Chapter 2
The first thing Harry did upon reaching the sanctuary of her apartment was to remove her hat and coat and stow them neatly, ready for the morning.
She set the kettle on the hob to boil, then took out the clipping she had snipped from the newspaper before leaving Abinger Hall that morning.
It had been sandwiched between the pages of the Dorothy L.
Sayers novel she was reading and she had all but forgotten it was there until she had seen the jewel theft headlines.
Now she read it again, seeking a hidden meaning or subtle clue that would tell her whether she was leaping to a fantastical conclusion rather than assessing the facts.
According to Conan Doyle, Moriarty was fond of the occasional chess reference or cypher but if there was a secret message in this real-life challenge to Holmes, Harry could not discern it.
Frustrated at her own dim-wittedness, she set about lighting the fire.
The apartment had been empty since before Christmas and a musty chill hung in the air, causing the living room to feel drab and unwelcoming after the warmth of Abinger Hall’s many fireplaces.
Of course, that household was managed by an army of domestic staff and Harry had no one but herself.
Perhaps she ought to look into taking on a maid, someone who could visit daily and undertake the small housekeeping tasks Harry herself found it difficult to fit in around her working life, but it seemed awfully extravagant when it was only her.
She couldn’t offer accommodation, either, so it would need to be a local girl.
And what would she think of an employer who kept drab clothes and down-at-heel shoes under the bed in case they needed to disguise themselves?
Harry shook her head. The risk was too great.
She would simply have to put up with laying the fire and changing the bedlinen herself.
Once the tinder had begun to crackle in the fireplace, Harry turned her attention to another necessary comfort: the kettle had begun to whistle.
Using a little of the boiling water to warm the teapot, she set the tray.
But no sooner had she measured the tea leaves into the pot than the telephone rang.
‘Have you seen the evening headlines?’
The clipped voice belonged to Oliver and he did not sound pleased. Harry didn’t need him to elaborate. ‘The diamond theft. Yes, I saw it. Do you think it’s connected to Moriarty’s letter?’
He grunted. ‘It’s certainly an impossible crime.
I’ve spoken to a contact at Scotland Yard and they have no idea how the theft happened.
The room was locked, there was a guard on the door to ensure no one went in or out, and the safe is the latest top-of-the-range model from Compton and Wendell – installed last year, secreted in the wall and supposedly unbreakable. ’
Harry recalled the front page, which had been full of sensation but scant on detail.
The Sora-Sora gemstone was an exceptionally rare red diamond – one of only ten or so in the known world – and currently occupied pride of place in a magnificent, many-jewelled tiara belonging to the Crown Prince of Rangier.
Its presence in the Berkeley Square house was perhaps the most baffling thing of all: the prince and his wife were visiting London ahead of a state dinner with His Majesty King George V but they had been widely reported as occupying the lavish Royal Suite at the Savoy Hotel.
Harry could understand why such a precious item might not have been entrusted to the hotel’s safety deposit box but the Savoy was only a stone’s throw from Coutts Bank on the Strand, where she assumed Crown Prince Rupert must have an account.
How had the Sora-Sora diamond come to be in a private residence in the first place?
‘The house belongs to Lord Delaware,’ Oliver said, when Harry voiced her puzzlement. ‘He was a diplomatic attaché to Rangier for years and apparently became firm friends with the Crown Prince. I imagine that has something to do with it but I don’t know more at present.’
Harry nibbled thoughtfully at her lip. Just north of Piccadilly, Berkeley Square sat in the heart of Mayfair.
Its four rows were made up of a mixture of grand town houses, newer apartments blocks and discreet businesses, all of which faced onto the leafy, oval-shaped public gardens.
It was an extremely desirable address, traditionally occupied by the wealthiest of residents, and she was sure there were plenty of valuables stored within the properties overlooking the elegant gardens.
It wasn’t a surprise that there should be a heavy-duty safe in Lord Delaware’s house but it was astonishing that a priceless royal diamond should be stored there.
‘I assume the household staff are under suspicion,’ she said.
‘Naturally,’ Oliver replied. ‘But Lord Delaware is adamant they knew nothing of what was being kept in the safe. Prince Rupert’s own man sat guarding the door and only Delaware held the key.
Yet when he and the guard unlocked the door to retrieve the tiara, the safe lay open and the Sora-Sora diamond was missing. ’
‘Only the diamond?’ Harry pressed. ‘Not the entire tiara?’
‘Apparently not,’ Oliver said. ‘Which is remarkable in itself.’
‘Remarkable indeed,’ she mused. ‘What kind of thief goes to so much trouble and only takes one jewel?’
He caught her meaning, as she knew he would. ‘One who knows exactly what they want,’ he said dryly. ‘But it could be a coincidence.’
‘It’s a classic locked-room mystery,’ Harry pointed out. ‘What better way to catch the eye of the world’s greatest detective?’
‘You may be right but it doesn’t actually matter. Impossible crime or not, it’s in the hands of the police now.’
Harry swallowed a sigh. She’d known this would be his position. As a lawyer, Oliver dealt in facts and evidence and certainties. He had no time for gut feelings or intuition. ‘Then why did you call me?’
Now it was Oliver’s turn to sigh. ‘Because I know you, Harry. I wanted to make sure you weren’t about to hare off to the scene of the crime.’
She shifted uncomfortably. Berkeley Square was no distance at all from Hamilton Square – it would only take her a few minutes to walk there. ‘So what if I am? There’s no law against it.’
‘No, there isn’t,’ he said, and she could picture him frowning. ‘But with the greatest respect, this is not your business, Harry. As a lawyer and your friend, I advise you in the strongest terms to let Scotland Yard handle it.’
The worst of it was, she knew he was right.
The cases she had investigated so far had involved serious crimes but they had not been under investigation by the police.
Meddling in the business of Scotland Yard was something Sherlock Holmes did all the time but Harry did not have the same freedom.
‘Has anyone ever told you you’re no fun, Oliver Fortescue? ’
‘One or two people,’ he conceded. ‘But I can live with that if it prevents you from taking unnecessary risks.’
He certainly erred on the side of caution, Harry thought as she recalled how often he had frowned over her recklessness since she’d first asked for his help.
But he had also knelt at her side in a rat-infested hovel, kept her role in foiling a criminal gang from the police, and stood by her side knee-deep in freezing fen water as they eavesdropped on unseen enemies.
On each occasion, she’d been very glad of his company.
‘You are an excellent lawyer and friend,’ she replied, ignoring the sudden warmth in her cheeks. ‘Your advice is always welcome.’
Oliver snorted. ‘I doubt that. But I like to think it’s worth listening to.’
Harry pondered the conversation for some time after saying goodbye, turning the peculiarities of the crime over and over.
No matter how hard she tried to disassociate the theft of the diamond from the advertisement in the agony column of The Times, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create the perfect opening of a Sherlock Holmes adventure.
Holmes himself might acknowledge that such a coincidence was possible, but he would satisfy his mind one way or the other by examining the data, and Harry was forced to admit she did not have a shred of evidence there was any connection between the stolen diamond and Moriarty’s letter.
There was one thing of which she was certain, however.
It would not hurt to keep a watchful eye on the investigation at Berkeley Square.
Quaglino’s restaurant, tucked away beneath the St James’s Palace Hotel on Bury Street, would not have been Harry’s first choice for a discreet conversation about a delicate family matter.
Famed as a place to see and be seen, it was frequented by a glitzy crowd – darlings of radio and stage, artistic types with fashionably loose morals and, of course, the very wealthy.
Lord Mountbatten was a regular, along with his wife Edwina, despite scandalous rumours of her affair with the bar’s much-vaunted singer.
It was one of Seb’s favourite haunts, so Harry wasn’t especially surprised when he suggested it for dinner that evening, but he had been at pains to reassure her it would be quiet.
‘Nothing gets going until eleven o’clock at the earliest. You’ll be home long before things get wild. ’
‘Then why not go to Brownings?’ she had asked, thinking of the old-fashioned booths and discreet service the restaurant offered.
‘Because the menu is dull and the clientele is even duller,’ Seb replied. ‘It’s a ghastly business poking around in a sibling’s affaire de coeur, but I don’t see why we can’t take the sting out of it with some decent oysters.’