The Attenbury Emeralds (14 page)

‘There was uproar in court. Hooting and cat-calling from the spectators’ gallery…

‘The judge suspended the session.

‘When the session resumed Biggy suddenly asked his witness whose idea it was to fix up that fraudulent claim. “It wasn’t your idea, was it?” he asked. She shook her head. This is what he got out of her. She had pledged the necklace as security against a loan to tide her over till the next instalment of her allowance was due. Then she learned that her father was stopping the allowance, now that the marriage settlement with the Marquess of Writtle was providing for her. She was terrified of losing the necklace, on which both families set such store. A friend suggested that she had better “lose” it in a place of safety, and hold off her creditor for a while with that story. So she recruited a girl she knew from the club scene, whose day job was as a cloakroom attendant and cleaner in the House of Lords. Diana slipped the necklace to her as she collected her cloak at the end of the ceremony, and the girl hid it in the fold in the Woolsack. A Mrs Prout who confirmed all this when called as a witness, said that she was to be paid when she was asked to retrieve it.

‘All would have been well had Writtle not wanted to show the jewels to a visiting friend, and asked to see them. Then she had to tell him they were lost.

‘And whose idea had it been, asked Sir Impey Biggs, to make an insurance claim? Was it her idea? No, it had been her husband’s idea. Had the Marquess consulted her about the claim? Or even told her he was about to make it? No, he had acted without telling her.

‘“So you were trapped in your lie?”

‘“Yes,” she said, so softly the court could hardly hear her.

‘“How did you feel,” he asked her, “when at Lord Peter Wimsey’s suggestion the Lord Chancellor recovered the jewels? Were you relieved?”

‘“Immensely relieved.”

‘“What about the debt against which they were pledged?”

‘“In the meantime I had made a clean breast of the matter to my husband, and he paid the debt for me.”

‘“Your husband must love you very much.”

‘“Yes,” she said, blushing deeply, “I believe he does.”

‘Well, you can now imagine, Harriet, Biggy’s summing-up. Young, trusting, gullible and beautiful girl; secluded childhood with nannies and chaperones, and schooling in Switzerland, where by common consent nothing ever happens to stain the pure white snow…let loose with money in a tranche of London society deeply corrupted by the wastrel hangers-on of the rich…after some fun, as it’s natural young people should be…too good-hearted to suspect that friendship offered her was two-faced exploitation…Misled – and here he paused for effect – by supposing that the friends and associates of her family and her prospective husband were “good society” when in fact some of them were deeply wicked, and using their status and titles as no more than a means to escape paying their debts…He actually used her folly and stupidity to gain sympathy for her. Brilliant, simply brilliant!’

‘Yes, Peter, but fraud.’

‘Of course he emphasised that Diana had not herself made the insurance claim, which would have been fraud. She had just got herself into a terrible tangle in which it took time for her to face up to the need to confess to her husband.
But, members of the jury, if this husband can find it in his heart to forgive the peccadilloes of his young wife, surely you, too
…You could write it yourself, I’ll bet.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘But she was guilty,’ said Harriet firmly.

‘Oh, I expect so,’ said Lord Peter breezily. ‘I expect she thought she could pay off her debts with the insurance money, and get the jewels back too. But she didn’t make out and sign the claim form herself. Writtle did. So the judge told the jury she was entitled to the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Cockles, my lord, your ladyships,’ said Bunter, who had returned some minutes since, and was waiting for a pause in the talk, ‘are so called in reference to hearts because of the likeness of a heart to a cockleshell; the base of the former being compared to the hinge of the latter.’

‘A pilgrim heart is mine,’ said Peter. ‘Give me my cockle-shell of quiet…’

‘Wrong shellfish again,’ said Harriet. ‘Shall we go to dinner?’

Only as they were on their way to bed, much later, did Harriet say to Peter: ‘You know, Peter, when your mother described Diana’s necklace in such glowing terms, she didn’t mention the king-stone. It had made a deep impression upon you…’

‘Remember, it got left out of the remake and shoved away in the bank,’ said Peter, yawning, and turning out the light. The room filled with moonlight, and on the walls fell faint moon-shadows of the leafy trees in the London square outside. It was a high window, and they never drew the curtains across the mysterious night.

12

It was just after breakfast two days later that Bunter reappeared after clearing the coffee, and said, ‘Lord Attenbury to see you, my lord.’

Harriet looked very startled, but Peter said, ‘The king is dead, long live the king! Show him up, Bunter, show him up. We’ll see him in the library, I think.’

To Harriet he said, ‘Are you working this morning, or would you like to join in this encounter?’

‘I’d like to join, if I may, Peter.’

‘This will be Edward, the old man’s grandson,’ Peter told her as they crossed the landing to the library. ‘The Abcock whose name you know from the story was Roland, killed at Dunkirk.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Harriet. ‘Didn’t I meet him once? Just briefly, at Denver?’

‘Oh, you could have. But the new Lord Attenbury is unknown, I think, to both of us.’

They had reached the library doors, and Peter stood back to let Harriet precede him.

The young man who awaited them was striding about the room in very obvious agitation. He looked as if he had slept in his suit, and not taken the time to do up his tie properly.

‘Oh, look here, Lord Peter,’ he exclaimed as soon as they entered the room, ‘I’m in a hell of a fix!’

‘Sit down, won’t you?’ said Peter. ‘But first, let me introduce Harriet, my wife.’

The visitor was so agitated he could barely manage the minimum courtesy of a handshake, and no sooner had he sat down than he jumped up again and resumed pacing about the room.

‘You’re going to need to calm down a bit, old chap, aren’t you,’ said Peter, taking young Attenbury by the arm, and firmly leading him back to a chair, ‘if you’re going to be able to tell us what this is about.’

Harriet rang the bell, and when Bunter appeared, asked him to bring brandy and water.

This was one of the occasions when Peter nodded discreetly to Bunter, who, having set down his tray, quietly retreated to the far end of the room, out of the eye-line of the visitor, and took a seat behind an elaborate Japanese lacquer screen.

‘I suppose you know about those damned emeralds,’ Attenbury said at last. ‘Since you famously found the things for my grandfather.’

‘Haven’t seen any of them since, though,’ said Peter. ‘Except from afar, once or twice. And I rather think they weren’t complete when they were re-mounted.’

‘No, they weren’t,’ said Attenbury. ‘Aunt Diana didn’t like the big dark chunky stone. She said it was inscribed with a curse. So Grandfather just took it back and put it in the bank. He set great store by it. When my father died he transferred ownership to me. He thought it would cover nearly half the estate duty, if it wasn’t liable to duty itself.’

‘I expect it would help with it if you didn’t mind selling,’ said Peter.

‘
Mind
selling?’ cried Attenbury in distress. ‘If only I could! But now I’m in terrible trouble!’

‘It wasn’t with Spink, was it?’ asked Peter. ‘Spink has a vault for its customers’ treasure, and it took a direct hit in the Blitz, you remember,’ he added for Harriet’s benefit.

‘No, no, it was still with Cavenor’s Bank,’ said Attenbury.

‘Well, has it gone missing?’ asked Harriet.

‘Or found to be a paste copy?’ asked Peter.

Suddenly the young man in front of them slumped in his chair. He took a gulp of brandy and said, quite levelly and calmly, ‘Not the one nor the other. It’s there. I don’t think it’s paste. But someone else has shown up who says it isn’t mine and he can prove it.’

‘Good lord!’ said Peter. Then after a minute or so he said, ‘I don’t suppose this person is an Indian gentleman of about my age called Nandine Osmanthus?’

‘I don’t know who he is,’ said Attenbury. ‘I haven’t clapped eyes on him. The bank won’t release the stone to me because they say there is a problem with ownership. And that’s about all I know. But what am I to do, Wimsey? The blasted pompous ass in the bank vault said I couldn’t sell the jewel anyway, because the auction houses wouldn’t touch it with a bad provenance. But I really must sell it. Without a bit of cash I might have to sell not just the land from the estate right up to the front door, I’ll have to sell the house itself. I’m having to let most of the pictures and the London house go, as it is. My mother can’t stop crying…’ He looked as if he was having difficulty not crying himself.

‘How can this possibly have happened?’ he asked.

‘Well, I think, Attenbury,’ said Peter, ‘the first thing to be done is to make sure that it really
has
happened. There was a very similar jewel; I once saw two side by side. I think I might be able to tell yours from the other one, with a bit of luck. Write me a letter authorising me to act on your behalf, and I’ll see if I can sort this out.’

‘Oh, would you really? That’s exceptionally kind of you. I’d be for ever in your debt.’

‘Hold on, hold on. I said I’d try. I might not succeed. I have a feeling this will be difficult.’

‘I suppose it’s a bit much of me even to ask…’

‘Of course not. I was a friend of your father’s from schooldays. I really will do my best. Now your part is to write that letter.’

Bunter appeared as if by magic, lowered the flap of the little writing desk that stood between the tall windows of the room, and laid out a sheet of writing paper and a pen on the blotter.

As Attenbury sat down to write, Peter said, ‘Tell me, if you can, when the king-stone was deposited in the bank.’

‘I do know that,’ said Attenbury. ‘It was when the rest of the emeralds were re-set, just before Aunt Diana got married.’

‘March 1923, then. That’s a start. Then I’d like to know exactly when and for how long it has been taken out of the vault, in the years between then and now.’

‘I can ask my mother and aunts. I suppose they might know.’

‘I expect the bank can supply the bare dates,’ said Peter. ‘But I might have to nose round your family a bit, asking questions.’

‘They won’t mind,’ the young man said, adding, suddenly authoritative, ‘They’d better not!’

‘Have you told the insurance company?’

‘What can I tell them when I don’t know what has happened? And look, Wimsey, the family lawyer says not to tell anybody that there is a problem with the jewel, as that might make it harder to sell. I’d be helping to create a dicey provenance, was what he said.’

When he had gone, Peter was thoughtful. ‘Are you working this morning, Harriet?’ he asked.

‘I ought to, yes,’ she said.

‘Then I think Bunter and I will tool along to Messrs Cavenor and report to you later,’ his lordship said.

As Bunter brought him his coat and gloves he said, ‘You know, Bunter, I think the stones were identically carved in front. So our only hope would lie in the inscription. I think that I remember Mr Handley telling me that the Maharaja’s stone was inscribed with a rounded first letter.’

‘That is what I recollect our being told at the time, my lord,’ said Bunter.

‘What a man in a million you are, Bunter!’ said Peter, taking the steps down from his front door two at a time like a rash young boy.

‘Whatever has got into Father?’ said his son in astonishment, seeing him from the corner of the square.

Bankers are not much given to the expression of emotion; not when on duty, anyway. But obviously the Attenbury emerald had become a hot topic. There were pursed lips, and references to more senior people the moment Peter raised the subject. By and by he and Bunter were admitted to a large oak-panelled office with a high acreage desk, a fire laid but unlit in a marble surround, fine carpets and large windows, where, palatially ensconced and expensively suited, sat one of the bank’s directors.

Wimsey passed his letter of authority from Attenbury across the desk. Mr Snader picked it up and read it with a flash of consternation, quickly suppressed, crossing his face.

‘You do seem to be in a spot of bother over this,’ Wimsey remarked pleasantly. ‘I hope I shall be able to help.’

Mr Snader reacted sharply. ‘
We
are not in difficulties,’ he said. ‘Your client may well be.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Wimsey languidly. He stared at his opponent, for opponent Mr Snader undoubtedly was. ‘I don’t suppose it would improve the standing of your bank if it got around that your safe deposits were not very safe, don’t you know.’

‘Our safe deposits are for the use of honest clients,’ replied Mr Snader, with a note of indignation in his voice. ‘We have never been touched by a breath of scandal in more than a hundred years of business.’

‘I should be careful what you imply about my client,’ said Wimsey. ‘He is entitled to the presumption of innocence, and there are the libel laws – God bless them! – to consider. As I understand it all he has done is to request the return of his property.’

‘If he imagines that we will hand over to you what we have declined to hand over to him in person, he is mistaken,’ said Mr Snader. ‘We are not sure that he is entitled to ask for the gem in question.’

‘If he is not entitled to ask for it,’ said Wimsey, ‘then you are indeed in a spot of bother. For the family can produce a sequence of receipts for the very famous jewel, famously belonging to them, each time it has been deposited with you.’ As he spoke Wimsey silently hoped that this was the case. ‘If there has been some hanky-panky, then the very least that has happened on your side is carelessness in writing receipts for the property handed in to your care.’