Trick of the Mind

by Cassandra Chan

  “So have you any news for us, Mr. James?” asked Coleman, seating himself beside his wife and leaning forward eagerly, elbows on knees.

  James shook his head dolefully. “Nothing good, I’m afraid,” he replied. “But you mustn’t be discouraged by that, Mr. Coleman. These things can often take some time, and we usually get there in the end. After all, the jewels have to be somewhere!” James gave a bark of laughter at his own joke and everyone else grinned in response. Coleman in particular seemed pleased to have a bit of good humor injected into so serious a subject.

  “Unfortunately,” James was continuing, “we seem to have had a bit of a setback, though I can’t say it’s directly connected to your case.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Coleman, looking slightly confused.

  “It’s Sergeant Gibbons,” said James. “He was badly injured on Tuesday night, and in consequence has forgotten some of what he learned about your case that day.”

  Both Colemans looked startled by this news, though the slight change in Lia’s expression was once again in contrast to her husband’s more exaggerated reaction. His surprise, however, went swiftly from surprise to deep concern.

  “Is the sergeant all right?” he asked.

  “He’s doing as well as can be expected,” replied James. “I’m told he should make a full recovery in time. But it’s most inconvenient as far as your case goes, as he was following up some quite promising leads. He hasn’t been in touch with you since our chat on Tuesday, has he?”

  Coleman shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Your call this morning was the first we’ve heard from anybody, police or insurance. But what happened to Sergeant Gibbons?”

  “There was an incident in Walworth,” said James. “The sergeant was attacked, but as I said, he’s expected to be just fine.”

  “How terrible,” murmured Lia, while her husband shook his head and said, “I’ve heard Walworth can be a rough area, but I never … well, never mind.” A thought occurred to him, and he looked suddenly concerned. “It wasn’t anything to do with our case, was it? I should feel awful if—”

  “No, no,” said James hastily, stemming this no doubt heartfelt outburst of feeling. “We haven’t really any notion why he was there. And even if it had been your case, well, that’s a policeman’s lot, as it were. In the meantime, I have one or two little questions I’d like you to clear up for me.”

  “Yes, of course. We’ll be happy to tell you anything you like.”

  “You said on Tuesday you didn’t know the combination to Miss Haverford’s safe.”

  “That’s right,” said Coleman, with a little shrug. “We’d never actually thought about it.”

  “But if you had wanted to open it,” continued James, “where would you have looked for the combination?”

  Coleman exchanged a glance with his wife, who said, “If we’d wanted to open the safe without Miranda, I expect we’d have got Rose to do it. I’m sure she knew the combination.”

  “Rose,” repeated James, as if trying to come up with a connection.

  “Rose Gowling,” said Coleman. “Aunt Miranda’s housekeeper. Didn’t we mention her to you the other day?”

  “I don’t believe so,” said James, his tone indicating a deep disapproval of this omission.

  “I thought we had,” said Coleman, frowning and looking at Lia again. “When we were talking about the keys to the house. But perhaps that was on Monday, when the police were there.”

  “I really should have interviewed the housekeeper before this,” said James reproachfully.

  “Oh, you can’t,” Coleman told him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a wrong impression. Rose is dead.”

  James rolled his eyes. “Then how could she possibly have been of help with the safe combination?”

  “Well, she couldn’t, not now,” replied Coleman practically. “But she hasn’t been dead long, and what Lia meant was, if we had wanted anything to do with the house while Aunt Miranda was unavailable, we would have asked Rose before anyone else. She’d been with my aunt for years and years.”

  Lia nodded agreement. “You see, Rose hasn’t been gone long enough for us to consider other ways of dealing with things.”

  “Well, she’s not here now,” pointed out James practically. “Suppose the safe hadn’t been broken into and you couldn’t wait to have a look at your inheritance. Where might you have searched for the combination?”

  The Colemans smiled at each other.

  “It did occur to us,” admitted Coleman. “I mean, we’d seen the pictures and all, and we were curious to see the real thing. If we’d known the combination, I can’t say we’d have been able to resist having a peek.”

  “As it was,” said Lia, “we didn’t go beyond wishing. But if we had …”

  She put a finger to her lips while she thought.

  “I expect I’d have looked in the desk in the study,” put in Coleman.

  “You don’t think that’s rather obvious?” asked Lia.

  “Well, yes. It’s why I thought of it. Do you think Aunt Miranda would have been more devious?”

  Lia paused in thought before she answered. “Perhaps not,” she said at last. “She didn’t seem to take the idea of security very seriously.”

  “The desk for me, then,” said Coleman, turning back to James.

  “Or the filing cabinet,” added Lia. “Miranda did once mention that she kept all her instructions and manuals in there. If she wasn’t trying to be particularly secretive, I don’t see why she wouldn’t have just written the number down on the manual.”

  James nodded. “I’ll check on both of those places,” he said.

  “You think the thief found the combination then?” asked Coleman, sounding a little disappointed. “Don’t they have safecrackers anymore?”

  “Certainly,” said James. “But it’s not a method used much by criminals. For one thing, it takes considerably longer than they lead you to believe in films. No thief wants to stay in a house he’s broken into for longer than necessary.”

  “Ah,” said Coleman thoughtfully.

  “Do you mind my asking,” said Bethancourt diffidently, “if Rose lived in? I’m just trying to get an idea of how the house was run.”

  Coleman chuckled and his wife smiled. “Oh, yes, Rose lived in,” he answered. “She was a martinet, was our Rose. I don’t think she took to us very well, do you, Lia?”

  Lia shook her head in agreement. “I would describe her attitude toward us as one of deep resentment.”

  “And suspicion,” chimed in Coleman. “As far as Rose was concerned, we were there to steal the silver. Really, one could hardly blame her. She was like family herself.”

  “Yes, I know the type,” said Bethancourt. “Was her illness prolonged?”

  “Oh, no,” said Coleman. “No, not at all. Rose was elderly, but quite hale and hearty right up until the end. She was a good bit younger than my aunt—” He broke off and looked a question at his wife.

  “About twenty years younger, I believe,” she responded.

  “Mind you, that didn’t make her a spring chicken,” said Coleman. “She was well into her seventies, and a bit past the heavy cleaning. We suggested to Aunt Miranda that she have a charwoman in once a week or so, but she refused. Said she didn’t want to upset Rose.” His face fell. “But that was probably because she couldn’t afford it. We didn’t know,” he added in a tone of wounded innocence, “that she was hard up.”

  Bethancourt frowned, but let this pass without comment.

  “Well in any case,” Coleman was saying, “after Rose died—which was quite sudden and unexpected, mind you—we were in a pretty fix. I said to Lia, ‘Do you know, if we had never come, we shouldn’t be responsible and we wouldn’t care in the least.’ To which, of course, she pointed out that as we had come, it was all a moot point.”

  James had leaned back and was drinking his coffee while looking a touch bemused. Letting witnesses reminisce randomly was clearly not his usual int
erview technique, but having allowed Bethancourt to introduce it, he was apparently content to let it continue and see what came of it.

  “A moot point indeed,” he murmured, half to himself, and then, “What, exactly, was moot?”

  “Well, how we would have felt if we hadn’t come,” explained Coleman.

  “Ah.”

  “Why did you, by the way?” asked Bethancourt.

  Coleman looked a little surprised. “Why, Aunt Miranda asked us to. She sent a letter. I hadn’t any idea I was her heir before that—I mean, it’s really quite a distant relationship, for all I call her my aunt.”

  “But you knew, of course, about the jewelry collection?” asked James.

  “Oh, yes.” Coleman grinned. “It’s quite legendary in my family. My grandmother only ever referred to it as ‘the wages of sin.’”

  “Then presumably she wouldn’t have wished to inherit it,” said James dryly.

  “Heavens, no. But I’m not so pure-minded as my grandmother.” Coleman grinned again.

  “Mr. Bethancourt was asking about Rose’s death, Rob,” prompted his wife softly.

  “Right. Well, the poor old girl just keeled over one day, carrying a tray up the stairs. Aunt Miranda’s early tea, it was. It made a frightful clatter that even Aunt Miranda could hear, and she rang for an ambulance, but it was too late. The doctor said Rose was probably dead before she hit the bottom of the stairs. A massive coronary, you see.”

  “I think her death rather shook Miranda,” said Lia in her quiet way. “I don’t think she had ever imagined she would outlast Rose. She seemed—much less herself, after that.”

  Coleman gave his wife a sympathetic look. “You always rather liked her, didn’t you?”

  “I did. She was interesting, I thought, for all she could be difficult.”

  “She was certainly difficult after Rose died,” said Coleman glumly. “You have to understand,” he said to his guests, “she couldn’t really look after herself anymore. Rose had been doing all the cooking and housework, and making sure Aunt Miranda didn’t fall down in the bath or anything. But Aunt Miranda wouldn’t have anyone else in, and she wouldn’t hear of moving. Lia and I were at our wits’ ends. We arranged for a home health aide, but Miranda sent the first three packing in as many days. The last one seemed all right, but of course she only came in a few hours a day. Lia and I were just deciding we had better move in—even though, mind, we hadn’t yet decided to settle in England—when Aunt Miranda’s health took a turn for the worse and she had to go into hospital.” He turned his palms up in an empty gesture. “She never came out again.”

  “Speaking of which,” said James, “have you decided what you’re going to do now?”

  “Not really.” Coleman shrugged and exchanged glances with his wife. “We were thinking we’d stay on here for a bit, but that was before we discovered what a mess Aunt Miranda’s estate was in. On the other hand, it would be nice to find out what happened to the jewels before we leave, and you say that may take some time.”

  “It may,” agreed James. “Although we’re certainly trying to hurry it along.”

  “We appreciate it,” said Coleman earnestly. He gave a little laugh. “You can’t know what it’s like, thinking that quite soon you’ll be the owners of a fabulous collection of jewels, only to find out the next day that you’ll never even get to see them.”

  James smiled sympathetically. “Very frustrating, I’m sure,” he said, rather perfunctorily. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr. Coleman, Mrs. Coleman. We must be getting on—lots to do, you know. Do ring me if you have any further thoughts on the matter. I’ll be in touch.”

  And with this little speech, James maneuvered them out of the sitting-room area and over to the door. He shook hands cordially with Coleman, complimented Lia on the coffee, and then whisked Bethancourt into the lift.

  His genial smile faded as soon as the lift doors closed and his gray eyes turned coldly shrewd.

  “And so what did you think of our heirs?” he asked.

  Bethancourt was already considering this question. “If Rob Coleman was English,” he said, “I’d say he was a dreadful bounder.”

  James laughed heartily. “So would I,” he agreed. “But of course he’s not English, or even British. He’s Ukrainian, which makes him unique in my experience.”

  “Mine, too,” admitted Bethancourt. “I’ve known a few Eastern Europeans, and even one or two Russians, but never a Ukrainian.”

  “Which means he may not be a bounder at all,” said James with a sigh.

  “Even if he is,” pointed out Bethancourt as the doors slid open and they emerged into the lobby, “it doesn’t mean he’s a jewel thief or a murderer.”

  “Alas, no. If it did, my job would be much easier and I would be a richer man than I am. Oh, dear, it’s raining again.”

  James paused for a moment to regard the cold drizzle outside sourly.

  “Well,” he said, recovering his aplomb and pulling out his mobile, “we needed a taxi in any case. I’m going to have another look at the Haverford place,” he added to Bethancourt as he scrolled through his contacts. “You’re welcome to come if you think the scene of the crime would interest you.”

  “I’d like to see it,” said Bethancourt. “It’s very good of you to offer.”

  James waved this away as he dialed and lifted the phone to his ear.

  Carmichael surveyed the door of Gibbons’s flat carefully before he stepped forward to insert the key in the lock. So far as he could see, it showed no signs of having been forced or otherwise tampered with.

  The key turned smoothly, and let him into a pleasant sitting room with double windows that let in the afternoon light. It was not a large room, but it was arranged comfortably enough, with a pair of overstuffed chairs, which needed new upholstery, a stout oaken coffee table, and a brightly colored rug. There was a drop-leaf table against the wall by the windows, with two straight-backed chairs set by it. Everything was quite neat and clean, with the exception of a coffee mug on the coffee table, and a jumble of loose change, various receipts, and a couple of CDs without their cases that were all piled on the tiny table by the door which held the phone and answer machine.

  To the right was the narrow kitchen, and beyond that the doors to the bedroom and bath, both of which were ajar.

  Carmichael stood just within the front door, contemplating the room before him. Gibbons had not been gone long enough for the flat to have a disused air, and the only sign that all was not business as usual was the coffee mug, in which the dregs of Tuesday morning’s coffee had dehydrated into a thick black coating at the bottom of the mug.

  Carmichael had never been here before; sergeants did not commonly invite detective chief inspectors to their homes, especially not when the home in question was a bachelor flat with little in the way of amenities. But the place spoke to him of Gibbons, and he felt an intruder into his subordinate’s private life. He did not like to venture farther in without invitation.

  But he knew his job. He drew a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, and moved to the drop-leaf table where Gibbons’s laptop lay. This would be the sergeant’s personal machine, and it was with great reluctance that Carmichael started it up. He stood while it booted up, dreading what he might find once it was running.

  It was not that he suspected Gibbons of any criminal activity; it was only that he hated probing into what was none of his business. He did not want to know what, if any, political sites his sergeant had been visiting on the Internet. He did not want to read Gibbons’s private e-mails. He liked their relationship very well the way it was, and he would greatly prefer not to know things Gibbons had chosen not to share with him.

  On the other hand, better he than anyone else. He at least had Gibbons’s best interests at heart, and if he found things today that troubled him, he would take care to bury them deep, as deeply as he could, even if he could not rid himself entirely of their memory.

  The com
puter was on. With a sigh, Carmichael brought up the browser and checked the history. The most recently visited site was the Guardian’s on Tuesday, probably a morning ritual as Carmichael saw no sign of a physical newspaper. The next lot of sites were gathered under Monday’s date, and there were a great many of them. Running his eye down the list, Carmichael smiled. They were all, every last one, sites dealing with gemstones and heritage jewelry. Gibbons had simply been doing his homework.

  Further back, there were other sites visited, but Carmichael was relieved not to find anything to be embarrassed about. Probably buried somewhere in the computer’s bowels was something he did not want to know, but it looked very much as if he would not have to dig it out, and that was a great relief.

  Gibbons’s e-mail was password protected, which made it quite beyond Carmichael’s ability to open. He bit his lip at that, but there was no help for it: some anonymous scientist in forensics would see the correspondence before Carmichael could vet it. He could only hope Gibbons’s e-mail was as innocuous as his Internet habits.

  He wasn’t much looking forward to inspecting the bedroom, either, but here again he found nothing to distress him. Gibbons apparently had not had time to make his bed on Tuesday morning, and he had read himself to sleep on Monday night with Ian Mc-Ewan’s latest novel. His clothes hamper was nearly full, and he did keep a supply of condoms in his bedside table drawer, but that was only to be expected in a young, single man. A chair held some discarded clothing, and on the top of the bureau was a collection of things from Gibbons’s pockets. Carmichael went through the drawers perfunctorily, finding only what one might expect.

  In the closet he did find a collection of used notebooks, but they all referenced past cases.