34 - The Queen's Jewels (3 page)

“Not secure enough,” Jacob Walthrop offered. The baroness nudged him with her foot.

“That’s obvious, too,” Wilson said through a sigh. He was a young man who wasn’t shy about throwing verbal jabs.

A sudden clap of thunder caused everyone to look up.

“Time to move inside,” Craig suggested. He glanced at his watch and muttered, “I wonder what’s keeping him.”

We made it through the terrace doors just moments before the skies opened and rain came down in sheets. Craig led us to the large dining room, where the table was elaborately set with heavy crystal and flatware on a starched white tablecloth. Tall tapered candles in gleaming silver holders cast a warm, welcoming glow over the scene. Two household servants stood ready to serve: the young woman who’d delivered my drink and an older, tuxedoed gentleman with the quintessential bearing of an English manservant from central casting.

As we found our places, the door chimes sounded.

“Ah, that must be our missing party,” Craig said, his face brightening as he headed for the front door.

At first, I was certain that I was confused. No, it couldn’t be. But it was. Craig returned to the dining room followed by Michael Haggerty.

I’d first met Michael years ago at Brittany Bay, on the island of Jamaica. I’d flown there at the urging of a friend, Antoinette Farnsworth, who’d written me that she feared for her life. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to prevent her death, and spent the ensuing days attempting to solve her murder. Michael, a charming Irish rogue with a brogue, kept getting in the way of my investigation. Still, he had proved helpful with the final resolution of the case.

We’d crossed paths after that on other occasions. By then, I’d learned what Michael truly did for a living: He’d been a secret agent for British intelligence, although he was officially retired when we met. But he always seemed to be called back into service by MI6 for assignments that demanded his particular skills and experience, including being a master at assuming different identities depending upon the circumstances. It had been a few years since we’d last touched base, and to say that I was surprised to see him come through the door is an understatement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tom Craig announced, “may I introduce our better-late-than-never and final guest for the evening, Mr. Wendell Jones.”

Haggerty met my quizzical expression with a broad, charming smile and raised eyebrows. I’d seen that look before. It said,
Don’t ask questions; I’ll explain later.

After everyone had been introduced to “Wendell,” aka Michael, we took our seats, and the first course—a delicate shrimp and tomato bisque—was served. Michael, who is never at a loss for words, immediately threw himself into the conversation, charming everyone with tales of his life as a Dublin antiques dealer specializing in old theatrical and motion picture posters and handbills. I had little to say; I was still taken aback by his appearance and the identity he was using.

“Jessica and I have met before,” Haggerty said. He flashed me his most winning smile. “In Dublin, wasn’t it, Jessica?”

“I—I, ah, believe it was, Mr. Jones.”

“The world gets smaller with every passing year,” he said. “It is wonderful to see you again. You haven’t aged a day.”

“But I have aged a few years,” I said. “You look the same, Mich—Mr. Jones.”

“You’ve always been such a flatterer,” he said. “And please call me Wendell.” He turned away to respond to something Baroness Walthrop had said about the political situation in Ireland.

As the dinner wore on, I had the feeling that my publisher was trying to sort out my previous relationship with Haggerty. He cornered me in the library, where after-dinner drinks were being served.

“I’m sure you’re wondering about Mr. Jones, Jessica,” he said in a low voice.

“You’re adept at reading thoughts, Thomas.”

“Interesting that you two have met before. I assume therefore that you are aware that his real name is—”

“Michael Haggerty,” I filled in.

“Yes, of course. You would know that.” His tone became even more conspiratorial. “You do know that he’s been a special agent for MI6.”

I nodded.

“I’ve signed him up to write a book for us about his remarkable undercover career.”

“Really? That’s wonderful.”

“Yes. He tells me that he’s retired from the intelligence service, gave up the life of chasing spooks and other assorted bad types around the globe.”

“Fascinating,” I said, “but why the false name tonight and the made-up background?”

He now spoke in a whisper. “Between you and me, Jessica, he’s been called back to duty to work one last, very big case, something to do with terrorists and the like. He asked that his real name not be used tonight, and, of course, I obliged. Service to country and all that.” He gave me a wink.

“I see,” I said. “Thanks for sharing it with me. At least I now know that I’m not hallucinating.”

He laughed, and we joined the others.

I found a seat next to Betty LeClair and complimented her on her beautiful dress and its unusual color.

“Thank you,” she said, smoothing the fabric with a delicate hand. “It’s a special silk that was made for me.”

“Well, it’s lovely,” I said, “although I’m sure that everything looks good on you. You carry yourself like a model. Have you ever modeled?”

“I have,” she said, showing a rare smile.

Mr. Kim was more forthcoming. “Betty was a top fashion model in Paris,” he said with understandable pride.

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Did you enjoy modeling?”

“Not really. It is so—well, I suppose you could say I found it boring.”

I laughed. “Too much waiting around for the photographers to set everything up.”

“Yes, that is exactly right. Good fashion photographers work so slowly.”

Jacob Walthrop joined us, a large snifter of Cognac in his hand. “I understand you’re returning to the States on the
Queen Mary
, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“That’s right. I’m really looking forward to it.”

“When do you leave?” Haggerty asked.

“This coming Saturday. From Southampton.”

“Jacob and I crossed on it shortly after it was commissioned,” Baroness Walthrop said. “It’s a floating palace, everything top-drawer.”

“You’re whetting my appetite even more,” I said.

“What an interesting coincidence,” Kim Chin-Hwa said. “I’ll be on the ship with you.”

“You will? That’s wonderful,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said. “Betty and I and a few of my business associates will be fellow passengers. I trust that we’ll have a chance to get to know each other better before we arrive in Manhattan.”

“Actually we’ll be docking in Brooklyn,” I said, “but Brooklyn and Manhattan are both parts of New York City after all. Brooklyn is just a different borough.”

“Strange. On my last crossing, the
QE Two
docked in Manhattan.”

“Yes,” I said, “but the
Queen Mary
is too big for the berths on Manhattan’s West Side. It would stick out too far into the Hudson River.”

“Brooklyn is not too far from Manhattan, as I understand.”

“Just a short hop across a river,” I said, neglecting to mention that New York City traffic could make the trip more like a long haul than a short hop.

An hour later, guests started to depart, which pleased me. Although I’d gotten some sleep on the plane, I was still suffering from jet lag; the vision of climbing into my bed at the Grosvenor Square Hotel exerted a powerful pull.

Michael Haggerty suggested that we share a taxi, but I declined. As much as I was fond of him and admired his work as an undercover agent—and as much as I appreciated all the help he’d provided me in certain murder cases in which I’d unfortunately, and inadvertently, found myself immersed—I wasn’t eager to extend this most recent encounter. Michael can be as long-winded as he is charming, and I knew any extension of the evening would tax my weary bones.

“It was good seeing you again, Mr. Jones,” I said with a twinkle.

“Thank you for keeping my secret, Jessica. You see—”

“I know—you’re working a case
and
writing a book for Tom Craig.”

“You approve?”

“About the case or the book?”

“Either, or both.”

“You don’t need my approval,” I said.

“Oh, but I do.”

“Then you have it. But for now, good night. I’m sure we’ll be bumping into each other again.”

“It’s my most treasured hope,” he said as he kissed me on the cheek, and was gone.

Tom Craig called for a taxi and waited with me by the front door. The rain had abated somewhat; it was now a quintessential London mist that created eerie patterns in the glow of the streetlights.

“Other plans while here in London?” he asked.

“A few,” I said. “Dinner was lovely. Please give my best to your wife.”

“I certainly shall, provided she hasn’t become a snack for some ravenous lion.”

The square black London cab arrived, and Craig walked me to it holding an umbrella, or “brolly” in British-speak, over my head. He leaned through the open door and said, “If you should run across a large blue diamond in your travels, please give me first crack at it.”

I laughed along with him. Outlandish, unrealistic quips are often so amusing.

I
was asleep minutes after my head hit the pillow in my suite at the hotel on Grosvenor Square. I awoke at seven the following morning—two a.m. back in Cabot Cove—and despite the sleep I was groggy. It took a long shower to clear my head.

I glanced out the window and saw that the storms of the previous night had passed and that the sun was shining brightly. Buoyed by the promise of fair weather, I dressed and headed downstairs to meet George in the hotel’s dining room. He was already there when I arrived, and had secured a prime table next to a window.

Handsome as ever, he was wearing what is almost a uniform for him—Harris Tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, blue button-down shirt, muted maroon tie, tan slacks with a razor crease, and low brown boots polished to a mirror finish. Wrapped in that outfit was a six-foot-four-inch-tall man with eyes the color of Granny Smith apples, rugged but not coarse features, and brown hair with just the right touch of gray at the temples.

“Hello,” I said as he stood and kissed my cheek.

“Hello to you,” he said, pulling out my chair for me. “Well rested?”

“Not really. My circadian rhythms are still adjusting.”

“You’d never know it by looking at you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve reached an age where I don’t casually dismiss compliments. Speaking of compliments, you appear to have lost a year or two.”

“Must be the lovely weather we’re having this morning in London, aided by the flattering lighting in this room. But I agree with you about graciously accepting compliments. I accept, and thank you.”

He smiled broadly, and so did I. It was wonderful being there with him, as it always was when we got to see each other after a long absence. “Maybe this diamond robbery and murder has brought out the boy in you,” I said.

He rolled his eyes and grinned. “It certainly has,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines in the tabloids.”

“Just a fleeting glance here in London, but I read fairly detailed accounts back home. I had a bit of an inside look at the case last night.”

“Oh? How so?”

“One of my fellow dinner guests was a partner of the man who was killed during the robbery.”

“Kim Chin-Hwa?”

“Yes.”

“What was
he
doing there at your dinner party?” George asked, his eyes wider.

“The host was my publisher, Tom Craig. He told me that Mr. Kim is considering investing in Tom’s plan to take over a small publishing house that’s up for sale. You’re obviously aware of Mr. Kim’s connection with the victim.”

“Very aware, indeed. I questioned him at length shortly after it happened.”

“And?”

“He has an airtight alibi, which doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved from a distance.”

I tipped my head. “Is that the theory you’re operating on, that he might have been involved in some indirect way?”

“Just one of many possible theories, Jessica.”

We gave our order to the waiter, an English muffin and a bowl of fruit for me, fried eggs, tomato, and bacon for George.

“You were saying,” I said after the waiter had left the table.

“Oh, yes. Kim Chin-Hwa. I don’t know if you’re aware that the victim, Walter Soon Yang, has been suspected for some time of funneling money to the Maoist Communist Party of India and other terrorist groups.”

“It was in the papers I read back home. Any truth to it?”

George shrugged. “All I know is what I hear. The intelligence chaps are reportedly looking into it, but I haven’t been informed of any progress on their end. Mr. Kim’s name has also come up in that regard.”

“Did you know he’ll be on the
QM Two
with me?”

His expression was a meld of exasperation and concern. “Yes. We’re aware of that at the Yard.”

“I hadn’t known, of course, when I first met him at dinner,” I explained. “He announced it toward the end of the evening. He’s traveling with some business associates, he said, and a beautiful young Eurasian woman who was his companion last evening.”

“Ms. LeClair.”

“You’ve spoken with her, too?”

“We have. She was at Mr. Kim’s home when we went to interview him. The background check we ran on everyone, including Ms. LeClair, turned up some interesting facts about her. She was born in Shanghai, father a French soldier-of-fortune type, off fighting for one cause or another until one of those causes killed him. Mother was Chinese, moved to Paris with her daughter when she was nine years old. It seems the mother got herself involved in a smuggling operation that was broken by French authorities. She was convicted and sentenced to a lengthy incarceration, although she didn’t last long. Died in her cell a year or two into her confinement. The daughter, Ms. LeClair, was raised by a distant relative of her father and went on to a successful modeling career, high fashion, that sort of thing.”