The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6)

by Victoria Benchley

  "Well, I'm fond of the fellow, too. I'll have some photos for him to analyze as soon as Hadley gives Gerald Campbell the all-clear to assist me."

  There, he'd brought up Cocoran's name naturally, as nonchalantly as possible.

  "How did that meeting go? I mean with my boss. It sure seemed quiet around the office today without him," Angela said.

  "Fine, just fine. He said the company's resources would be available to me. Maybe I should ask him to send you up here to assist," he joked.

  "Don't you dare, Duncan." Angela paused before continuing, "So you liked him all right?" Her voice sounded tentative.

  "Nae, I didn't say that. He's an energetic fellow, I'll grant you, but probably not the kind I'll be mates with. Why? How is he as a boss?"

  "Not as good as you, Duncan. He's not as savvy where investigations are concerned, and sometimes, I feel a little uneasy around him."

  "Has he done anything untoward? I can always ask Harold to sick Big Mo on him."

  Duncan hid his concern behind humor. Angela laughed at the thought of Duncan's younger brother and his association with a local hoodlum named Moses. She'd never seen the man, but Harold assured them he was a decent bloke who just happened to run a numbers game.

  "No, we won't require the services of Harold's associate. My boss has been quite good to me. He just seems to take such a personal interest in his employees. I'm not used to that."

  "Hey, I took a personal interest! At least, eventually, I did," he added in a low tone.

  "I know. I'm only teasing. If my engagement ring is any indication of your interest, I'd say it's off the meter. You know, a lady stopped me at lunch today to inquire about it. I explained how you'd picked it out yourself, and that it was from the late nineteenth century. She said you have exquisite taste!"

  "I chose you, didn't I?" he rumbled softly.

  His voice had its effect on Angela, who remained speechless for several moments.

  "You know, Duncan, I'm very thankful for you. Please be careful with this new case. I did some digging today, and I know it's a life insurance claim."

  "Don't worry, Little One. I'll be careful. The beneficiary is an old man, and I can always call on Big Mo for backup."

  His fiancée stifled a laugh.

  "I'm serious. I worry about you sometimes," the lass confessed.

  "Want to elope?"

  It was the question he asked almost every day, and now, Angela did laugh out loud.

  "No, but I love you, Duncan, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

  Those words from the lass never ceased to have an effect on the investigator. Now that they were engaged, he could not imagine his life without her.

  "I love you too, Darling. I should let you get to bed, but I'll ring you in the morning."

  After a few minutes of tender whispers, the two said good night. Duncan climbed the stairs to his old bedroom, thinking of the next day. He loved speaking with Angela before sunup and timed his calls so he'd beat her alarm clock by only a minute or two. Hearing her sleepy voice was one of his daily joys.

  Chapter 4

  Antiquities & Curiosities

  Mondo stumbled up the stairs in the wee hours of the morning and managed to make a racket, waking Duncan. Holed up in the room next to the investigator, the chef rambled about for an eternity before getting into bed. Tonight, Berluca slept in the Dewar girls' childhood bedchamber, furnished with two aged twin beds dating from the 1920s. Every time the large man rolled over, the investigator could hear the bed's old springs squeak. He couldn't get the vision of the cook's wide, corpulent body draping over the edges of his sister's narrow mattress out of his mind. When Armondo did fall asleep, he snored. The upshot was that Duncan didn't get a proper eight hours, slept through his alarm, and missed his daybreak conversation with Angela. The investigator found himself in a foul mood as he tried to pick out his clothes for the day.

  Figuring an old-world purveyor of curiosities would be on the stodgy side, he chose a dark brown, three-piece tweed suit, paired with a blue shirt and a dark grape tie. He raked his fingers through his hair and attempted to smooth his thick, unruly locks before shaving. After dressing, he left a romantic apology on Angela's voice mail, knowing she was already in transit to her office. On his way out, Duncan lifted his briefcase over his head and dropped it, creating a loud thud. He repeated the procedure three times on the hardwood floor just outside Mondo's room, then made his getaway.

  When the investigator trekked up the steps that led to Chadington Close, a few people milled about. The wynd's cobblestones required walkers to take care or the result might be a turned ankle or fall. Buildings on each side of the lane crowded the sky, leaving only a sliver of blue above. Still, it was wider than many of the small streets, walkways, and alleys that made up the maze of passages near the Royal Mile. It took some time to find number eighteen, and Duncan passed it twice before discovering its location.

  Through bay windows, he spied a shallow, paneled foyer with a small crystal chandelier above a forest green plaid settee with a gilt carved frame. The glass was wavy, signifying its age, and held in place with bright blue casements. The only indication of his destination was a small brass plate engraved with 18 above the black lacquered door.

  Duncan tried the knob, but the entry proved locked. He guessed a shiny gold button was the door bell and pushed it, then waited for a response. His thoughts drifted to yesterday's conversation with Charles Bishop, one of L and G's fine arts experts. Not wishing to wait for Hadley's approval, he'd contacted the man directly.

  Charles had been in charge of obtaining independent appraisals for the items Begbie and Wainwrithe insured. Old masters had given way to twentieth-century modern pieces the last few years. Everything checked out, although profits had recently declined. Bishop confirmed that before Wainwrithe joined the business, he often served as appraiser for the artwork on offer by Begbie. His prior position at a prestigious auction house leant itself to such tasks.

  Movement through the glass caught Duncan's eye. He watched as a slightly stooped, white haired man pushed the door open, displaying a disarming smile.

  "Hello, you must be young Duncan," the man greeted him, taking his hand in a vice-like grip.

  The investigator couldn't help grinning. He felt like a schoolboy and had to fight the urge to glance down to be sure he wasn't sporting short pants.

  "Yes. I'm Duncan Dewar. I believe we spoke yesterday?"

  "Aye."

  The older man began to shake his hand vigorously.

  "I'm Clarence. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Known as Begs to my friends. Please, call me Begs, and do come in."

  The shopkeeper ushered him through the small luxurious foyer and into the larger showroom beyond. Another chandelier graced this area, a hexagon-shaped room with niches for jewelry and objects d'art. A three-sided settee, upholstered in burgundy velvet, sat at the center with several display tables scattered about. Duncan thought it odd that a half-unwrapped painting had been left propped against a wall near a hallway leading from the room. Begs saw him eyeing the masterpiece.

  "A return from a sheik," he said with a cavalier gesture of his hand. "You'd think I ran a warehouse store," the proprietor added, shaking his head.

  "Edvard Munch?"

  He recognized the Norwegian artist's unique style.

  "Aye. The partner to his Summer Night on the Beach. Suppose I'll have to hunt up a Chinese buyer now. I'm getting too old for these changing economies, Duncan. You don't mind if I call you Duncan, do you?"

  "Not at all," he replied as Begs led him down the hall to his office.

  He thought the painting might be entitled Summer Morning on the Beach, given the amorphic landscape's orange and gold palette. No one knew who had Night on the Beach, as its rightful owner had sold the masterpiece to an anonymous buyer after the painting was held illegally for over sixty years by the Austrian government. From what little he knew of the art world, he recognized it could be a seedy busine
ss.

  "Please have a seat and let me know how I can be of help," Clarence said.

  As he sat, he glimpsed the cleaning woman from his own building pass by the doorway while his host removed a jewelry box from a desk drawer. Duncan wanted to ask how a Munch worth millions of pounds could be left sitting on the floor of the showroom. But instead, he decided to make a note of it for Charles Bishop. It seemed a lapse in security.

  "A bit of a formality, really, and I'm sorry to make you go through this again, but I need your account of Bertram's state of mind and how you found him."

  Begs drew in a deep breath and took his time exhaling, allowing the air from his lungs to whistle through a small gap between his two front teeth. He reached for the blue casket and flipped its lid open so Duncan could view the contents. Inside lay a bracelet the likes of which he'd never seen.

  "I think this had something to do with it," Begs said, removing the piece from its dark blue velvet-lined box and holding it up so the diamonds caught the light.

  Cotton floss-pink orbs bloomed from a diamond and onyx leafy vine. Obviously from the Art Deco period, the three-centimeter-wide bracelet still retained some of the fluidity common to the Art Nouveau era. Cartier was stamped in gold across the lining of the matching box. Duncan waited for the older man to continue.

  "Bertram advised me to purchase this bracelet when its owner contacted him. It had previously sold at Sotheby's in Geneva, and he still had contacts there."

  "Bertram worked for Sotheby's as well?"

  "Yes, he spent time there and at Christie's in London before moving up to his position at Edinburgh's top house."

  Begs smiled, and his blue eyes clouded over briefly. Duncan paused to let the man collect his emotions before continuing his questioning.

  "What are those unusual pink stones?" he finally asked, pointing towards the bracelet.

  "Ah, some of the rarest pearls of all, those produced by conch. That's what makes this piece so valuable—fifteen large, nearly identical conch pearls, and the fact that it's Cartier," he added with a wink.

  "How did the bracelet play into Bertram's state of mind?"

  "Well, you see, Bertie had a few years over me. He had a buyer for the piece, but when the customer came in the shop to view the bracelet, it was nowhere to be found. He'd misplaced the item and couldn't remember what he'd done with it. It wasn't the first time it had happened. Bertram found it all terribly humiliating. I covered for him with a tale about it being out for insurance inspection. Of course, we lost the sale when the jewel didn't turn up."

  "Where did you find it?"

  "Well, you see . . ." the timber of his voice dipped, and he paused before continuing, "in his laundry basket, I'm afraid—afterwards . . ." Clarence's words trailed off.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Must have fallen out of his trousers after he'd put it in his pocket," Clarence added, continuing, "he was getting more and more forgetful. I don't think he was too keen on going down that road."

  "Did you report the bracelet missing?"

  "No, no. You see, things always turned up, eventually. Sometimes it took a day, sometimes a week, and usually, we found the item somewhere in his office."

  Begs smiled as he wagged his head. Duncan noticed how his cheeks bunched into large lumps that nearly covered the old man's twinkling blue eyes whenever his lips lifted into a grin. It looked like L and G would have to pay the claim.

  "Would you mind showing me around? I'd like to get a feel for your business before I take on Bertram's office."

  Clarence Begbie clearly loved his occupation. Ten years seemed to peel off him as he revealed his merchandise. A small Monet awaited its buyer's delivery instructions. An order badge from the 1700s, complete with large table-cut diamonds assembled into a fleur de lis, remained yet to be sold. A beautiful, small inlaid desk, reputed to have been used by Marie Antoinette before she left Austria, would be shipped to a museum in the States later that day.

  "Now, what would you guess was the purpose of this?" Begs asked, his eyes nearly sparking with excitement as he held up a luminescent, white object.

  Duncan's brows almost met above his nose as he examined a bejeweled stick, about twenty-three centimeters in length. Studded with cabochons that appeared to be rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, the piece had been intricately carved into a twist.

  "I haven't a clue," he proclaimed after a thorough investigation of the object.

  "Here's a hint. It's white jade, you see? Made around 1880."

  Duncan shook his head.

  "No idea."

  "Well, you see, it was used like this," Clarence said, swatting the stick slowly back and forth between them. "It had tassels attached here," he added, pointing to the jewel-encrusted end while he winked and exhibited a naughty grin.

  "I surrender," Duncan said with a laugh, holding his palms up.

  "It's a fly whisk from a mogul! Don't feel bad, Lad. No one ever guesses correctly."

  Both men chuckled as Begs handed the piece once again to Duncan for a final inspection, then escorted him to his former partner's office. A young woman sat at the desk, going over paperwork.

  "Oh, hello. I'm Sheila," she said, glancing up.

  "This is Duncan Dewar from our insurance house. Give him whatever he needs, Sheila. I've got to deal with the transport company."

  "Yes, Mr. Begbie," she said, standing to shake the younger man's hand as her boss continued down the hall in the direction of his own office.

  "Hallo," he said, the first to pull his hand away.

  Duncan took in the girl's bespoke suit and tasteful jewelry. Surely, she seemed too young to dress like such a professional. She couldn't be over twenty-two or three. Sheila flashed a beautiful smile and flipped a section of her long, thick, dark hair over her shoulder.

  "What can I do to help?"

  "I just wanted to look at, er, examine the scene. Sorry, I don't mean to upset anyone," he stammered.

  "That's quite all right, Duncan."

  She nervously fingered the strands of pearls that cascaded down her cream silk blouse. At regular intervals, a small gold band set with tiny emeralds linked the large gems together and matched her green attire and stunning eyes. Angela would have known which design house the lass's clothes had come from.

  "I'll clear out while you have a look," she said, pointing to the ceiling before she hurried from the room in her stiletto pumps, stepping as if avoiding livestock droppings in a pasture.

  After she'd gone, he allowed his eyes to trail up to where Bertram Wainwrithe had ended it all. By the looks of things, he'd removed a panel from the drop-down ceiling, scraped away some plaster, stood on his desk, and looped his tie over a pipe. Duncan gently closed the office door and climbed atop the utilitarian furniture. He easily reached the metal cylinder and yanked down, convincing himself it could support the weight of the elderly art dealer. He'd just need to check the man's height in the medical records to be sure everything made sense.

  It's a sad business, this, he thought to himself, shaking his head as he climbed from the desk to make a quick examination of the room.

  He returned to the owner's office and found Sheila hanging on Begs's every word. The two pored over some kind of catalogue as Clarence made small jokes regarding the items shown therein. He waited for one of them to see him, content to observe the two together. Sheila was an extraordinarily attractive young woman, yet she seemed ecstatic to be in the older man's company. Duncan noticed the difference between the dead man's office and Begbie's. The former's workspace contained a metal desk and nondescript chairs. The founder's sported an antique wooden desk with ornate gold trim, period chairs, bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes and fancy lighting. Begs was definitely the front man of the operation.

  "Ah, Duncan, is there anything else I can do for you today?"

  Begs had glanced up from his magazine. His light blue eyes twinkled, and the corners of his mouth rose in a charming grin, revealing the gap between his front teeth.


  "I was just wondering what your plans are now that you'll be running your venture alone."

  Sheila quickly skirted by Duncan, smiling. He couldn't help glancing after her, the picture of discretion, allowing her boss privacy to answer the question.

  "Well, you see, I haven't quite decided. I've got Sheila to think of—not easy for a girl of her caliber to find an appropriate position these days—and I'm not sure what I'd do with myself if I didn't have this place to come to each morning. Then again, I'm not getting any younger and some aspects of retirement do attract."

  "So, everything's on sound footing, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "Not as sound as I'd like, but we'll manage if I choose to carry on."

  Duncan nodded and handed the man his business card.

  "Thank you for your time, Mr. Beg—"

  "Begs," he interrupted. "I insist on Begs. Say." Clarence tapped the business card. "I see from your address that we have the same landlord."

  "Ah, that explains why I recognized your cleaning girl earlier."

  He made his way back to his office on Grassly Close, utilizing several wynds and ultimately, the alley behind his building. He clipped along at a good pace through the narrow passageways and up and down several short flights of steps. He allowed his hand to trail over a patch of bright green moss that clung to a stone wall and inhaled deeply, capturing the scents of Old Town—sea air, organic material, stone, and exhaust from nearby automobiles mingled with a hint of the ancient—that lingered in the atmosphere of the constricted walkways. Somewhere, someone fried crispy bacon. He passed through an arch leading to a broader lane and soon spied his building. Slipping between two old parked sedans, he spotted a man attempting to avoid detection by sliding low in the driver's seat of one of the cars. He hoped it wasn’t an indication of a seamy side to his new neighborhood.

  Chapter 5

  More Bad News

  "Hallo, Abigail? It's Duncan."

  "Aye, I recognize yer voice. How are ye?"