The purloined parure 19, final chapter weekend bonus

 

Chapter 19

 

Alexander firmly discharged himself next morning, over the protests of the medical staff, and in particular a starchy matron.

“I have no intention of spending my Christmas in hospital,” he said.

“Mr. Armitage, I cannot guarantee that you will not suffer considerable pain if you are not under the eyes of trained medical staff,” said the matron, frowning at him.

“I shall be; my mother ran a hospital during the war,” said Alexander. “She’s more than capable of checking my ribs and taking out stitches.”

“Well, I can’t say that I think it a good idea to leave your bed,” said the starchy matron. “We advocate three weeks minimum of bed-rest after an appendectomy.”

“Yes, but I didn’t actually have appendicitis, the surgeon only took it out while he was in there because it had been nicked by a knife. No festering detritus poisoning my system, unlike poor old Winnie Churchill, who had a nasty bout in October, I understand.”

“That’s neither here nor there! You are my patient....”

“Sorry, matron, I’m betrothed to a wonderful girl, so you don’t get to tie me down and give me an incentive to stay there,” said Alexander.

“Well, really!” said the matron, outraged. Alexander winked, kissed her on the cheek, patted her on the backside and swept out as she gobbled incoherently at a liberty which had not been taken with her for many years.

“Victory,” said Alexander, to a waiting Campbell. “Took the wind out of her sails nicely.”

“You didn’t ought to flirt,” said Campbell.

“I wasn’t; I went on the offensive purely to take the mickey. Women like that scare me far too much to flirt with them. But a bold move outflanks the scariest enemy.”

“I took Freddy home to be with his fambly for Christmas,” said Campbell. “Not sure he wanted to go, but he and Mr. Henderson was not on good terms.”

“I can’t see my brother-in-law-elect having much time for Freddy,” said Alexander. “Thanks; I can’t say I was looking forward to having him for Christmas.”

“Naow, goose or turkey tastes better,” said Campbell, with a straight face. “Gwine to go load up Miss Ida and Gladdie, then ’ome.”

“I look forward to it.”

Alexander was not ready to admit that the journey across London to pick up the women had already tried him sorely; but Gladys got in the front with Campbell, and Ida in the back, and having taken one look at his white face, Ida pulled his head down onto her lap.

“Put your feet up, do, and doze,” she said.

It was with a sigh of relief that Alexander did so, with his sorest ribs uppermost.

 

Having slept all the way back to Essex, Alexander was amazed how pulled he was by the journey, and fell asleep again, as soon as he was installed in bed, Ida fending off her brother’s complaints about Frederick Beauchamp.  A good rest did wonders, and Alexander enjoyed his family Christmas in a very sedentary way, on a sofa with quilts, and with enough extended family about to mean that he did not have to see much of David Henderson.

 

“I put Mr. Blakecastle onto purchasing a house in Sussex Gardens, and several adjacent mews in Bathhurst Mews behind it,” said Ida. “The mews is accessed by the old coaching inn entrance under the inn, so it’s easy to have it watched for strangers, but if we keep the basement of the Sussex Square house, we can let the floors above if we want, and use the service tunnel to the mews. I am sure you can find some decent old lags who will unblock it for you with a consideration to forget it.”

“Possibly,” said Alexander. “And what, three mews buildings will be our house in London?”

“One for Gladys and Campbell,” said Ida. “But with doors through. And the house is a couple of doors down from a hotel where you might permanently hold a room.”

“Oh, very clever.” Alexander kissed Ida.

“I also purchased a residence being built in Gidea Park for Cosher,” said Ida. “128 Balgores Lane, it’s a semi-detatched[1] house in the modern style, very nice, three bedrooms, nice garden at back, small garden at front.  Not too large and intimidating, a new start for him, and five minutes’ walk from the train if he wants to go up to London, which should be about fifteen minutes.”

“You’re a dear,” said Alexander.

 

 

The fly in the ointment was the arrival of several reporters who camped outside and refused to go without a story on whether the parure was real or not, and whether it was true that the inspector had undergone torture rather than give it up to those not entitled to it.

“They won’t go until we give them a story,” said Alexander. “Tell them I will give them a statement and answer three questions. Total, that is, not each. Unless it breeches anything sub judice.”

Simon and his butler and Campbell made an intimidating set of guards when the reporters were brought to see Alexander.

“Gentlemen... and lady,” said Alexander. “The parure is real. It’s a monstrosity of a piece in rubies and pearls,  quite hideous, but fabulously expensive, I’m sure. There is a necklace, a brooch which can depend from it, a tiara, bracelets, earrings, and rings. One of those who could have been entitled to it was tortured to death by others who believed he had found it; and because I took it into my protection for a third party who is none of your business, yes, they decided to torture me, which is why this session will be short as they managed to perforate my guts and, like Mr. Churchill, I feel rather the worse for wear for that and other wounds.”

“We want to see the parure,” said one truculent-looking reporter. “Have someone bring it in here.”

“That’s question one,” said Alexander. “I can’t just send someone to the bank to get something out of my deposit box; they won’t give it up to anyone they don’t know. What, did you think I keep it lying around in my bedroom?  You must think me insane.”

And it would be going into a safety-deposit box at Child’s as soon as he was mobile enough to set it up. It had been brought here by Campbell as a stopgap measure.

This, apparently, had not been one of the three questions the other reporters had agreed upon, and the truculent one was the subject of less than charitable mutterings from the others.

“Is it true that the old woman was poisoned by the same people who tortured Marty Beauchamp?” asked the woman reporter.

“Yes, it is true. They made lead acetate in her own house, adding insult to injury,” said Alexander.

“Can you name those who have been taken into custody for being caught in the act of torture?” asked another man.

“Stanley Brightman, you know very well I am not allowed to name minors, and nor are you,” said Alexander.

“Only two of the Beauchamp grandchildren are minors,” blurted out Brightman.

“What you are suggesting is conjecture,” said Alexander.

They would find a way of doing a story on the old woman, her scandalous past, the parure, the identity of the whole family and would mention in passing that the culprits could not be mentioned because of their age, and leave it to the readership.

Ida had slipped out and returned.

“I made a sketch of the parure when Alex had it in his keeping,” she said. “You may photograph that.”

“And who are you, miss?”

“I am Ida Henderson, I am betrothed to Alex,” said Ida. “And yes, sister of the artist, Basil Henderson, who was a friend of my fiancé. I will be nursing Alex on a cruise, with a chaperone, of course. And that’s all you’ll be getting out of me.”

This was more than anyone had expected, so the vultures were happy, and snapped away at Ida’s drawing, and Ida holding it, and one of them at least planned a scoop on ‘a new Henderson artist.’

“You’ve asked your three questions, and got more than you might have expected,” said Alexander. “And if I pass out on you, my mother will get involved, and you will none of you like that. She’s a formidable grande dame.”

“He isn’t joking,” said Stanley Brightman, who had followed Alexander’s career. “He got shot once, and she made me feel as if I was in the kindergarden, sent for by the sternest headmistress ever. Thanks, Mr. Armitage; and may you enjoy your cruise.”

“I shan’t, but thanks,” said Alexander.

It was a relief to get rid of them, but better than having them loitering at the end of the drive, camped out in various cars, waylaying servants, and dropping discarded fish and chip papers and empty beer bottles in the road whilst they waited. Their dedication was admirable, even if their lack of tidiness was to be deplored. 

“And they’ve been peeing in the hydrangeas, too,” grumbled Margaret Armitage, Alexander’s mother. “All that alkali, it will turn the blue ones pink.”

“Depend upon it, Mamargaret, it will all have washed away through our sandy soil by the time they come to flower,” said Ida.

“I hope so,” said Margaret.

Alexander went back to sleep, angry with himself that such a little thing as an interview with the press had so exhausted him.

 

 

 

Alexander had strict orders not to come in to the office, though he had to hold himself in readiness to give evidence at a trial. In which case, Barrett wrote, he would be collected by ambulance and would be wheeled into the courtroom in a wheelchair.

Alexander rolled his eyes.

And then reflected that, at that, he might just find standing to give evidence rather trying.

 

Barrett visited in the New Year.

“Good news,” he grunted. “Joseph started boasting, and both those lads will be going to Broadmoor at His Majesty’s Pleasure; neither one of them is fit to plead, and their mother likely to be joining them there as well, for assaulting sundry officers of the court to release her precious innocent babies.”

“I didn’t think she was terribly stable,” said Alexander. “I confess, I am glad it isn’t going to come to a big wearisome court case with some flash barrister trying to make out that I’m the villain of the piece, entrapping two sweet little boys from school and pushing them beyond endurance, not to mention breaking Joseph’s nose.”

“I think it’s what sent him over the top,” said Barrett. “Their testimony was terrifying, to be honest; they hold the most awful views, I don’t know where they came from, but they were going on about some German bloke called Neitzsche.”

“Oh, the existentialist,” said Alexander. “I think his work is dangerously easy to misinterpret in dangerous ways.”

“Well, the Beauchamp boys certainly did,” said Barrett, grimly. “Their life-view is that you are old and should be enslaved until you reach forty-five when you should be euthanized. It looks likely that their father is also suffering lead poisoning, but at least he can be treated with chelating drugs.”

“Castor oil for lead, if I recall correctly, and I have very little sympathy for the side effects,” said Alexander. “The young, beautiful, right cult, eh?”

“Pretty much. With an admix of the Bolshevist religion-is-the-opium-of-the-masses, and willingness to share everything everyone else owns,” said Barrett, cynically. “Living in luxury isn’t enough for them, they should be shown deference and given power because they are greater than normal men.”

“Ah, the Űbermenschen to which Nietzsche says mankind should strive; overmen, as one might translate it,” said Alexander.  “I was brought up that man is sinful and fallible, but that in striving to do well, one day we will be lifted above ourselves in Heaven.”

“Yes, I was reared much the same, but with less eloquence,” said Barrett.

“They’ve been failed by their parents, but I wager they were born with a seed of insanity,” said Alexander. “There’s evidence to suppose they’ve been killing, and possibly torturing, animals for a while. Their school record says that Charley has never been caught bullying, but that there was an unhealthy level of acquiescence towards him, and that one of Joseph’s class mates committed suicide. He left a note, ‘Never again, Joe’ and the autopsy revealed various wounds, and evidence of rape and other sexual abuse. But Joseph is a common enough name, and of course that little turd is good at turning on the charm and the big, innocent eyes.”

“Until bested,” said Barrett. “A lot of what he said was a rambling condemnation of you for daring to kick him, and being able to do so when tied up, as you should have accepted your position as victim and let him do whatever he wanted.”

“Clear-cut, anyway,” said Alexander. “I reckon I could come back to work next week if I stuck to desk duties....”

“Your duties are as escort to Alma and Miss Henderson, and to get well,” said Barrett. “They removed your appendix, for goodness sake![2] And your ribs are broken!”

“They’ll heal,” said Alexander.  

“And that’s why you’re such a rotten colour just from talking to me,” said Barrett. “I want you well; you’re one of my best men. And as you can afford to pamper yourself on a cruise, it’s very fortuitous.”

“Yes, sir,” said Alexander.

He was looking forward to it, in a way, and planned to make a detailed itinerary.

Getting into the warmth of the Mediterranean was also an incentive.

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[1] Duplex in American

[2] In the 1920s, several weeks of bedrest was advocated after an appendectomy. Alex has not had appendicitis, so has not had any poisoning to his system, but it’s still debilitating, allied with the other torture. Taking several weeks on a cruise to recover is not unreasonable.