34 - The Queen's Jewels (2 page)

“Like the Hope diamond,” Seth put in. “That one was said to curse its owners, too.”

“Exactly,” Maniram said, “and for good reason. The Heart of India was cut from the same stone as the Hope diamond.”

“You mean there was an even bigger diamond?”

“Yes. Yes. When it was stolen from the mine in the seventeenth century, it was more than one hundred twelve carats. A French trader, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, was believed to have taken it, and it was known for many years as the Tavernier Blue.”

“Why was it cut down?” I asked.

Maniram shrugged. “Tavernier had sold it to the king of France and it was part of the crown jewels, but it disappeared during the French Revolution and was never found. Instead, we have the Hope diamond and the Heart of India, both the same blue, and with a similar curse. And there was a third, I believe, which was owned by the empress of Russia. I don’t know if it was given a name.”

“That must have been some rock,” Seth said. “How big is the Hope diamond?”

“It weighs forty-five carats.”

“Too big for my finger,” I said, smiling.

“That’s in the Smithsonian, isn’t it?” Seth asked.

“Yes. The Museum of Natural History,” Maniram replied, “but if it were on the market today, it could fetch more than three hundred million.”

“That’s too rich for my blood,” Mara said, returning with her decaf pot. She handed Seth a menu and said, “One of you can buy me the ten-million-dollar ring for my next birthday.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, sliding over my coffee cup for her to fill.

“Is your daughter feeling better?” Seth asked Maniram, referring to the eldest of his three children.

“Oh, much better,” Maniram said, “thanks to you, Doctor. The chicken soup was like a miracle drug.”

“Never fails,” said Seth, looking pleased. He closed his menu and handed it to Mara. “I’ll have the usual.”

Mara left to get Seth his usual breakfast of her legendary blueberry pancakes—legendary at least in Cabot Cove and its environs.

“We’re talking about that diamond robbery in London, the one where the owner was murdered,” I said.

“So I gathered. I’m sure you’ll pick up plenty of inside scuttlebutt while you’re there,” Seth said. “I imagine your friend Inspector Sutherland will fill you in.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said. “But you’re right. I’m sure he knows plenty.”

“When do you leave?” Seth asked.

“A week from today.”

“I heard you were going away,” Maniram said.

“Oh? Who told you?” I asked.

“My wife. Hita said you would be traveling on the
Queen Mary Two
. She heard it at the bakery last week.”

“No secrets in Cabot Cove,” Seth said playfully.

I shook my head. “Word does get around. It’s true. I’m flying to London, spending a few days there with friends, and then six days coming back across the Atlantic on the
Queen Mary Two
. I’m looking forward to it so.”

Over the years, I’d enjoyed plying the Atlantic on the
Queen Elizabeth 2
when I’d been invited to lecture during crossings—the crew always reminds you to call it a “crossing,” not a cruise—and I’d been wanting to repeat the experience for a long time. Unfortunately the
QE2
was retired, slated to be a floating hotel in some Middle Eastern country, putting an end to that plan.

But then the
Queen Mary 2
, the
QM2
, had been launched, and I’d received invitations to lecture again to fellow passengers about my books, the murder-mystery genre in general, and the future of publishing. I’d heard nothing but raves about the huge new ship, and although my writing commitments made it difficult to block out the time, I decided that it was too good an opportunity to pass up. It would give me a chance to catch up with friends in London before sailing back home from Southampton. With the help of my travel agent, Susan Shevlin, whose husband, Jim, is Cabot Cove’s mayor, I booked my flight to London and my hotel in that wonderful city, which ranks high on my list of favorite places in the world.

A sly grin crossed Seth’s lips as Mara delivered his breakfast.

“You look amused at something,” I said. “Is my mascara running?”

“No, nothing to do with your makeup. I was just thinking about you traveling alone for six days on that ship. Perfect atmosphere for a shipboard romance.”

“Oh, Seth, don’t be silly. You know that isn’t even a possibility.”

“Well, just a thought.”

“Ignore him,” I said to Maniram. “He’s being foolish.”

Maniram grinned. “I have learned. The doctor, he likes to make fun.”

“That he does.”

Seth grunted and concentrated on cutting his pancakes and pouring syrup over them.

“I’m glad I didn’t miss you before you left,” Maniram said.

“Why’s that?”

“Hita wanted me to tell you about our cousin Rupesh, who has just taken a job on the
QM Two
as a room steward. His mother received a postcard from him. Rupesh is—how can I put it?—Rupesh is a bit of a character. Over the years he’s worked at too many jobs around the world to keep track of—computers, restaurants, tourist offices, teaching. He even spent a few months as a karate instructor back in India. A strange way to use his college degree.”

I had to laugh. “A true jack-of-all-trades.”

“Oh, yes, definitely that. We just wanted you to know about him in the event you and he should happen to meet on the ship. If you do, please say hello for Hita and me, and tell him to call his mother back in Delhi. A postcard is nice, but she likes to hear his voice every now and then. He isn’t very good at keeping in touch with the family at home, and my aunt worries.”

“I’ll certainly say hello for you,” I said, “and I’ll scold him for not calling his mother.”

“Oh, don’t be too harsh with him, Jessica. He’s an incorrigible free spirit, really quite charming. His name means ‘god of beauty.’”

“Quite a lofty translation.”

Maniram laughed. “All Indian names mean something wonderful. My name means ‘jewel of a person.’”

“Sounds like you were fated to go into the jewelry business,” Seth said.

“Maybe so,” he replied. “Hita’s name translates into ‘lovable. ’ It’s very true.”

“Well,” I said, “your cousin may be a god of beauty, but he still owes his mother an occasional call. I’ll gently remind him of that, provided I cross his path.”

“Wonderful, Jessica. Thank you, and
shubhyatra
. That means I hope you have a safe trip.”

“Yes,” Seth said, forking up the last of his pancakes. “Make sure you don’t fall overboard.”

“
A
h, Jessica, how wonderful to see you again,”my British publisher, Thomas Craig, said as he greeted me at the door of his home off Cadogan Place in London’s tony Knightsbridge section. “Good journey, I assume?”

“Smooth and without hitches, Tom. Thanks to my frequent-flier miles, I flew first class.”

“Nice to hear that someone enjoyed their flight. I find the whole flying experience these days to be dismal.”

“It isn’t what it used to be,” I agreed.

“Come in, come in. The other guests have already arrived with the exception of one. My wife won’t be here. She’s off on an African safari communing with wild beasts, all from the sanctum of an air-conditioned tree house. Whisky? A martini? I promise to make martinis the way you do in the States, mostly gin and just a hint of vermouth.”

“A friend of mine says he just whispers the word ‘vermouth’ over the glass. But no martinis for me, thank you. Sparkling water will do.”

He gave my order to a young uniformed woman and led me to the terrace, where the others had gathered. Craig brought a halt to their conversation to introduce me.

The wife of one couple, Cynthia Walthrop, a woman of approximately my age, was a member of the House of Lords. I later learned she had been honored with a life peerage for her work with charities, which enabled her to be addressed as Baroness Walthrop. Her husband, Jacob, who appeared to have already enjoyed a few of Craig’s American-style martinis, did not share her title. Mr. Walthrop was one of those fellows who tended to talk and laugh at the same time; his words were filtered through throaty chuckles. Between that and his British accent, I had to listen hard to understand him even though we were supposedly speaking the same language.

The second couple was Asian. Kim Chin-Hwa was introduced to me as a Korean venture capitalist who’d lived in London for many years, and who owned an office building in the financial district. He was a short, thin man with a chiseled face, and wore oversized horn-rimmed glasses. His companion, Betty LeClair, was a beautiful Eurasian woman with long, lustrous black hair. Her classic silk sheath clung to her lithe figure, the deep bronze color harmonizing with the large gold and onyx pin she wore at her shoulder. She was considerably younger and taller than Mr. Kim.

“Here’s Paula Simmons,” Tom said, gesturing toward a striking brunette with sky blue eyes, “a name with which I’m sure you’re familiar.”

“Of course,” I said, shaking hands with my British editor. “How nice to meet in person at last.” We’d exchanged a number of e-mails since Tom Craig had bought the British rights to my latest novel, and she and I had spoken briefly on the phone a few times.

“Paula’s arguably the most beautiful book editor in London, not to mention that she beats the boys in the office at their game,” Craig said. “She’s a fan of your work.”

Paula waved away his compliment. “I love your books, Jessica,” she said. “There’s a refreshing, old-fashioned attention paid to solid writing and inventive storytelling.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Paula,” I said. “Coming from someone with your editorial skills makes it all the more meaningful.”

Madge and Gerald Wilson, an American documentary film team who looked to be barely in their thirties, were the last guests with whom I shook hands. They were in London for the premiere of a documentary they had produced based upon a nonfiction book Tom Craig had published several years back.

“It’s about smuggling drugs into Great Britain from northern Africa,” Gerald said, handing me a DVD. “Part of our promotional package,” he added. “I’m telling Tom his book sales will soar once the film gets distributed.”

“One can hope,” Tom said drily. “If they do, I’ll paste a sticker on the cover boosting the film.”

“It’s a deal,” Gerald said.

It didn’t take long before the conversation found its way to the recent theft of the rare blue diamond, and the murder that had accompanied it. Baroness Walthrop raised the subject. The moment she did, a silence fell over the group and all eyes went to Mr. Kim.

“Any leads?” Paula asked him.

“None that I’m aware of,” he responded.

Tom Craig noticed my perplexed expression and explained, “Kim’s business partner was the owner of the diamond. He was killed during the robbery, Jessica.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” I said.

Mr. Kim smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “The loss was traumatic to be sure, but I have been working at overcoming my grief. Walter Yang was not only a valued business associate; he was a dear personal friend. It is my hope that those who took his life are brought to justice swiftly.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Jacob Walthrop, raising his glass. “To justice being served!”

The mention of “justice” reminded me that the first person I’d called upon arrival in London was George Sutherland at Scotland Yard. I’d caught him as he was running out of his office, but we talked long enough for me to learn that he was working the diamond heist and murder case, and that he would fill me in when we met for breakfast the following morning. I’ve always been sensitive to the prohibition placed upon George when discussing an ongoing case, and never pressed for more information than he was allowed to give. But I also knew that he’d do his best to satisfy my natural curiosity without exceeding his professional boundaries.

I was tempted to ask Mr. Kim a number of questions that I’d formulated since hearing about the crime, but didn’t want to appear insensitive. It turned out my reticence was unnecessary. He proceeded to speak at length about his relationship with his slain business partner and friend. As he did, I recalled that the articles I’d read about the theft and murder had mentioned that Yang had been suspected of funneling money to terrorists. Naturally I wasn’t about to raise that issue, but I did eventually ask, “Have you ever seen the diamond, Mr. Kim?”

He managed a smile. “Oh, yes, Walter showed it to me shortly after he’d purchased it at auction at Sotheby’s. It was—how can I say it?—it was
among
the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” He glanced in Betty’s direction, and she smiled. “It had been put up for sale by Petra Diamonds.”

“It was a blue diamond?” filmmaker Gerald Wilson asked.

Kim nodded.

“The rarest of all diamonds,” Jacob Walthrop pronounced.

“That’s not quite accurate,” Betty, Kim’s companion, said. “Red diamonds are the rarest.”

“Is that so?” Walthrop said, obviously piqued at having been corrected.

“Betty is right,” Kim said. “But red or blue, any diamond of that size and purity is to be treasured.”

“What did your friend Yang intend to do with it?” Madge Wilson asked.

Kim shrugged. “Keep it until its value had increased to the point that he could sell it again on the open market for a handsome profit.”

“It certainly wasn’t a secret when he bought it at Sotheby’s,” Tom Craig said. “I read about it in the local press.”

“Which meant that whoever stole it knew exactly where to look,” the baroness opined.

“Obviously,” said Gerald Wilson.

“Where did Mr. Yang keep it?” I asked.

“He moved it several times to thwart would-be thieves. However, it was taken from a vault at his home,” Kim replied, “a very secure one.”