Blood From a Stone (10 page)

‘Me too,' said Bill and adjusted the sheet.

‘That's better,' said Jack with a sigh of relief. ‘I can think straight now. Look at his wristwatch, Bill. It's suffered a bit, but I'd say it's old and very good quality.' Jack stepped back and looked at the body appraisingly. ‘D'you think he'd been in the army? That way of wearing his watch with the glass on the inside of his wrist is a real soldier's trick.'

‘You're probably right. Mind you, roughly half the men in Britain have been in the army, so it hardly narrows things down.' Pulling a face, Bill undid the strap and, holding the watch in his hand, grunted in approval. ‘It's real gold, I'd say.' He flipped open the back. ‘There's something marked inside.' He turned it to the light. It was a cross in a circle. ‘That's been scratched in with a compass point, I bet.'

‘It's the same symbol as on the card in the book,' said Jack. He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. ‘This mix of belongings is interesting, Bill. Let's have a look at the knife.'

He bent closer and examined the hilt. ‘Straight between the fourth and fifth ribs, by the look of it. That's a direct blow to the heart. There wouldn't be much blood from the knife-blow.'

‘You're right,' said Bill. ‘It might be luck or he could've been stabbed by someone who knew what he was doing.' He drew his breath in sharply. ‘By George, that knife's a trench dagger! I've got one like it kicking around in a drawer at home somewhere.'

‘A French dagger, going off the shape,' added Jack.

‘You're right. I'll leave it to the surgeon to get it out, but I'll be surprised if we're wrong.'

He turned back the flap of the dead man's jacket and slipped his hand into the inner pocket. ‘Here's his wallet. I say, look at this. He
did
come from Madlow Regis. He's got a single ticket from Madlow Regis to London.' He ran his thumb over the edge of the banknotes in the wallet. ‘He's got three pound notes and one ten bob, plus thirty francs in notes.'

‘French money? Put them together with the French dagger and there seems to be a definite Continental whiff to this case.'

‘And what's this?' Bill pulled out a piece of paper, evidently a torn-out picture from a magazine. ‘I say, Jack! It's a photo of the sapphires!'

Jack took the piece of paper. The sapphires so dominated the picture, it took a moment or two to see past them to the woman who was actually wearing the necklace. And yet, thought Jack, she had a very definite personality, with a firm chin, commanding, clear eyes and an imperious expression. Underneath the picture was written
Mrs Francis Leigh, Breagan Grange, Madlow Regis, Sussex.

‘That's them!' said Bill. He took the sapphires from his pocket and compared them with the picture. ‘There's no two ways about it.'

‘So the sapphires do belong to the Leighs. My word, that's one up for Isabelle, all right. I've met Mrs Leigh. She was at Isabelle's wedding. She struck me as a bit of a tough egg.'

Jack took the paper from Bill and rubbed it absently between his fingers. ‘I wonder which magazine it is? Not top-quality paper, so not one of the monthlies such as
Vogue
or
Eve
or
Modern Woman
or anything like that. I'd say it was one of the weeklies, price tuppence.
Poppy's Paper
or
Woman's Companion
, perhaps, but there's dozens of them to choose from.'

‘Is that important? The main thing is that we know our man here knew about the sapphires.'

‘Absolutely. I just thought that his choice of magazine could tell us something about who he was and where he came from.'

‘Fair enough,' said Bill abstractedly. ‘There's something in his other jacket pocket, too. It feels like a squashy book ...' He gingerly unbuttoned the flap of the pocket and drew out a stack of white bank notes secured by a rubber band.

Jack gazed at the notes in utter astonishment. ‘Holy Moses, Bill! How much is there?'

Bill counted up the notes in a dazed sort of way. ‘Fifty quid.' He ruffled his thumb over the edge of the notes. ‘Fifty quid in fivers, just stuck in his pocket.'

‘He must have pinched it,' said Jack. ‘I bet Belle's absolutely right about him being a thief. Imagine wandering around with fifty quid in fivers and a string of sapphires! What else was he carrying? At this rate, we'll find the Crown jewels tucked into his socks.'

Bill delved into the pocket again and froze. ‘Crown jewels, eh?' He pulled out two sapphire earrings. ‘You're not so far off.'

‘Strewth,' breathed Jack, seeing the blue glint on Bill's outstretched hand.

Bill swallowed. ‘It's a good job we're honest men,' he said in a regretful sort of way. He looked at the sapphires for a few moments then, with a sigh, opened his briefcase and put them away. ‘Let's see what else he's got on him.'

The results of the rest of their investigation were nothing like as spectacular. They amounted to seven shillings and fourpence, an open packet of Woodbines, a box of Swan matches, a much-used pipe, a cheap leather tobacco pouch with strong Ship's tobacco, a smoker's penknife, a used London bus ticket for the day before yesterday, a stub of pencil and five francs, four centimes in coins.

Bill jingled the francs in his hand. ‘As you said, there's a very definite Continental whiff to this,' he said thoughtfully.

‘He didn't use French matches,' commented Jack, looking at the box of Swan. ‘Mind you, I don't blame him. They're foul. He hasn't any keys on him.' He stepped away from the body. ‘Shall we have a look inside the train? I think we've found out more or less all we can here for the time being.'

They walked out of the office and across the platform to the compartment. Carefully avoiding touching the coachwork, they mounted the steps into the compartment.

Isabelle had told Jack there was little trace of the murder inside the compartment, and she was right.

The blue-upholstered seats faced each other between pale yellow wooden-clad walls under the white roof. A
Smoking
sign was etched into the glass of the window. Beneath the mesh of the luggage rack, the walls were decorated with neat frames containing brightly coloured advertisements for seaside holidays at Eastbourne and Brighton, an advert for Johnnie Walker Red Label whisky and a map of England from London to the coast with the railway lines prominently marked.

Jack looked at the seaside advertisements with an unexpected lump in his throat. The mind that found pleasure in the images of bright sunshine and children playing on an idealised beach seemed so very far away from the sort of mind that rammed a knife between a man's ribs and bundled him out of the window.

‘It's weird, isn't it?' he said. ‘You wouldn't know anything had happened.'

He knelt down and peered beneath the seat.

‘Looking for something in particular?' asked Bill.

‘Just looking,' replied Jack in a muffled voice. ‘A string of emeralds to go with the sapphires, perhaps? Hello! There
is
something here!' He popped his head back out like an inquisitive tortoise. ‘Pass me my stick, will you?'

With his stick in hand, Jack looked at the floor and grimaced. ‘Ah well, my suit's seen better days,' he said with an air of resigned martyrdom. He lay flat on his stomach and reached under the seat. ‘Got it!'

Propelled by the stick, a dull metal something shot out from under the seat and onto the floor of the compartment.

‘It's the sheath of the knife!' said Bill.

‘There's something else, too,' came the voice from under the seat. ‘Here it is.' He handed out a highly polished flat wooden jewel-case. It was lined with white velvet and clearly
showed the indentations where the necklace had been. ‘I haven't finished yet,' called Jack.

He batted first one, then the other, of a pair of fawn-coloured fine leather gloves into the compartment, then wriggled out from under the seat and levered himself to his knees.

‘Well done,' said Bill.

Jack brushed himself down. ‘I'll send the cleaner's bill to Scotland Yard.' His eyes were bright with excitement. ‘There's bloodstains on one of the gloves, Bill. Look, you can see where the end of the index finger has snagged slightly.'

Bill picked up the gloves. ‘By jingo, they're French,' he said, looking at the label. ‘Look.
Marcoux et Cie,
Paris.'

‘More French stuff,' said Jack. ‘That's quite a haul. ‘So we've got a pair of French gloves paired with a French dagger.
Ergo
we're looking for a Frenchman?'

‘Perhaps,' said Bill. ‘But anyone can buy a pair of gloves in Paris and there's thousands of trench knives, French and otherwise, kicking about. It's suggestive though, isn't it? I wonder if Parsons had any dealings in France? That's something we can find out.'

‘They're nice gloves, aren't they? Kid, I'd say. A murderer in kid gloves.' He raised his eyebrows expressively. ‘That'd make a snappy title for a magazine story. Which one's bloodstained? The right? So we're looking for a right-handed murderer with a taste in good gloves.'

Rackham rubbed a piece of the material between his fingers. ‘They're very flexible. Perfect for this sort of work.'

‘Ghoul,' commented Jack with a smile.

Rackham opened his briefcase, wrapped up the gloves, the jewel-case and the knife-sheath and put them away. ‘I'll have them fingerprinted back at the Yard.'

He stopped and looked out of the open door of the compartment as footsteps sounded along the platform. A police constable hurried up to them, telegram in hand.

‘This has just arrived, sir,' he said to Bill.

Rackham took the envelope. ‘Thank you, Marston.' He slit the envelope and read the contents with a broad grin.

‘This is from Mr Francis Leigh in reply to the telegram I sent him. Thanks to Isabelle, Mr Leigh now thinks Scotland Yard is composed of miracle workers. Listen to this.
Just discovered robbery. Jewels and money missing from safe.
Well, I can get in touch with Mr Leigh and tell him his property's safe. Is there anything else you want to look at, Jack?'

‘Not really. I think I'll shoot off. I know you're going to be busy.'

‘All right. I'll look in on the Stantons this evening, though. You'll be there, won't you?'

‘Absolutely I will,' said Jack, climbing down from the train. ‘See you there.'

L
ater that evening Jack arrived at Isabelle and Arthur's flat in Lydstep Mews.

‘We've got a visitor, Jack,' said Isabelle, as she hung his coat and hat in the hall wardrobe. ‘It's all right, Lizzie,' she called to the maid who had appeared at the end of the hall. ‘I'll see to Major Haldean. Jack, I'd better warn you. Celia Leigh's here.'

Jack grinned at his cousin's expression. ‘Is she?' He laughed. ‘Stop looking as if you're standing by the sickbed of a dying pal, Belle. It all fizzled out with Celia ages ago. She thinks I'm essentially frivolous so that was that, really. Mind you, we weren't on Tristan and Isolde terms, just supper and a spot of dancing. I never stood under her window, serenading her with a mandolin.'

Isabelle giggled. ‘I can't think she'd have appreciated it if you had done. I don't know why,' she added, looking puzzled, ‘she and Ted haven't announced their engagement yet. I hope they haven't had a row.'

‘So do I,' Jack agreed. ‘Why's she here?'

‘To see me, of course. I'm hoping,' she said with repressed excitement, ‘that she'll tell us all about the sapphires. There's something odd about the sapphires,' said Isabelle, lowering her voice as they approached the sitting room door. ‘Celia's being very cagey about them.'

Celia Leigh, a tall, good-looking girl with fair hair and an earnest expression was sitting on the green sofa under the window.

‘Jack, darling! Isabelle said you'd be calling. It's so nice to see you again.'

‘And you,' he said, taking her hand with a warm smile. ‘Tell me, are congratulations in order? For you and Ted Marchant, I mean?'

Celia's mouth contracted into a straight line. ‘No, they aren't. If Ted doesn't come to his senses, I'm not sure congratulations ever
will
be in order. He's got this idiotic idea of going off to Singapore, of all places.'

‘Just for fun or because he promised his mother?'

Celia looked at him suspiciously. ‘His mother's been dead for years. Why on earth should he have promised her he'd go to Singapore?' Her suspicion increased. ‘You're joking, aren't you?'

‘Just a little badinage, don't you know?'

Celia sighed. ‘I see you haven't improved, Jack. Ted's been offered a job with a mining company. He says we can't afford to live in England.'

‘Bad luck,' said Jack with genuine sympathy. ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I don't know,' said Celia. ‘He's not like you, Jack. He wants to be settled. He likes security. I want him to buy some land and have a farm. He grew up on a farm. I
know
that's what he really wants to do.'

‘He couldn't do anything better,' agreed Arthur enthusiastically.

Jack grinned to himself. A month ago, Arthur, tremulous with excitement, announced that his dearest wish had come true and he had at last persuaded his Aunt Catherine to let him manage her estate at Croxton Ferriers.

It wasn't, in Jack's opinion, a job for the faint hearted. The estate had been neglected for years and it would take an enormous amount of work to get the place on its feet again.

Arthur, who dreamt of living in the country, cheerfully embraced the idea of hard work. What made it better, in his opinion, was that the job came with a house he described as a little Jacobean gem. Isabelle had taken one look at the gem and flatly refused to go anywhere near it until it was in a rather better state of repair.