The purloined Parure 8

 

Chapter 8

 

“Well, that doesn’t look good,” said Alexander.

“I... when I got up, I had a sore ear; I’d cut it somewhere,” said Thomas. “I must have bled from there; everyone knows ears bleed out of all proportion to the size of the cut.”

“And it would also be possible to cut an ear after having been seen covered in blood, to give a reason,” said Alexander.

“Thomas couldn’t torture and kill anyone,” said Penelope.

“Possibly not; but he could have hired someone,” said Alexander. “I have to take this seriously.”

“Why couldn’t you keep your big mouth shut, Eric?” shouted Thomas.

“Because if anyone here is guilty, as I know it isn’t me, I’d rather the right one was found out, because whatever Marty may have been, he was a decent little fellow,” said Eric.

“This damned fellow is trying to set us at each other’s throats!” cried Thomas.

“He doesn’t have to work that hard, does he?” interposed Rose. “I want to know who killed my son.”

“It has to have been one of the servants; we are gentlemen,” said Freddy.

“I haven’t ruled out female involvement,” said Alexander. “I’ve seen what the women of French villages liberated by the allies did to captives they got their hands on. It wasn’t pretty. But being a gentleman does not preclude behaving badly. And this family seems to have a track record for chicanery, thieving, fraud, peculation, and so on which would impress a family of East End ne’er do wells.”

“We don’t have to take this,” said Alec. “You seem to have made up your mind that one of my sons did this; well, I’m going to make a complaint about you.”

“Such is your prerogative,” said Alexander. “Be certain you can substantiate it, however, because any slander will be answered by my solicitor.”

“Damn you!” cried Alec.

“A good many criminals who were more likeable than you, sir, have said the same,” said Alexander. “Come along, Beauchamp,” he said to Frederick. “Back to the cells for you.”

“You can’t do this, my family will deny everything; I didn’t lay a finger on you.”

“Only because I’m more skilful than you.  I hope your family would not perjure themselves?”

“I won’t,” said Rose.

“Dear me, Freddy, you don’t know what you are asking,” said Mr. Pickle. “You are opening yourself to more charges of perverting the course of justice.”

“I won’t stand by you, Freddy; it was a treat to see someone beat you at your own game,” said Eric. “We’ve all been bullied by you, and when you get yours, do you think either of your brothers or your cousins are not going to cheer for the man who gave you best? We all hate you.”

“As a man sows, thus he reaps,” said Alexander. “It sounds as if you have chosen to alienate anyone who might stand beside you. Now, come on; I want to get you booked so I can get a spot of lunch.”

He drove Freddy back to Scotland Yard, to book him.

By the time the big man was in a cell, he had deflated.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “My temper got the better of me.”

“You’re the same age I am,” said Alexander. “Old enough to have got a hold on your temper.”

“I liked the war,” said Freddy. “I was good at fighting.  I wanted to stay in the army, but they wouldn’t have me. Said I was too volatile.”

“Which you are,” said Alexander. “You need to think about that temper of yours, and you also need to tell me where you were.”

“I... I can’t,” said Freddy. “I made a promise.”

Alexander sighed.

“I honour your sense of honour in that, but I wish you would try to give me something without details,” he said.

“I can’t,” said Freddy.

It was something he was going to be stubborn over.

“Well, if you change your mind, let the constable in charge of the cells know,” said Alexander.

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

“Until I’ve had a chance to interview all your grandmother’s servants,” said Alexander. “And if you didn’t kill Marty, I might offer you a chance to prove it, if you behave yourself and keep your nose clean.”

“I didn’t. I can’t – couldn’t stand Marty, but I wouldn’t kill him.”

“Funnily enough, I think I might believe you,” said Alexander.

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander telephoned Ida.

“Ida, can you come up to town and pose as a young matron, looking to employ a housekeeper with cook, married couple preferred, three parlour maids and a personal maid?” he asked.

“Certainly,” said Ida. “You want me to be a grande dame in the way a policewoman cannot?”

“Pretty much,” said Alexander. “I’m going to pull some chicanery to get Pickle to let you use the old woman’s house, and you are looking up the old servants because you want to have people familiar with the house.”

“What about the men?”

“Would it bother you?”

“Not at all, though I think I might like my handsome husband-to-be at my side.”

“We’ll be married for this to work. And they can wait in a salon which has an officer listening in on their conversation. I need to set that up.”

“Is there a room with a dumb waiter? If so, use that,” said Ida.

“Perfect,” said Alexander. “Stay in a hotel overnight, I doubt I can set this up before tomorrow morning.”

“And I’m looking for who is eager to stay there and search for a parure?”

“That too. I’ll have some specific questions I need you to ask.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Good girl,” said Alexander. “I love you.”

“I love you,” said Ida.

 

Next, Alexander telephoned Mr. Pickle, who reluctantly agreed to what he asked.

He also took service photographs of Freddy and Thomas to have duplicated, sending uniformed men out to ask about Thomas at cinemas and pubs, and about Freddy at clubs and dance halls, those which the morality agitators had not had closed on Sundays.

Alexander despised the morality lobby; most of them were women or men with a lot more leisure than most of the working classes, whose time off was at the weekend, and who often worked overtime on Saturdays. For those with leisure to deprive those whose leisure was limited seemed to him to be far more depraved than dancing on a Sunday. Had not King David danced in the temple, after all? And the main reason for having a Sabbath day off was to give the workers some respite. Being forced into nothing but religious contemplation would turn them against God, in Alexander’s view, far more than a bit of fun would.  But he was there to enforce the laws, so he kept his thoughts to himself, and turned something of a blind eye to anything which skimmed close to it.

 

 

Miss Amelia Courtney, the nurse, had taken lodgings in a cheerless basement off Cheapside, whilst she looked for another position. She let in the tall, handsome man with the very nicely tailored suit. She was a plain, but pleasant-looking woman, in her twenties, with eyes that looked ready to smile, and a generous mouth.

“You’ll want to see my certificates and credentials...” she began.

Alexander showed her his warrant card.

Miss Courtney looked scared.

“Are you sure you have the right person?” she quavered.

“Were you until lately nursing Mrs. Gertrude Beauchamp?” asked Alexander.

“I was, but there wasn’t anything wrong with her medicine! How could there have been? The doctor sent it!” squealed Miss Courtney, like a cornered rat, lifting her hands defensively, as if warding off a blow.

“Miss Courtney, have I accused you of anything?” asked Alexander, exasperated.

“Well, in all the novels, when anyone dies, it’s the nurse,” said Miss Courtney.

Alexander went through a dumb show of removing his glove to pinch himself.

“No, I don’t believe I’m in a novel,” he said. “And I don’t think you are, either. As far as I am aware, nobody has questioned the death of Mrs. Beauchamp; but if you have anything you want to tell me about that, I’m prepared to listen, to your opinion as a professional.  If you feel her death was natural, you were the person who was there, on the spot. If anything seemed... wrong... to you, then you should speak up, whilst an exhumation can still be made, to check out any suspicions you might have.”

“Well, she was very old, and it wasn’t me, it was her,” said Miss Courtney, calming down somewhat.

“Why don’t you make us both a cup of tea, and tell me all about it?” said Alexander, who had never anticipated any suggestion that Mrs. Beauchamp had died by any means not natural, but he was not going to avoid following it up, if it arose.

Fortified with tea – thinner than Alexander liked, but acceptable enough as a means to put the woman at her ease that he would take something from her to ingest – Alexander nodded to Miss Courtney to continue.

“Well, it’s like this,” said Miss Courtney. “The old lady, she said to me, she said, ‘Abigail,’ she said, never remembering I was Amelia, you understand; she always called me ‘Abigail.’  ‘Abigail, one of my grandsons is trying to kill me,’ she said. Then she cackled. ‘I’ve had a good innings,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready to go and face the Pearly Gates for my sins, but it has to be done some time, and I don’t think it’s worth waiting around longer than I have to; there aren’t any young men ready to give me a good shag anymore, I’m too wrinkled.’ Well, I was shocked, but I knew fine well she still pleasured herself... uh, you know.”

“I know,” said Alexander. “I’m not an innocent, and a bit of healthy pleasure never did anyone any harm.”

“Oh, well, at least you believe me,” said Miss Courtney. “I used to sterilise her dildo for her. Made of ivory it was. She said I could keep it when she died. Wrote a note as well, so I wasn’t accused of stealing. A fantastical piece it is, too; I’ve never used it, of course, but it’s quite a keepsake.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” said Alexander. “She was a famous courtesan in her youth.”

“Oh, that would explain it,” said Miss Courtney. “I wasn’t sure I believed her when she said a Maharajah gave it to her, to remind her what she was missing.”

“Generous, is it?” asked Alexander.

“No, but presumably he thought it was,” sniggered Miss Courtney. “I’ve held bedpans for too many men to be embarrassed or impressed by what they keep between their legs.”

“Indeed,” said Alexander. “Keep it carefully; it has a wonderful, rich story attached, of a lady who was definitely a character.”

“Oh, she was that, and more,” said Miss Courtney. “She had this set of jewels, rubies and pearls, which she said were also a present, but once she decided one of her grandsons was out to murder her, she had a carpenter in on the servants’ day off, and had him make a table for her to hide it in, disguised as an older piece of furniture, and she had me put it in a room and not tell her where. She asked if I was going to take it, and I said, not I!  I don’t want the danger of something like that, even if you give it to me!  Well, she gave me some pearls, nice, ordinary ones, and I have her note about them, too. And she gave me money, which I’m trying not to break into, because I’m going to want to get married one day.  And if I don’t, well, I’ll need it in my old age. But she told me not to mention the carpenter to anybody, and I wouldn’t, only you’re the police. She paid him off well, as well, and didn’t tell him what the secret drawer was for, only its dimensions.”

“It’s been found,” said Alexander.

“Oh, thank goodness for that,” said Miss Courtney. “I’ve been that worried one of those horrid men would try to bully me into telling all I know, which isn’t much.  But I don’t know if it was her imagination or no; they all used to visit frequently. Afraid she’d cut them out of her will if they didn’t, I wouldn’t wonder, and their fathers. Last Christmas she had the whole lot of them for Christmas dinner, and it was awful, all the women quarrelling, all the men at each other’s throats.”

“I’ve met them,” said Alexander, dryly.

“Oh, you know about how awful they are, then,” said Miss Courtney.

“I know,” said Alexander. Well, Miss Courtney had ample opportunity to take the parure at any time; so she was definitely off the list of suspects. “Do you feel there might be any problems with her death?” Alexander asked.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting it,” said Miss Courtney. “I mean, she was ill; she was losing weight, she had gut disorders, she was in pain, and she developed anaemia, and her mind was starting to wander in the last week or so, but I gave her the nightly dose to help her sleep, and went off to my own bed, and then her bell rang, and she was having a seizure, and... well, shortly after, she was dead. I called the doctor, but he said there was no saying but that she might not have a heart attack any time. Only I didn’t think it was like a heart attack, she thrashed but she didn’t clutch her chest.”

“Hmm,” said Alexander. “Was the bottle nearly empty?”

“Why, yes, as it happens, it was,” said Miss Courtney.

“I fancy I can get an exhumation order on that evidence,” said Alexander. “Her doctor?”

He made a note of the Harley Street man, and left Miss Courtney to it, with the stern order to let Scotland Yard know if she changed her address.

 

Mr. Pickle would not be happy, and nor would the doctor; but Alexander was not in the business of making people happy. He rang Mr. Pickle from his office The solicitor said, ‘oh dear,’ several times, and unhappily agreed; then he contacted the Home Office for an exhumation order, and had Campbell drive him to Harley Street.

“I’ll walk back; why don’t you go and make friends with other chauffeurs in neighbourhoods of interest, and see if any are missing tools, or have anything to say about sundry young gentlemen,” said Alexander.

“On it, Major,” said Campbell.

“Strictly speaking, I am not, and have not been in some time, a major,” said Alexander.

“Well, it means more to me,” said Campbell.

 

oOoOo

 

The reception area and waiting room in Harley Street would not have been out of place if it had been a set in which some formidable Victorian grande dame dispensed her tyranny to a cowed family in a comedy of manners. Lady Bracknell, from Oscar Wilde’s ‘The importance of being Earnest’ would have fitted in perfectly. Alexander, as a skinny thirteen-year-old, had played Miss Prism, and had been awed by the sixth year chap sweeping all before him as Lady Bracknell. It had filled him with awe, and had confirmed him in a love for amateur dramatics. Cool white marble soothed nervous spirits, with soft green walls between, hung with pastoral scenes in opulent gilded frames. The floor had a lush, deep carpet in three shades of green, nurturing dark red and peach pink roses, a warm touch to dispel any suggestion of medical sterility.

“Dr. Whitlaw has no free appointments at this time,” said the receptionist.

“I don’t want an appointment, I want to see the doctor,” said Alexander.

“Make an appointment, then, sir, or find another doctor,” said the receptionist.

“You are looking at my warrant card, which I showed you discreetly,” said Alexander. “Do you want me to say loudly that if the doctor cannot find me five minutes now I will disrupt his day further by taking him in to Scotland Yard?”

“Hush!” said the receptionist, glancing nervously at the few people waiting. “I... I will go and ask him.”

“Thank you so much,” said Alexander. She missed his sarcasm.

Two minutes later she returned.

“Come with me,” she said.

Alexander followed her, and she took him into a small sitting room at the back of the house, which was more comfortable than stylish.

He waited.