Chapter 7 #2
Harry eyed her pensively, wondering how much to reveal.
Beth had proved reliable and resourceful so far, and if she was to be working for Harry, she would have to trust her further.
But it didn’t follow that she had to share all her secrets at once.
Getting to her feet, she opened the drawer where she kept the newspaper clippings of Moriarty’s messages, and the articles about the stolen diamond.
‘It began on New Year’s Day,’ she said, laying the newsprint in front of Beth.
‘And then it got much, much more intriguing.’
The policeman on the door of number 48 Berkeley Square had clearly been told to expect the arrival of Mr Thompson and Mr Gill, but that did not prevent him from giving them a stern once-over when they presented themselves.
Harry did her best to exude an air of unconcern, while secretly worrying that the padding creating her portly stomach had come loose during the short walk from Hamilton Square.
Oliver looked every inch the patrician gentleman detective – the cane John Archer had suggested he use to alter his height worked perfectly – but she had less faith in her own ability to fool anyone trained in the art of observation.
It was, however, too late for a crisis of confidence.
Steeling herself, she let out a huff of impatience and glared at the officer.
‘Come, man, do you think we have all day? Inspector Wells is waiting.’
The mention of his superior had the desired effect. The policeman bobbed his head. ‘Of course, sir.’
Turning, he rapped on the door. It was opened instantly, revealing another uniformed officer. ‘Messrs Thompson and Gill, to see Inspector Wells.’
Inside the gloomy wood-panelled hallway, the second policeman appeared less suspicious than his colleague. ‘If you’d be so kind as to wait here, I’ll let the inspector know you’ve arrived.’
He disappeared through a door to their right.
Harry took the opportunity to study their surroundings.
The hall led into three rooms, as far as she could tell – a sitting room of some sort on the left, with two closed doors on the right, the nearest of which had been used by the policeman.
One might be a dining room, or perhaps a library, and she surmised the other must be the scene of the crime.
The layout was in no way unusual; it was likely that every house in the row had been built to a similar specification.
An ornate iron staircase climbed upwards at the furthest end, where she imagined there might be at least one more reception room, along with the bedrooms. Leaning a little to the side, Harry could just make out a fourth door tucked into the wall beneath the stairs. She assumed that led to the kitchens.
‘Is Lord Delaware at home, do you know?’ she murmured.
Oliver shook his head. ‘I believe he is out of town, on pressing state business.’
Harry knew enough of politics to understand what that meant; Lord Delaware was deemed responsible for the loss of the diamond, the repercussions of which rippled all the way to the very top of the British establishment.
It was very likely he had been sent away in disgrace, to avoid further embarrassment.
The door opened and the policeman reappeared. Behind him stood a tall, angular woman in a neat tweed suit. ‘Inspector Wells,’ he said, as the woman strode forwards.
‘Mr Gill,’ she said in a crisp tone, extending a hand towards Oliver. ‘Good of you to come.’
She turned to Harry, who was struggling to contain her surprise.
Why hadn’t Oliver mentioned that his contact at Scotland Yard was a woman?
She knew there were female officers among the ranks of the Metropolitan Police, of course, but she hadn’t realised any had risen to the level of Inspector.
‘Mr Thompson, ma’am,’ she managed gruffly. ‘Glad to make your acquaintance.’
Was it her imagination or did Inspector Wells’ eyes twinkle as she shook Harry’s hand. ‘Likewise,’ she said. ‘Although your reputation precedes you. Mr Gill has told me much of your excellent skill in deductive reasoning.’
Harry shot a look at Oliver, who might have raised his eyebrows beneath the tufts of grey protruding beneath his bowler hat, or might not.
He said nothing, however, and she returned her attention to Inspector Wells.
Given that Oliver and the policewoman were already acquainted, it seemed probable he had advised her beforehand that he would be masquerading as Mr Gill, although Harry doubted he had divulged the whole reason for the subterfuge.
But she couldn’t help wondering exactly how much he had revealed about her own identity. ‘I do my best.’
The other woman nodded. ‘Let us hope you are able to deduce how the Sora-Sora diamond came to be stolen. I freely confess I cannot.’ She indicated the open door at her back. ‘Please, enter.’
Firing another questioning look Oliver’s way, Harry did as she requested and found herself in a grand but unremarkable room laid out as a study.
She took a few steps and paused, absorbing the scene.
A thickly tasselled Persian rug covered the floor, with a splendidly polished desk sitting in front of a large, unlit fireplace.
A window facing out onto the street was on her right, and the wall to her left boasted several rows of bookshelves.
In the centre of the shelves hung a magnificent portrait of a man in full dress uniform, which she guessed must hide the safe.
‘I see the window is barred,’ she said. ‘Is this where Lord Delaware routinely stored his valuables?’
Inspector Wells came to stand beside her. ‘Yes. The safe contained a number of priceless items at the time of the robbery – jewellery belonging to Lady Delaware, some important papers. None were taken.’
The revelation did not surprise Harry; it seemed obvious that the thief had been intent on one thing alone. ‘Not even the tiara that had held the diamond,’ she observed. ‘A peculiar sort of burglary.’
‘Indeed,’ Inspector Wells replied. ‘That is what makes it so hard to fathom. It’s an unusual criminal who leaves most of the haul behind.’
‘And Lord Delaware is sure no papers are missing?’ Casting her mind back, Harry recalled a number of Holmes stories where vital government plans had been stolen. ‘Nothing of political or strategic value?’
‘Nothing whatsoever,’ the inspector said. ‘Just the diamond itself, which is far too recognisable to be sold.’
‘Unless broken up into several smaller stones,’ Oliver interjected. ‘Which would be a crime in itself, given its rarity.’
Frowning, Harry turned in a slow circle, her gaze sweeping the room. ‘I understand the door was locked, and guarded all night before the theft.’
‘Yes. The guard insists he did not leave his post.’
The painting swung silently back when Harry touched it, revealing a safe that looked both formidable and costly, with a large dial in the centre and a heavy handle to the left.
Both were intact and undamaged; no force had been brought to bear to remove the diamond from within.
Either the thief had known the combination or they had been an accomplished safe-cracker.
Deciding it had told her all it could for now, she crossed to the window and examined the bars, which were likewise sturdy and unbroken.
‘No one came through here,’ she murmured. ‘So how did they get in?’
Inspector Wells smiled thinly. ‘If I knew that, Mr Thompson, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
The ceiling plaster was smooth, Harry noted, with no evidence that the small chandelier had been disturbed. Her gaze came to rest on the Persian rug. ‘I assume you have lifted the carpet.’
‘Of course.’ The inspector inclined her head. ‘They did not come up through the floorboards.’
‘Then the guard at the door is lying,’ Oliver declared. ‘It must have been an inside job.’
Wells pursed her lips. ‘He is Crown Prince Rupert’s own man. The family will not hear a word against him. Not one word.’
But Harry was only half listening. She cast around the room again, her senses primed for the data she knew she was missing.
The room was cold, the air tinged with the kind of mustiness that quickly developed in an unheated room in winter.
Her eyes settled on the unlit hearth, which she supposed had not been used since the theft had been discovered.
But that had been several days ago. Was it strange that the room had not been warmed since then?
The desk gleamed, not a speck of dust in sight, and the rug bore no sign of the many pairs of booted feet that must have trampled it over the past few days.
Someone had taken care to dust, and sweep, and return things to their usual state.
‘When did your fingerprint officers finish their examination?’ she asked.
‘By Tuesday morning,’ Inspector Wells said. ‘You may be assured they took extra care to do a thorough job. The only prints discovered were those of Lord Delaware and his domestic staff.’
Harry nodded. She had expected as much. ‘I don’t see the remnants of powder. Has the maid been allowed to clean?’
The other woman frowned. ‘At Lady Delaware’s request. I saw no need to refuse.’
Once again, Harry gazed at the fireplace.
It was deep and wide, generously proportioned to warm the room with maximum efficiency.
Circumnavigating the walnut desk, she knelt to examine the hearth.
There was nothing remarkable to be seen – an iron grate swept clean of ash and dust. Above the grate, the chimney was equally broad, narrowing upwards into blackness that left a smudge of soot on her fingertips when she reached into its depths.
When Beth had awoken that morning, her primary instinct had been to light the fire and she knew it was the first task undertaken each day by the maids at Abinger Hall.