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

by T E Kinsey

  Skins and Dunn looked at each other, and Dunn shrugged. They and Ellie had talked often over the years about the exploits of their friends Lady Hardcastle and Flo Armstrong, wondering if they’d have been able to crack the cases those two worked on. None of them had ever truly thought they’d be any good at ‘all that detective stuff’, but the imagined glamour of it had always held some appeal. It certainly had for Skins. He loved the idea that Ellie had an actual spy in her family. He raised his eyebrows and looked imploringly at Dunn.

  Dunn laughed. ‘Go on, then. Why not?’ He turned to Sunderland. ‘He’s always fancied himself as a bit of a Richard Hannay on the quiet.’

  Skins sneered sarcastically at his old friend and raised two fingers.

  ‘I don’t mind if you don’t want to do it,’ said Sunderland. ‘I’ve got nothing to offer but the unspoken thanks of a grateful nation, after all. But it’ll take the pair of you, I think, so if you don’t want to do it, Dunn, just say.’

  ‘Course I do,’ said Dunn. ‘Truth is, Lady H used to speak very highly of you, too – though she still calls you “Inspector” Sunderland—’

  ‘To my face, usually. I like to think of it as affectionate teasing.’

  ‘Sounds like her. But the point is that she used to say you were one of the only coppers she’d trust in a pinch. I reckon she’d do it for you if she could. So I reckon we should, too.’

  ‘That’s marvellous,’ said Sunderland. ‘Simply marvellous. Thank you. Do help yourself to biscuits.’

  Sunderland had spent some time giving the boys as much information as he had about Arthur Grant’s war record. It wasn’t much, but at least they knew where he had served, and where and when he had last been seen. The superintendent had also asked for regular reports.

  ‘Don’t go to too much trouble over it – a brief note of what you saw, who you spoke to, that sort of thing. A phone call will do. Or a telegram. Just so I know how things are going.’

  Then he had wished them well and sent them on their way, but not before he managed to find a car for Grine to take them home in.

  ‘Let’s send them back in something a bit more dignified, eh, Grine?’ he said. ‘Lord knows what their neighbours must have thought with you turning up in a blessed Black Maria. Do your best to restore their reputations, won’t you?’

  So they had set off from Victoria Embankment with Skins and Dunn in the back of the police car like visiting dignitaries.

  ‘You reckon we can do this, then?’ Dunn asked as they headed round Parliament Square.

  ‘Like I keep telling you,’ said Skins, ‘I’m a dab hand at underhand and stealthy. It’s in my blood. If he really is a member at Tipsy Harry’s, we can winkle this Grant bloke out no problem.’

  ‘In your blood? You do talk tosh sometimes, mate.’

  ‘Course I do,’ said Skins. ‘Part of my roguish charm, ain’t it.’

  ‘I suppose it is. But we’ve got to be careful.’

  ‘I don’t reckon there’s no risk to us. No one knows we’re working for the rozzers. And even if Grant starts to think we’re asking too many questions, he’s not going to do anything – he’ll just clam up.’

  ‘You’re talking like you think we’ll know him from the off,’ said Dunn. ‘He’s been one step ahead of the army and the police for eight years and you reckon we’ll swan in, take one look at the membership as they line up for their dancing lesson, and know who it is straight away? Then all we have to do is ask him a few clever questions and he’ll fall into our cunning trap?’

  ‘Well, no. Not when you put it like that. But it’s got to be worth a go, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘And there’s bound to be a reward if we find this missing treasure.’

  ‘You don’t seriously believe all that guff, do you?’ said Dunn. ‘Secret treasure vaults in gentlemen’s clubs? It’s a bit much.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Skins. ‘It probably is a bit hard to swallow. But it would buy the band a van.’

  They watched the daily life of London pass by as their journey took them northwards. Jazz took them all round the country – they even dreamed it would take them abroad one day – but neither of them could imagine anywhere else being anything like as lively, mundane, filthy, sparkling, friendly, hateful, or just plain wonderful as London. It was home, and they both loved it.

  Skins was dropped off first and he opened the front door with his latchkey. Even after six years of it, he still couldn’t get used to the idea of waiting on his own doorstep for one of his servants to let him in. He hung his hat in the hall and set off to find Ellie.

  A short while later, Dunn was relieved to see his own road empty, but his luck didn’t last long. As they drew up outside his house, Mrs McGuffie from number 74 was out of her door before the police car had come to a complete stop.

  ‘I’ve told her, you know,’ she said as Dunn got out. ‘Don’t you think I haven’t.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs M,’ he said. ‘That was very kind of you.’ He leaned back in. ‘Thank you, too, Constable Grine. Hope we haven’t kept you from anything.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, sir,’ said Grine. ‘Always happy to be kept away from things. Mind how you go.’

  Dunn slammed the door and banged on the roof of the car. Grine drove away.

  ‘I told her,’ said Mrs McGuffie.

  ‘I know, Mrs M. You said.’

  ‘I told her you was hauled away by the police. In a van. Like a common criminal. I told her she should sling you out. Can’t have lodgers bein’ hauled off by the police.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll consider your advice most carefully, Mrs M. Thank you.’

  He went in to number 76 and closed the door behind him. Mrs Cordell didn’t throw him out; she gave him a cup of tea.

  Meanwhile, Skins had tracked Ellie down in the study, where she was writing a letter.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said from the doorway. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘Oh – hi, honey,’ she said. ‘How was the Big House? Did the cops rough you up any?’ She looked up. ‘Oh, no, you look fine.’

  ‘It was touch-and-go for a minute,’ he said, ‘but we made them see reason.’

  ‘Of course you did. That boy Grine looked like a lovely fellow. I’m sure he’d not have let you come to any harm. Although I overheard Mrs Dalrymple talking to Cook. From the way our beloved housekeeper told it, you’d been dragged off by a whole squad of burly bulls. She didn’t expect to see you till the hanging.’

  Skins laughed. ‘He took us down to Scotland Yard to see an old mate of Lady H’s.’

  ‘Did he, indeed? And what did this “old mate” want with you?’

  ‘As if you didn’t already know,’ he said as he kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll get Cook to put the kettle on, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Littleton Cotterell

  19 May 1925

  Darling Ellie,

  Hello, old sport. What’s new in the Great Metrollops? I trust you’re all well.

  Herself and I went into Bristol for a concert performed by . . . well, now that’s a tale in itself. I’d been told it was going to be the Vienna Philharmonic – one of the finest symphony orchestras in the world, don’tcha know – who would be playing something from the Romantic repertoire.

  ‘It’ll be Tchaikovsky, I expect,’ Lady Hardcastle had said, breezily. ‘You’ll love it.’

  It turns out there had been what she now describes as ‘tactical exaggeration’ in order to secure my compliance. They were, indeed, Austrian, but they were an amateur orchestra from Innsbruck. Such was their devotion to their Tyrolean home that they eschewed evening dress and were instead bedecked in lederhosen and dirndls. And it was an evening of Strauss waltzes and, to my horror, Franz Léhar’s Merry Flippin’ Widow.

  Still, it was a night out and we were invited to the reception afterwards – Lady Hardcastle knows the conductor. But she would, wouldn’t she? He owns a score signed by . . . I want to say Gustav Mahler, but it co
uld have been anyone. Ravel? Elgar? Charlie Chaplin? Anyway, it was stolen a few years ago when he was working for a more upmarket orchestra in Vienna. We tracked it down and returned it to him, and he’s been her best pal ever since. At least, that’s how she likes to paint it. He was grateful enough to invite her ‘backstage’ for a glass of warm champagne and some cold vol-au-vents, at any rate.

  She sends her love, by the way, and says to remind you that we’re in London at the end of the month (not this weekend coming, but the next – we arrive at her brother’s on the twenty-ninth). She wonders if we might meet for lunch at the Ritz on the first (Monday). And I wonder that, too. Do let me know.

  Has Supt Sunderland been in touch? I told him how intrigued you were by the deserter and the missing treasure thing. I still have that letter you sent during the war – it’s astonishing to think the diamond robber you told me about in ’17 has turned up on your doorstep again. Well, on Skins’s doorstep at any rate, but you know what I mean.

  I hope the boys decide to help him – he’s such a sweetheart. We miss his friendly, professional presence in the Bristol CID. It was good to have such a dependable ally there, but when his wife died in the Spanish flu epidemic (I told you about that, didn’t I?) there wasn’t much to keep him here. Apart from us – and we couldn’t compete with the offer of promotion and his own department in London.

  We are ‘between jobs’ at the moment. There’s a Soviet agent we need to keep an eye on, and a couple of Germans and an Austrian who need to be warned off, but mostly it’s quiet (you might wish to take this opportunity to read between the lines and work out why Lady Hardcastle was so keen to get us to the Innsbruck Sinfonia’s performance at the Colston Hall, and why the second chair trombonist now has such a haunted look in his eye). All of which means that I should welcome the opportunity to get stuck into a proper mystery again. It’s been a while since we had to find any lost treasure. There was a case in Warsaw before the war that involved a diamond diadem – that was a hoot. And, of course, there was a stolen emerald in Littleton Cotterell where I first met darling Skins. But treasure maps and concealed vaults? I’m ever so slightly jealous, so please keep me up to date with any progress. If there’s a puzzle to be solved, I’d love to have a go.

  I’m sure you don’t need any guidance but I’ve been working for Herself for too long and her habit of offering unsolicited advice has rather rubbed off on me. I’m not sure there’s a secret to it, though, to be honest. I gather Supt Sunderland was planning to ask them just to keep their eyes and ears open for him. Vague and seemingly unhelpful though that may be, it’s pretty much all they need to do. They need to get to know their ‘targets’. Find out who they are, watch what they get up to . . . We’d do nothing much more.

  I suppose I might poke around the club if I thought I could get away with it – see if the building could reveal any of its secrets. I know many have tried and failed over the years, but it never hurts to have a look for yourself. Lady Hardcastle, meanwhile, would charm all and sundry into being horribly indiscreet – people do love to talk. But we’re not possessed of magical powers so there’s nothing we could do that ‘the boys’ can’t. Apart from some skilled breaking and entering – I still haven’t lost my skill with a picklock – but Skins always seemed like someone who could pick a lock. I’d wager there are a few tales from his past he hasn’t told either of us.

  Meanwhile, though, don’t forget to see if you can adjust your plans so we might meet for lunch on the first.

  Your friend

  Flo

  Chapter Three

  The Aristippus Club occupied a large – yet oddly discreet – building almost hidden away in the backstreets of Mayfair. It had taken Skins and Dunn about half an hour to push the handcart the mile or so from New Row, and Dunn was not in a cheerful mood.

  ‘How long till your missus gets her hands on her inheritance?’ he said as they heaved the recalcitrant cart round to the yard at the rear of the club.

  ‘Four more years yet,’ said Skins.

  Dunn grunted. ‘Do us a favour when the time comes? Tenth anniversary is tin, right? Ask her for a car – they’re made of tin. A nice big one with plenty of room for drums and basses.’

  ‘You could always buy one yourself if it’s that important to you.’

  ‘On our wages?’

  ‘We’ve just had another fantastic month. What else do you spend your money on?’

  ‘Not birds, that’s for sure. Not these past couple of months, anyway.’

  ‘There you go, then. Treat yourself to a nice new motor. Or a second-hand one.’

  ‘I’d much sooner moan at you to get one if I’m honest, mate.’

  Skins knocked on the back door. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  The door was opened by a liveried flunkey.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  Skins was impressed that the man had made such an apparently short and simple word last almost two seconds.

  ‘We’re with the band,’ he said. ‘We need to bring our gear in.’

  ‘Your gear?’ Another two syllables; another three seconds.

  Skins indicated the handcart and its musical burden.

  ‘Ah,’ said the flunkey. ‘Your . . . gear. You must be from the Finchley Foot-Tappers.’

  ‘No, they couldn’t make it. We’re the Dizzy Heights.’

  ‘Are you? I thought you played at the club on Fridays.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘But today is Tuesday.’

  ‘We’re early.’

  ‘Wait here, please.’

  He closed the door.

  ‘I could have stayed in bed,’ said Dunn.

  ‘I could be with Ellie and the kids,’ said Skins.

  The flunkey returned.

  ‘This way,’ he said. ‘You may leave your . . . cart there.’

  They grabbed as much as they could carry but that still left a fair amount to be fetched in.

  ‘You couldn’t lend a hand, could you, mate?’ said Dunn, nodding towards the snare drum and traps case still on the cart.

  The man frowned. Clearly this idea had never occurred to him and he was struggling with the novelty of it. ‘A hand?’ he said at length. ‘I shall get one of the boys to bring your remaining . . . “gear” to the ballroom.’

  ‘You’re most kind,’ said Skins.

  They followed the flunkey through the familiar maze of servants’ corridors, up a flight of stone steps to the main part of the building and along another, this time marble-floored corridor that ended at a set of double doors. The flunkey threw them open to reveal the spacious ballroom. The walls were hung with portraits of notable former club members, the ceiling with extraordinarily elaborate chandeliers.

  ‘Looks even better in the daylight,’ said Skins. ‘Very elegant.’

  ‘Is it?’ said the flunkey. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Definitely elegant,’ said Skins. ‘Ballrooms are always “elegant”. Mountains are always “majestic”. And barmaids are always “buxom”. It’s the law. You can look it up.’

  The flunkey seemed impervious to badinage. ‘They’ll want you down at that end.’

  ‘On the stage?’ said Dunn. ‘Where the band usually goes? I’m not sure I like the idea of that.’

  ‘The boy will be here presently with the rest of your impedimenta.’

  ‘You’re a diamond,’ said Skins. ‘Oh, before you go . . . Don’t suppose you know anything about the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer? You know, what with you being a long-standing loyal servant of the club and all that.’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot say, sir.’

  ‘Can’t say, or don’t know?’ said Dunn.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the flunkey. ‘There are rumours, of course, but nothing more than that.’

  ‘So you don’t know where the vault is?’ asked Skins.

  ‘I should be living it up in the south of France if I knew that, sir.’

  ‘You and me both, mate. Do you reckon the rumour
s are true?’

  ‘There are so many. Some say the entrance is concealed in plain sight along one of the corridors. Some say it is hidden in the darkest depths of the most inaccessible parts of the cellars. Some say it opens with a simple key. Some say there are puzzles to be solved. I even heard – you’ll love this one, sir – I even heard that the door can only be opened by satanic ritual.’ The flunkey laughed.

  ‘And no one knows where the key is,’ said Dunn.

  ‘Nor even if there is a key, sir. All we have are stories.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Skins. ‘Have to stick to earning an honest living, I suppose.’

  The flunkey looked as though he believed being a musician was a far from honest way to earn a living, but he bowed politely and went on his way.

  Skins clapped and listened to the sound reverberating around the room.

  ‘We always sound good and lively in here,’ he said. ‘It’s like playing in a church.’

  ‘When was the last time you played in a church?’ said Dunn.

  ‘Tell the truth, I haven’t even been inside a church since me and Ellie got spliced. It’s what I imagine it must be like to play in a church. Are we expecting many eager dance students? That’ll deaden the sound a bit.’

  ‘Not a clue, mate. All done through Mickey, like I said. All I know is we’re playing at seven for a dance lesson and we’ll be done by nine. Refreshment, I’ve been promised, will be provided.’

  ‘That’s a turn-up. They usually have good nosh here.’

  There were some chairs stacked in a corner of the stage, so Dunn arranged five of them for the band. Skins had a little stool of his own, while Dunn and Mickey stood throughout. During instrumental numbers Mickey would leave the stage and find a bar stool to perch on, preferably where he could be easily approached by his many adoring female fans. Dunn often grumbled that he was the only one who stood up all night.

  The rest of Skins’s drum set arrived and he set everything up in his usual spot, stage left. He gave everything a quick tap to make sure it was all in order, adjusted the snare drum head a little, and went to sit on one of the chairs next to Dunn.