Diamonds in the Dust (6 page)

‘Did you find anything to help you?’ Dora asked.

Reg tucked his notebook into his top pocket. ‘Hard to say yet. We’ll have to go through my notes at leisure, but thank you for allowing us to do this tonight. I realise how upsetting it’s all been. Everything will be done to find your mother.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘The name’s Reg. We’ll let you know the moment we have any news.’

The moment they were back in Stan’s house, Reg swore, ‘Who the hell is Harriet Bentley? I’ve got a nasty feeling about this, Stan. I’ll see that Win keeps an eye on those youngsters. Can you believe it? They’re polite, well-spoken and completely innocent. They’ll never cope if we uncover anything unsavoury.’

‘Don’t be too sure about Dora.’ Stan sat down and gave a quiet groan, rubbing his leg. ‘She might seem shy, but there’s fire underneath that unworldly exterior. She cares deeply about some things, and shows it when she talks about them. But I agree that as far as the world goes they are innocent.’

‘Now you come to mention it, I did see her eyes flash in disapproval now and again. She hated us poking around her mother’s things, didn’t she.’

Stan nodded. ‘But she also knew it had to be done. Now about the mother. The letters didn’t give much away, but I got the impression there was something in her past. The man she married knew about it but loved her too much to care. Dora told me their parents had been happy together, and that Mrs Bentley was devastated when her husband was killed in the war.’

Reg paced the room. ‘And it looks like that was when she started lying to her children. I don’t suppose they noticed that some of their mother’s clothes were expensive. I’d swear one of her nightgowns was pure silk, but the label had been carefully removed. I wish we could have borrowed that necklace, but I didn’t like to make too much of it. They think it’s glass … Hell, I’m no expert, but I’d like to show it to someone who is.’

‘I’ve made a note of the name and address of the jeweller. It was in the lid of the box, and …’ Stan removed a sheet of paper from his pocket, ‘while they were fooling around with Lily, I made a sketch of the necklace.’

‘I didn’t see you do that.’ Reg sat beside Stan and studied the drawing.

‘I’m not surprised. You couldn’t take your eyes off the necklace.’

‘Hmm. That’s very good. What are you going to do with it?’

‘Visit the jeweller tomorrow, see what kind of a place it is and ask if he recognises it. Of course, it might be a cheap thing and been put in an expensive box, but I don’t think so somehow. It fitted perfectly, as if the box had been made for it.’

‘I agree.’ Reg stood up and tucked the bundle of letters in his pocket. ‘I’ll go through these again tonight in case we missed something. You take it easy tomorrow.’

Stan pulled a face, making Reg laugh. ‘Daft thing to tell you, isn’t it?’

The next morning, Stan was ready early for his visit to the jeweller’s in Bond Street. He would have to go by train, and the journey would be impossible using just a stick. Loath as he was to use the crutches, he knew he didn’t have any choice. His leg would never stand up to everything he wanted to do today. He would have to keep as much pressure off it as he could, and that would mean using the blasted things. The problem was that they put a strain on his back, but he’d just have to put up with that.

He retrieved them from the shed and set off for the station.

‘Watch it!’ Stan swayed and nearly lost his balance when a young boy of around seven ran straight into him. He struggled to stay upright and avoid the indignity of ending up flat out on the pavement.

‘Jimmy!’ A woman rushed up and grabbed hold of Stan to support him. ‘Come here and apologise to the gentleman.’

The boy crept back, looking downcast. ‘Sorry sir, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

‘You all right?’ the woman asked. ‘I hope my boy didn’t hurt you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Stan lied. The boy had given his
injured leg a sharp kick as he’d sped by, and the pain was excruciating. He gritted his teeth and continued up the road. Nothing was going to stop him doing what he’d planned today. Nothing!

By the time he reached the station and bought his ticket, the pain was bearable. He found a bench and sat down to wait for his train. The platform was quite crowded with men going to work, women with children, and young girls. There weren’t many young men, as nearly a whole generation had been slaughtered in the war. As Stan watched people laughing and talking, he was suddenly overcome with a feeling of loneliness. He was still a young man, but what kind of a life did he have in front of him? No girl in her right mind would want to marry him. He would never be able to take her out walking or dancing – never have a family of his own …

As the feeling of emptiness engulfed him, he swore under his breath, took out a cigarette and lit it, drawing on it deeply and blowing the smoke into the air. Damn it! He’d accepted all this. Why did the regrets have to rear their ugly head again? When he’d first returned home he’d tried to drown the pain and hopelessness in whisky, but had soon found out that it didn’t help – only made him feel worse. He’d come to terms with the restrictions by reminding himself that he was alive and a lot better off than many other poor devils, and that included his older brother. God, that still hurt, but he was damned if he was going to allow himself to become a bitter man, and a burden to his family.

The train puffed into the station, and Stan hauled himself up.

‘You need a hand?’ a middle-aged man asked.

‘I can manage.’ But Stan smiled his thanks when the man held the train door open for him.

Stan was about to sit down when he saw a young man having difficulty getting into the carriage. He recognised the condition immediately, and holding the door he reached out. ‘All right, mate. You take your time.’

With the help of the middle-aged man, they pulled him in and settled him in a corner seat so he could look out of the window. Stan sat beside him, lit a cigarette and placed it in the young man’s mouth.

‘Shell shock,’ the other man muttered grimly. ‘Bloody war. What about you, son? Have you lost your leg?’

‘No, I’ve still got it, but it’s not much use.’ Stan turned to the young man. ‘Where you going, mate?’

With a great deal of difficulty the young man took a piece of paper out of his pocket. It bore the address of the Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel, and a doctor’s name.

The other man leant across so he could read it as well.

‘He’s got to change trains. He’s never going to get there on his own.’ Stan was furious. ‘Why isn’t someone with him? I’ll take him myself.’

‘No need for that, son. I work there. I’ll see he gets to the hospital all right. I’m Doctor Burridge.’ He held out his hand. ‘If you ever need another opinion on your leg, come and see me at the hospital. No need to make an appointment.’

‘Stan Crawford.’ He shook his hand and gave a grim smile. ‘They’ve said there’s nothing they can do for me. You hard up for patients, Doc?’

‘Wish I were, but our methods are improving all the time. God knows we’re getting enough practice.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Stan looked at the silent, shaking man beside him and counted his blessings. He might be in constant pain, but at least he was in his right mind. He laid his hand on the young man’s arm and smiled. ‘This man’s a doctor and he’s going to take you to the hospital.’

The young man managed to nod to let him know he understood, then Stan turned his attention back to the doctor. ‘Who’s the doc this man’s going to see? Is he any good?’

‘The best in his field. The poor devil will get proper help. My line of work is putting shattered bodies back into some kind of working order.’ Dr Burridge took a card out of his pocket and signed the back. ‘Come and see me, son. Just show this card and they’ll call me.’

Stan tucked the card into his pocket, knowing it would take something extraordinary to get him near a hospital again. ‘Thanks.’

Bond Street was crowded and Stan had to walk quite a way before he found the jeweller’s he was looking for. He whistled softly under his breath when he saw the shop. That necklace couldn’t have come from here. He was probably wasting his time, but he’d come this far and might as well go in.

The inside was fitted with plush carpets and upholstered chairs in dark blue. The customers who came in here obviously expected comfort while they spent their money.

‘May I help you, sir?’ A short man in a dark suit was eyeing him with more than a hint of suspicion.

Stan decided that it wouldn’t take much for them to show him the door. He decided to bluff it out. ‘I’m Sergeant Crawford from Kilburn Police. Mind if I sit down?’

The assistant held a chair for him and Stan propped his crutches against a display cabinet.

‘Had an accident, sir?’ the assistant asked as he went back to the other side of the counter.

‘Tripped over chasing a thief.’ Stan gave him his most ironic smile.

‘I see, sir.’

Liar, Stan thought, you don’t know whether to believe me or not, but you’re too polite to say so. He removed the sketch from his pocket and laid it on the counter. ‘We’re trying to find out about this necklace. It was in one of your boxes.’

‘Really?’ Now the man was interested. ‘Hmm, you don’t have the jewel with you?’

‘Sorry, this is all I’ve got. The chain is silver and the stones colourless. There are small stones along the chain at intervals of about an inch, and larger stones in the three daisy-shaped flowers in the centre. Can you tell me if it’s one of your designs?’

‘I’ll ask the owner.’ The assistant beckoned over a young lad. ‘Get Sergeant Crawford a cup of tea, Edward. I’ll be just a moment, Sergeant.’

Stan stifled a sigh of relief. It looked as if he was getting away with his subterfuge. He shouldn’t be doing this, but this was the only way anyone in a place like this was going to talk to him.

The lad came back carrying a cup of tea on a silver tray. Stan had never seen such delicate china.

‘Thanks.’ He needed this. His leg was still hurting after the kick it had received, and the journey on and off trains had not helped.

The lad was about to say something, but the assistant returned with the owner. He was past middle age, Stan guessed, tall and with a shock of white hair.

He didn’t waste time. ‘May I ask what your interest is in this item?’

‘We’re trying to trace a missing person, and the necklace belongs to her.’

‘I would have to see it before I could make a positive identification, but according to our records, a necklace similar to this design was made here.’

‘When?’ Stan took out a police notebook Reg had given him.

‘December 1900. But I couldn’t say for sure this is ours without examining the workmanship.’

‘Twenty years ago? Can you tell me who might have bought one like this?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, Sergeant Crawford. Our transactions are confidential.’

That was only what Stan expected, and he had no power to push for answers. But he’d try one more question. ‘If this is the real thing, is it valuable?’

‘If it is one of ours then the setting would be platinum, diamonds of the finest quality, and it would be worth a considerable amount.’ The owner hesitated, then continued, ‘But unless the missing lady is from – shall we say – a fine family, then it is unlikely to be genuine.’

‘Have you ever made a copy?’

‘No, Sergeant! Our jewels are exclusive.’ The man looked offended.

He drank the tea in two mouthfuls and replaced the cup on the tray, then he stood up, knowing that he had all the information he was going to get. The necklace in Dora’s possession must be a fake, but the mystery of Harriet Bentley deepened.

Resting on his crutches, he nodded to the two jewellers. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you for your time.’

He had arranged to meet Reg for lunch in the cafe opposite the police station. His brother-in-law was already there, and surged to his feet when he saw Stan. ‘Good Lord, man, come and sit down before you fall down.’

Slumping into a chair, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to let the pain flow out of him. There had been times during the journey when he’d doubted he was going to make it. This was the most he had tried to do since he had been injured, and it made him aware of the poor state he really was in. Sweat was pouring down his face, and he was having difficulty focusing.

‘Give this to him, Reg.’

Dragging his eyes open, Stan saw the cafe owner by the table with a glass in his hand.

‘Cheers, Len.’ Reg took the glass and wrapped Stan’s
fingers around it. ‘Knock that back. It’ll revive you.’

Stan had to use both hands to bring the glass to his mouth. He was shaking nearly as badly as that poor devil on the train. That scared him, and he gulped down the brandy. The fiery liquid did its job and jolted him back to life.

‘Thanks, Len.’ He handed back the glass, relieved to see that his hands were almost steady again. ‘That’s strong stuff.’

Len winked. ‘I keep it for emergencies. What you need now is a good meal. I’ve got a steak and kidney pudding. That should put a bit of strength back in you.’

As the cafe owner went away to get their meals, Reg was clearly concerned and furious with himself. ‘I shouldn’t have let you do that journey today. You frightened the life out of me when you came in, Stan. You were grey and you could hardly stand. Thank God you had the sense to use crutches.’

‘Sorry about that. I didn’t realise just how hard it would be.’ Stan pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, hating to appear so weak. He had always been strong and vigorous, excelling in many sports. Now he was just a shadow of his former self, and it was hard to take. In his mind he was still that fit active person, but his body didn’t agree. Not only had his leg been shattered, but they’d also spent days digging bits of shrapnel out of his back, and even that was hurting now. In fact, he couldn’t find a part of him that wasn’t sore.

‘You’ve got a bit of colour back now.’ Reg was studying him intently. ‘For goodness sake don’t tell Win about this or I’ll never hear the last of it.’

Stan grimaced. ‘Neither will I.’

Two plates were put in front of them, piled high with food. ‘You need another brandy, Stan?’

‘No thanks, Len. A good strong cup of tea would go down well, though.’

‘Coming right up.’

They ate in silence, and Stan was glad of the quiet as it was giving him the time to recover.