Chapter 9 #3
Harry averted her gaze from the sad shape in the chair. ‘I… Do you mind if we go back into the dining room?’ she said, swallowing to dislodge the hard lump that was forming in her throat. ‘I’d like some air.’
Oliver offered his arm and she took it gratefully as she picked her way through the gap.
‘The first step will be to confirm the girl’s identity,’ Inspector Wells said, once the three of them stood in the dining room once more.
‘I’ll have someone interview the Spender family and take matters from there.
Did you notice anything else that stood out?
A clue that tells us how she came to be here? ’
‘Not immediately,’ Harry said, as her pounding heart began settle. ‘Perhaps the other thieves sealed this wall after placing her here.’
The inspector considered this. ‘The Andersons held a dinner party the night the theft occurred. They say this room was in use until almost midnight, a claim that has been corroborated by the household staff. The family took breakfast here the following morning and did not notice anything amiss, nor did they observe any disturbances during the night.’
Harry found she did not care to look at the gash in the wall and fixed her gaze upon the floor.
The theft of the diamond had been an intricate crime, months in the making; how many had played a part in it?
There was the thief who had taken the stone – someone small enough to squeeze through the tunnel yet skilled in the art of safe-cracking and nimble-fingered enough to remove the diamond from the tiara.
There was Polly herself, although it was not clear what her role had been.
Harry narrowed her eyes. There must have been at least one other, perhaps two, because Polly had not walked into the secret room – she had been carried there once dead and tied to the chair.
The envelope had been tucked into her hands, to await discovery.
And the entire endeavour had been undertaken with the utmost quiet.
It seemed unlikely in the extreme that the perpetrators had also managed to seal the wall and restore the fussy wallpaper immediately after the theft, least of all with such skill that it was undetectable to those who lived in the house.
‘Then the wall is not the answer,’ she conceded, and recalled the lifted floorboards in the study of number 48. ‘I assume you’ve checked for other tunnels.’
‘That was my first thought too,’ Inspector Wells said. ‘Your talk of old coiners aroused my suspicions and my men were able to locate the tunnel you mentioned. It was thoroughly blocked and we found no evidence of any others.’
Harry turned to Oliver, who met her gaze steadily but offered no solution. ‘I confess I’m at a loss,’ she said at last. ‘For the moment, I can’t see how it was done.’
Inspector Wells sighed. ‘Nor can I. There is also the mystery of how the false wall came to be constructed in the first place. We’ll need to question the builder who oversaw the renovation.’
At that, Harry felt her stomach tighten.
Mr Evans would undoubtedly recall the couple who had been so interested in the work at 50 Berkeley Square and perhaps might mention it to the police.
The watchful expression on Oliver’s face suggested he had arrived at the same realisation.
‘We are a little ahead of you there,’ she said.
‘Some associates of ours had occasion to visit the building firm in question – Evans and Long – yesterday afternoon, and took the opportunity to ask about the renovation. It seems there were some unusual aspects to the job.’
Briefly, she outlined everything they had learned from Mr Evans.
If Inspector Wells understood who exactly had visited the builder, or found it strange that they had anticipated the need to question him, she did not say so.
She merely absorbed the new information.
‘He may remember more when interviewed by Scotland Yard,’ she said, and smiled in a manner that made Harry glad they were on the same side. ‘People often do.’
‘I’m curious about the caretaker and the maid Mr Evans described,’ Oliver put in. ‘Are they still part of the household staff?’
‘We asked Mrs Anderson about any changes in her domestic arrangements,’ Inspector Wells said.
‘The caretaker was called Noah Cooke. He applied for the job in answer to a newspaper advert placed by the family and came highly recommended, with impeccable references. When the work was completed, he left the Andersons’ employ.
I’ve sent an officer to his last known address to see if he has returned there. ’
Whoever Noah Cooke was, his presence throughout the duration of the renovations, along with his prompt departure the moment they were complete, suggested he might well be complicit in the construction of the tunnel that led to number 48, as well as the secret room, Harry thought.
It was hard to imagine how either could have been achieved without him noticing. ‘And the maid?’ she asked.
Inspector Wells frowned. ‘Mrs Anderson didn’t mention a maid. She said the caretaker occupied the house alone.’
Oliver eyed her soberly. ‘You may want to ask Mr Evans about that. I imagine his workers will be able to give you a description of the girl they claim to have seen.’
The inspector’s eyes flicked to the hidden room. ‘You think it was Polly Spender.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of speculating without evidence,’ Oliver replied. ‘But it’s possible, wouldn’t you say?’
Once again, Harry felt a flutter of sadness at a life cut short. From the little Beth had shared, it seemed Polly Spender hadn’t had much of a start in life. ‘Poor girl.’
There was little more to be said after that.
Harry and Oliver took their leave, promising to inform Inspector Wells of any further communications from Moriarty.
Once again, they took a circuitous route back to Hamilton Square, the suspicion that they must be observed and perhaps followed preying on Harry’s mind.
Connections were materialising with alarming speed: between the theft of the Sora-Sora diamond and the robbery for which Mildred Longstaff had been framed, between the investigation Harry had undertaken and Holmes, and Mr Longstaff’s encounter with the man claiming to be Mr Spender, and between the shadowy criminal organisation Harry had been warned had people everywhere and the man calling himself Professor James Moriarty.
It seemed impossible that they had not been observed entering and leaving the houses on Berkeley Square, but if they were being followed, their pursuer was very good.
Once or twice, she thought she caught sight of someone in the shadows, but she couldn’t be sure it was not the product of her overheated imagination.
Even so, an excess of caution would do no harm.
As they passed along Bury Street, a small queue clustered beneath the glow of Quaglino’s caught her eye. She tugged on Oliver’s sleeve. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.’
His gaze followed hers and came to rest on the queue. ‘In there?’ he said doubtfully. ‘We don’t have a reservation.’
Harry checked the time – almost eleven o’clock. Was it too much to hope that Seb was inside? ‘I think we might be able to bluff our way in,’ she replied in a low voice, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder. ‘When we reach the front, follow my lead.’
Thankfully, the queue moved fast. As before, John Quaglino himself was at the door, greeting his customers with enthusiastic cheer.
His eyes narrowed slightly when they fell upon Harry and Oliver, and she supposed they did not present themselves as typical guests of the establishment.
Plastering on a wide smile, she thrust out a hand.
‘Quaglino, my good man, how the devil are you? Capital to see you again.’
John Quaglino’s gaze flickered over the guest list and back to Harry, clearly trying to place her. ‘All the better for seeing you, my friend,’ he said, warily shaking her hand. ‘But I was not expecting you this evening. Remind me, under whose name is your reservation?’
‘Sebastian White, of course,’ Harry said, crossing her fingers that the gamble would pay off.
Surely her brother would not be sitting at home on a Friday evening.
It was a reasonable bet that he was here.
Quite what he would make of her clothing was another matter entirely but that would only become a problem if he was as predictable as she hoped.
Once again, the man consulted his list. Harry held her breath and sensed Oliver’s raised eyebrows, although he had followed her instructions not to say a word.
It would not be the end of the world if they were turned away, but it would be mildly embarrassing and likely to excite a comment or two from at least some of those behind them.
‘Ah, yes,’ Quaglino said, and cocked his head.
‘Is he expecting you to join his party?’
Harry hesitated. The difficulty was that Seb hadn’t the faintest idea she and Oliver planned to join him, and he most certainly was not expecting two heavily bearded gentlemen in distinctly drab suits.
She suspected John Quaglino was far too wise to allow them inside without verifying with Seb first, and he would not recognise the names of Mr Thompson and Mr Gill.
It was time to shed those identities, if not their camouflage.
‘It’s a spur-of-the-moment visit,’ she confessed.
‘But if you advise him that Harry White and friend have arrived, then I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to see us. ’