The Deadly Mystery of the Missing Diamonds (A Dizzy Heights Mystery)

by T E Kinsey

  ALSO BY T E KINSEY

  Lady Hardcastle Mysteries:

  A Quiet Life in the Country

  In the Market for Murder

  Death Around the Bend

  Christmas at the Grange

  A Picture of Murder

  The Burning Issue of the Day

  Death Beside the Seaside

  The Fatal Flying Affair

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright 2021 by T E Kinsey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542020787

  ISBN-10: 1542020786

  Cover design by Emma Rogers

  Cover illustration by Jelly London

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Littleton Cotterell...

  Chapter Three

  Bloomsbury...

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Bloomsbury...

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Littleton Cotterell...

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bloomsbury...

  Chapter Seventeen

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  France,

  July 16, 1917

  Dearest Flo,

  I don’t know when, or even if, you’re going to get this – the mail has been taking an age to get across the Channel lately. I’ll go ahead and write it anyway, and hope for the best.

  Thank you for your last. I loved the story about Gertie Farley-Stroud and her new dog. Won’t it get confusing if they call the dog Gertie, too? Maybe she shouldn’t have let her granddaughter name it. Anyway, I’d love to see them again when I next get some leave – both the lady and the dog. She’s my third favourite Englishwoman. (And look at that – I’ve been so long among you all that I’ve forgotten how to spell. There’s no ‘u’ in favorite. I’m going native.)

  I know I complain, but life behind the front lines isn’t so bad, really. Obviously I can’t say much about what we see, but among the, let’s say, ‘unpleasantness’ (I wonder if that’s mild enough for the censor – you’ll have to let me know) there are always moments of joy and hope, no matter how small or fleeting. The boys can be so funny and charming, even in their darkest moments. I wonder if that’s an English thing. You seem to cope with adversity with defiant resignation. Except that you’re not English, are you? But you’re only half Welsh, surely? (I await your scathing response to that one.)

  My fellow nurses are all absolute darlings. Well, most of them. I can’t name names in a letter that might be intercepted by the Bosch (they might attempt to undermine our morale by exploiting our dissatisfaction, or some such bunkum) but if she uses my hairbrush without asking one more time, she’ll learn not to mess with this ‘Yank’. I know where we keep the senna, and no one wants to spend any extra time in these latrines, let me tell you.

  Have you heard from Ivor? (I still can’t bring myself to call him Skins – it really doesn’t suit him.) Or even Barty? It’s so frustrating. I only joined the Fannies to get closer to him – to keep him safe, maybe? I don’t know how I thought that would work, but it made sense when I left Maryland. I knew I could do nothing at all from three thousand miles away so I simply had to get closer. I just can’t seem to actually get to him, though. I put in a request to be moved nearer to him every time I find out where his regiment is, but by the time I get there they’ve moved on, or he’s performing in a concert party in Paris, or . . . You get the picture. I don’t think the Powers That Be in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry are going to indulge me many more times.

  I was wondering if he might have written to you or Emily, thinking the letter would be more likely to reach you than me. He’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot and it’s frustrating to know I’m never more than a hundred miles from him and I still can’t see him.

  But I’m getting maudlin now, and I have to stop that. No one wants a sad-eyed nurse at their bedside and I have to be on duty in a moment.

  So how about something a little lighter? There was an incident nearby that made me think of you and it was sufficiently exciting that it was reported in the local newspaper (clipping enclosed). There was an old-fashioned hold-up on the road to Calais. I wanted to imagine men with bandanas over their faces, armed with Colt six-shooters, riding palominos and holding up the stagecoach, but the newspaper tells a more mundane story (the French press can be very stodgy and strait-laced sometimes). If my French is as good as I think it is, it was a man in an old coat with a muffler over his face. But he did have a six-shooter, even if it was a French army pistol, and he held up a small van on its way to the port.

  But that’s not the interesting part. Well, it’s quite interesting, but it’s not what made me think of you and Emily. The newspaper reported the theft of ‘some cash’ and ‘the driver’s lunch’, but there’s a rumour going around the aid station that the courier was carrying diamonds. Can you imagine it? An actual diamond thief. Right here in France, just like one of your cases back home. I thought of you two roaring into town in your beautiful motor car and solving it all, like one of your mysteries. Wouldn’t that be fun?

  But the clock has beaten me. There’s a messenger waiting in the office to take the mail and I have to go and change some dressings.

  Give my love to Emily. I promise to visit on my next leave.

  Your friend

  Ellie

  Chapter One

  May 1925

  Singer Mickey Kent announced the Charleston, and the gentlemen of the Aristippus Club and their lady guests whooped their approval. As the band struck up the familiar tune, a startlingly beautiful young thing, her face aglow and her headdress askew, loudly proclaimed the dance to be ‘the capybara’s spats’, earning her a cheer of her own.

  Skins Maloney looked out from behind his drum set at the wildly flailing dancers and smiled. He caught the eye of his old friend Barty Dunn and nodded towards a particularly uncoordinated gentleman dancing near the front of the low stage. He was half a beat behind the band, and his swivelling feet seemed in constant danger of tripping him up, but such was the look of unselfconscious pleasure on his doughy face that it was impossible to do anything but share his glee.

  Dunn grinned round the neck of his double bass and inclined his head towards another candidate. This one had no chin, and a neck so thin that his shirt collar appeared to be floating freely in mid-air, but he, too, was lost in the joy of the dance. His delight was equally infectious.

  His dance partner was less impressed. Twice now she had been jabbed in the ribs by an errant elbow, and she was trying to put some empty air between them to save herself from further injury.

  It
had been, as always, quite a night. The Dizzy Heights had been the club’s resident band for some months, and it was the club, not the band, who thought themselves the lucky ones. Aspiring bands fought eagerly for even the sniff of a chance of a ‘residency’, no matter where, but the Dizzy Heights had long since passed ‘aspiring’ and were well on the way to ‘highly respected’. Their reputation among jazz aficionados in London was such that clubs were chasing them rather than the other way round.

  They had regular spots at a couple of the more fashionable jazz clubs on weeknights and kept Saturdays open for ‘special’ bookings (of which there was never a shortage). But Friday nights were spent at the Aristippus Club, a gentleman’s club in Mayfair that was experimenting with providing regular entertainment for its younger members. The older members had a more traditional view of what a gentlemen’s club should be and still tutted impatiently if anyone so much as breathed too loudly in the reading room, but there was a new generation coming through and they wanted some fun. A delegation had approached the band and a deal had been struck, not least because Skins was so amused by the club’s nickname: ‘Tipsy Harry’s’.

  It was always a lively crowd, who made up for in enthusiasm what they lacked in dancing talent and musical knowledge, and the band always had a splendid time. This evening’s crowd – many of whom were there to celebrate the birthday of one of the members – had been among the most enthusiastic they had played for, and this, the third Charleston of the night, was the raucous climax to an already-exuberant affair.

  There were cheers and applause as the band brought the song to a close.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mickey through his tin speaking trumpet. ‘You’ve been a wonderful audience and we’ve been the Dizzy Heights. Enjoy the rest of your evening. Goodnight.’

  More cheers and applause followed, mingled with a few shouts of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Just one more song!’

  ‘Black Bottom!’ called the capybara’s-spats woman.

  ‘I told you to be careful where you sat,’ was the inevitable reply from her friend.

  Laughter. More cheering. The band left the stage and retired to the back room that had been reserved for them. Bottles of beer and a heaped plate of sandwiches awaited.

  ‘This is better than working for a living – eh, lads?’ said Skins as he put his drumsticks in his old army pack and helped himself to a cheese sandwich.

  Dunn was looking for a bottle opener. ‘How would you know?’ he said. ‘You’ve never done a day’s work in your life.’

  ‘Well, no,’ conceded Skins. ‘But I’ve got a cracking good imagination. And my old man worked on the railways. I saw what proper work did to a bloke. And all I’m saying is I’d rather play a couple of hours for a bunch of “bright young things” than break my back laying track like my dad.’

  Eustace Taylor, the band’s trumpet player, had come into the room behind him.

  ‘Well, you’d do better to put a bit of effort into it, if you don’t want to find out first-hand what it’s like laying track,’ he said. ‘Your timing was out in the middle eight of “Fascinating Rhythm”. And do try to keep that blasted cymbal under control during my solo in “Dippermouth Blues”, there’s a good chap.’

  Skins rolled his eyes and shook his head, but said, ‘Right you are, Eustace. Always happy to receive your notes.’

  Eustace frowned. ‘Yes, well,’ he said. ‘Just you be careful.’

  Skins had been playing ragtime since before the war and had been one of the first to bring proper American jazz to the London clubs as soon as he’d been demobbed. Eustace, meanwhile, had spent the years before his call-up playing second trumpet in the Dorsetshire Philharmonic. But his claim to a formal musical education (he was always suspiciously vague about where and with whom he had studied) gave him an all-too-apparent feeling of superiority over the lesser mortals in the band, despite having come to jazz comparatively late in life.

  ‘How is it that you’ve never decked him?’ asked Dunn once Eustace had retired to a corner of the room to annotate his trumpet score.

  ‘Well, he’s about six inches taller than me, for a start,’ said Skins. ‘I’m not sure I could reach. But you reckon I’m a good drummer, right?’

  ‘Best in London.’

  ‘That’s what it says on the posters,’ said Skins. ‘But I’m all right. And the audiences? What do you think they reckon?’

  ‘I don’t think most of them would know a decent drummer from a coalman, but they don’t complain.’

  ‘Right,’ said Skins. ‘So, if you think I’m all right, and I think I’m all right, and the buck-and-wing and Charleston brigade think I’m all right, what do I care what the second trumpet in the Seaside Philharmonia thinks? Let him have his moment.’

  ‘You’re a better man than I am,’ said Dunn.

  ‘Never been in question, old son, never been in question. Hello, ladies.’

  The band’s saxophonists, Blanche Adams and Isabella ‘Puddle’ Puddephatt, always stuck together.

  ‘How the devil are you, Skins?’ said Blanche. ‘Nice work in “Fascinating Rhythm” tonight. Well done. Loved that syncopation in the middle eight. Gave it a lovely feel.’

  ‘Why thank you, ma’am,’ said Skins, doffing an imaginary hat. ‘What about you, Puddle? Did my humble efforts please you?’

  ‘Everything about you pleases me, sweetie, you know that,’ said Puddle. ‘Is there any gin?’

  ‘Just beer,’ said Skins. ‘But there’s plenty of it.’

  ‘That’ll have to do,’ she said. ‘Pour me one, would you?’

  Skins opened another bottle of beer and poured two glasses. He handed them to the woodwind section.

  ‘This happens week after week,’ said Blanche, pointing at the bottle. ‘It’s a bit much asking a girl to swill beer when there’s gallons of champagne out in the other room. You got us this gig, Skins dear – do something about it, would you?’

  ‘I sorted out the regular booking,’ said Skins. ‘But I didn’t get involved in the catering.’

  ‘Well, then, who did?’

  ‘Elk, I think,’ said Dunn. ‘He served with the club’s wine steward at Ypres. Or something. I forget the details.’

  ‘We need a manager to sort these things out. Someone who can get us something other than beer to drink, at least. We can’t leave it to the banjo player.’

  Elk turned round. ‘Did someone mention the banjo player?’ he said.

  ‘They did, mate,’ said Skins. ‘Blanche thinks you did a rubbish job sorting out the catering.’

  Blanche scowled. ‘I said nothing of the sort. I merely suggested that it shouldn’t be up to the banjo player to have to arrange everything like this. We need a manager.’

  ‘You’d get no complaints from me,’ said Elk. ‘It was a nightmare. You have no idea how much trouble I had to go to just to get them to put beer back here. They thought champagne would do. I mean, I ask you.’

  Blanche shook her head.

  ‘Not a bad night, though,’ continued Elk, obliviously. ‘Cool new bit in “Fascinating Rhythm”, Skins. Nice one.’

  Skins raised his glass. ‘And that, my old mate,’ he said to Dunn, ‘is why I’ve never taken the trouble to lamp our trumpeter.’

  The Dizzy Heights had been formed in 1923 by Ivor ‘Skins’ Maloney and Bartholomew ‘Barty’ Dunn. The two men had made a name for themselves in the years before the war, performing the new ragtime music that had made its way over from America in the 1900s. They had played in several bands of varying degrees of competence and popularity before striking out on their own as musical mercenaries, billing themselves as ‘The Greatest Rhythm Section in London’.

  Skins had been a lively boy, always quick with a joke and quicker to dodge out of the way of the cuff round the ear that inevitably followed his cheeky remarks. His grandmother had delighted in telling him, ‘You should be on the stage, little Ivy.’

  Indulgently, he had always said, ‘You reckon, Nan?’

&n
bsp; And she would say, ‘Yes, son. Sweepin’ it.’ She would cackle wheezily at her own comic brilliance, and little Ivor would smile kindly and scamper off to find fresh mischief.

  But he’d loved the music hall, and he actually did want to be on the stage. He was so often seen hanging around the stage door that the stagehands came to know him, and occasionally enlisted his help fetching and carrying for them. As a reward, they would let him in from time to time, to watch a show from the wings. He learned the comic routines and knew all the songs, and dreamed that one day, just as his nan had said, he really would be on the stage where he belonged.

  In 1900, at the age of ten, his first proper job in the theatre – also exactly in accordance with his nan’s predictions – involved sweeping the stage.

  He was cleaning up one morning while the band were running through some new numbers. The percussionist, hemmed in by a big bass drum, a snare drum, a pair of cymbals, and assorted whatnots and thingummies that Ivor was unable to identify, missed his cue and completely fluffed the snare drum flourish that was supposed to end the song. The band fell silent apart from a few impatient tuts from the piano player, so that the only sound in the theatre was little Ivor’s boyish laugh.

  This induced the rest of the band, who weren’t known for their serious outlook on life, to laugh, too. They liked Ivor the Errand Boy and were inclined to indulge him. Even the percussionist’s frustrated embarrassment at his own mistake evaporated once he realized who had been mocking him.

  ‘You reckon you can do any better, you little chimp?’ he said. ‘Get down here and try it. Go on. Shilling says you can’t.’

  Never one to pass up the possibility of extra cash, Ivor clambered into the orchestra pit and wormed his way into the percussionist’s corner. He watched carefully as the tall drummer demonstrated the figure but then stood unmoving as the man handed him the sticks.

  ‘Go on then, little man. Show us what you’ve got.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Ivor with uncharacteristic meekness.

  ‘You seemed a good deal more cocky up there on the stage,’ said the drummer. ‘Not so easy now you’re down here, is it?’