well, for wasting police time and lying to an investigating officer,” said Alexander.

 

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[1] Now Queensway