The Attenbury Emeralds (15 page)

He let a silence develop in the room, before continuing. ‘You have perhaps mistaken my standing in this matter. It is true that I am a private detective, although professionally I prefer murder to fraud.’ He smiled softly as he saw the shudder of revulsion cross Mr Snader’s face. It was uncertain whether the word murder or the word fraud had most affronted him. ‘But it is as a friend of the family that I am here today. I have seen both the Attenbury jewel, and one very like it in the past. Admittedly rather long ago. It is possible I may be able to tell you whether you do or do not have the Attenbury gem in your deposit box.’

Mr Snader silently fiddled with his gold pen, taking the cap on and off.

‘This matter will have to be taken further, one way or another,’ said Wimsey. ‘You can hardly suppose that young Attenbury will simply walk away from his heirloom on the say-so of a bank employee, and keep his mouth shut about it. He will raise an awful stink, and who could blame him?’

‘You say you can identify the Attenbury jewel?’

‘I say that I might be able to.’

Mr Snader rang a discreet silver bell on his vast desk. An employee appeared, and was asked to bring a numbered strongbox. All this time Bunter was standing well back, seeming to be absorbed in the view from the window. Minutes passed.

The porter appeared with the box, and set it down on the desk. Mr Snader went to a locked cabinet, and produced a numbered key. He opened the box and removed a leather case about six inches square, which he opened, and pushed across the desk towards Wimsey. Wimsey leaned forward, and picked up the jewel. He looked closely at it, removing his eye glass, and using it like a jeweller’s loupe. Then he turned the gem over, laid it back on the velvet lining of the box, and stared long and hard at the inscription on the back. What had Mr Handley told him, all those years ago? That the Indian gentleman had said one jewel had an inscription beginning with a spiky letter, the other with a round one…

‘Well, sir, what do you say?’ demanded Mr Snader.

‘Ah. I cannot read this inscription myself, so I am relying on my recollection of the letter shapes in the first line. Will you permit my man to take a photograph of this inscription so that I can consult someone who can read it?’

Mr Snader looked distinctly unwilling.

‘All that I require,’ said Bunter, ‘is that you will lay the jewel on the windowsill for several seconds.’

‘You can take a snap at once, without fuss or extra equipment? In that case I cannot object. As far as I can see it is in the best interest of everyone to establish the identity of this jewel.’

Almost before the sentence was out of his mouth Bunter had placed the jewel on the windowsill. The cloudy, shadowless light of an overcast London day, and his Leica did the job. Peter heard the shutter click three times with the jewel lying face down, three times with it lying face up, and then Bunter returned the box to Snader’s desk.

Snader had not taken his eyes off the jewel for a split second during this procedure.

‘May I ask you what is your opinion, Lord Peter?’ he asked.

‘I would like to be able to tell you that I am certain that the jewel you have is Attenbury’s,’ said Peter. ‘So much less trouble all round. But I am afraid that it is not. And yet you
are
in possession of Attenbury’s jewel, for he has your receipt for it. He could go to the police.’

Mr Snader appeared to have lost an inch or so in height, and a good deal of confidence along with it. ‘Is there any way of avoiding the involvement of the police?’ he asked.

‘We could try where whole-hearted co-operation might get us,’ said Wimsey drily.

‘What do you need me to do?’ asked Snader.

‘I take it you have carried out a thorough search of all your deposit boxes, to be sure that you have not got custody of two nearly identical stones, and all that is amiss is that the wrong one is in the Attenbury box?’

‘We did that as soon as we understood that there were two stones. No other was found to be here.’

‘Then there has been a substitution. But I am naturally deeply curious to know
who
told you that there were two stones.’

‘A Mr Tipotenios,’ said Snader.

‘But, my dear fellow, that is just Greek for nobody!’ said Wimsey. ‘Did you see Mr Nobody in person? He wasn’t an Indian gentleman, was he?’

‘Oh, no, he was a white man,’ said Snader. ‘He called here in person.’

‘To do what, exactly?’ asked Wimsey.

‘To tell me that he acted for somebody who claimed ownership of the emerald in the Attenbury strongbox, and to threaten me with all sorts of legal reprisals if the stone were released to the Attenbury family. He was very definite that he could prove the ownership of the stone that he claimed the Attenburys were passing off as theirs.’

‘He did not ask you to give the stone to him?’

‘We would not have done that. We told him we would require to see his proof of ownership, and he went off to get it, saying that it would take some time as the documents were not in England.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘It was a week ago. It is very unfortunate that Lord Attenbury did not appear first.’

‘Who interviewed Mr Tipotenios?’ asked Wimsey.

‘Orson, my second-in-command. I was out of the office myself that day.’

‘Could you instruct Mr Orson to give a full description of the man to Bunter?’

Mr Snader rang the bell again, and Bunter departed, notebook in hand.

‘It looks very likely that there has been a substitution,’ Wimsey said once more. ‘It’s a clever manoeuvre; a version of the three-card trick. The thing to do is to work out when and how the substitution was made. Can you give me a list of all the occasions since 1923 when the jewel has been out of the strongbox, and in the hands of the family?’

‘You mean the substitution might not have been made by tampering with our strongboxes?’ said Mr Snader, brightening visibly.

‘I would be deeply obliged to you if you can find me those dates and receipts,’ said Wimsey. ‘Then I can begin to find out.’

‘If there is one thing we are meticulous about,’ said Mr Snader, ‘it is record-keeping. We can tell you what has come in and out of our boxes going back to the 1880s. Except the secret boxes. Only the client knows what is in those.’

‘But the Attenbury box is not one of those?’

‘No. So we shall be able to provide you with what you ask for. With a bit of burrowing around in the files.’

‘I’ll send Bunter round tomorrow morning to collect what you can find for me,’ said Wimsey.

‘Oh, Lord Peter’ said Mr Snader, recovering poise, ‘if any rumours were to start to circulate about the security of the bank, it would be as well for you to remember that we too have lawyers.’

‘Good heavens, man, what do you take me for?’ said Wimsey, getting up to leave. ‘Some of my best friends are lawyers.’

13

Late the following morning found Lord Peter, Harriet and Bunter sitting in conference round the library table. ‘This is what we have,’ said Peter. The papers Bunter had fetched from Mr Snader’s office were spread out on the table in front of him.

‘Seems that the jewel has been delivered to the family, or fetched by them on only four occasions in the last thirty years. It was taken out of the bank for Charlotte’s engagement party, as we all know, and returned with the whole parure on 20th April 1921. The king-stone was left in the bank when the other stones were taken to be re-set for Diana. So at that stage the king-stone on its own belonged to the Attenburys and the rest of the emeralds had become combined with Writtle diamonds, and were now owned by the Writtle family. The king-stone was removed from the bank in 1929, and returned a month later. And again it was borrowed from the bank in 1941, and returned twelve days later. Finally it was lent to one Miss Pevenor to assist her in writing a history of jewellery, and returned to the bank in November 1949. And there it should still be.

‘Here we have it lying all before us – pairs of receipts, signed by a family member who took the jewel out of the strongbox, and by a bank employee when the jewel was returned. We are fully briefed, and can begin.’

Harriet said, ‘Peter, the first of these occasions is the one in the tale you have been telling me, which includes the two stones side by side in a pawnbroker’s shop. Are we sure the exchange didn’t happen then?’

‘Well, Osmanthus is the only person in the tale so far who could tell the stones apart. He could read the inscriptions.’

‘Could he have been less honest and fair-dealing than he represented himself as being?’

‘Could he deliberately have taken the wrong stone? Was the jumpy Mr Handley careless enough to let him? Somehow I don’t think the man I encountered was a likely scoundrel. But I can’t rule it out. Meanwhile, we must see what we can find out about more recent occasions.’

‘How do we begin exactly, Peter? All these trails are by now stone-cold.’

‘Cold, cold, my girl, no doubt,’ said Peter. ‘But we must try to warm them up a bit. We’ll walk around and talk to people. Would you like to be my woman’s-eye view, Harriet? After all, jewels are women’s stuff.’

‘Won’t a deputation of three of us rather seem alarming? Are we declaring our purpose?’

‘Talking to the family I think we can. And we shall talk first, I think, to Sylvia Abcock, Roland’s widow, and mother of young Edward who has appealed to us. You and I shall call on her ladyship, and Bunter will be offered a cup of tea in the kitchen, just like the old days, and we’ll find out what we all can.’

The Wimseys were welcomed in Lady Sylvia Abcock’s establishment, which was a mansion flat in Victoria. There was a servant to open the door to them, and offer tea to Bunter, but the flat was very modest compared to the glories of the past, even of the recent past. The rooms were filled with furniture clearly intended for much larger spaces. Lady Abcock invited them to sit in her capacious sofas and asked for coffee to be brought to them.

‘I know that my son has asked for your help, Lord Peter. I will obviously do all I can, though I cannot imagine what that might be. I am astonished at this whole affair. How can the jewel in the box at the bank not be our jewel?’

‘I thought it might be useful to find out what we can about every movement of the jewel. Brought Harriet along because she’s heard me talk about your family till the cows come home, though it must be a while since there were homing cows in Piccadilly…’

‘You are very welcome, Lady Peter. I would be grateful if you would sign your latest book for me. If I can find it, that is…’

‘Gladly,’ said Harriet. She got up and moved to the window, contemplating the view of the fake Byzantine cathedral, and then returned and sat down on a chair out of her hostess’s eye-line, leaving the field clear for Peter.

‘Would you like to start by describing to us what was left with your family when the stones were re-mounted for Lady Diana?’ Peter asked.

‘Oh, just the big dull emerald all by itself, and the golden wire thing that let you wear it as a tiara or a necklace. I can’t imagine anybody wanting to wear it without the other stones. They had all the sparkle. So it was just kept in the bank.’

‘Do you by any chance remember why it was taken out in 1929?’ Peter asked.

‘I certainly do!’ said Lady Sylvia, suddenly animated. ‘We were short of cash. Without warning, all the family’s shares were melting away to nothing, and Roland couldn’t use them as security for a certain debt. The stone was taken out to serve as collateral, and buy a bit of time from a creditor. Troubled times, Lord Peter, troubled times.’

‘Indeed they were,’ Peter said. ‘Would you know who the creditor was? And if he retained the stone in his possession for any part of the time it was out of the bank?’

‘It was about a horse,’ she said. ‘Was it a racehorse, or a polo pony? I can’t remember. I’m afraid I have rather a blank spot about horses. I think the story was that Roland promised to buy it as a result of a bet of some kind. Then when he came to sell some shares to find the money, the stock market was falling like a stone. He sold a parcel of shares that should have been enough, but they raised only half of what was needed, and time was running out. Poor Roland, he isn’t here to tell you about it himself. And I’m afraid I’m very cloudy about the details, Peter; I didn’t take much notice at the time, because I was so cross about it.’

‘May I ask you why you were cross?’ asked Peter.

Lady Sylvia paused. Then she said, ‘It was a terrible time to buy a horse; or any other luxury. The world was falling about our ears. If my husband had taken the time to read the newspapers he would have realised. Well, of course he realised, but he somehow contrived to think it couldn’t have anything to do with a family like his. Ours.’ She paused again. ‘Just a few weeks earlier he had told our estate manager that he couldn’t afford to re-roof some of the tenants’ houses. I was angry with him. When I heard about the horse I wasn’t speaking to him for quite a few days. That makes me pretty useless to you now, I’m afraid.’

‘You are putting us in the picture, Lady Sylvia,’ said Peter.

‘Of course, for Roland it was a question of honour,’ she said. ‘If he had promised to buy the horse for a certain sum he had to buy it, whoever the fellow was. He never could get the hang of thrift. He actually told me how cheap it would be to have it, because Charlotte would stable it for him.’