The Black Diamond

by Joan Smith

  “I see you are admiring my ring,” she mentioned. “A curious old thing, of Italian design. This tablet of black diamond comes up. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t. How strange. Is there something beneath it?”

  “A miniature of Lady Arnheim, the deceased relative who left money for the ring in her will. Here, I’ll show you.”

  I arose and examined the ring. The setting was ornate, little bulbous bits of antiqued silver in blobs and swirls, roughly rectangular. Some slight adjustment of one of the blobs caused the tablet of diamond to spring open. Beneath it was an inlay of ivory, holding a tiny miniature painting of a lady. It had faded to yellow, but the image was perfectly easy to see. The female was not a great beauty. The likeness had been taken in her youth, or from a youthful portrait. She was hatchet-faced, with dull-brown hair.

  “With a magnifying glass, one gets a clearer picture,” Mrs. Palin explained. “It was painted with the help of a magnifying glass, I am convinced. Rather a charming idea. Lady Arnheim had half a dozen of these painted and distributed on her death. Each relative had the miniature inserted in a piece of jewelry. The Palin lady was clever enough to conceal hers. No beauty, the Arnheim ancestor, but the ring is interesting.”

  “Quite unique. You would not want to lose it,” I said, hoping she would give her account of its near loss at Rosalie’s hands.

  “I don’t believe in keeping treasures locked away. They are to be used and enjoyed. I wear this ring often, and so did my cousin, the first Mrs. Palin. I should like to revive the tradition of mourning gifts. If my portrait is a great success, I shall have a miniaturist do up a few copies for my dearest friends, and most favored relatives.”

  We discussed a few other matters—fashions, food and the weather—till our glasses were drained. “Have another sherry?” she asked, pouring herself more brandy. I don’t know how she could drink the wretched stuff, undiluted too.

  “Just a small glass, please.”

  She poured half a glass, which I had to drink up rather quickly, as the butler called her to dinner soon. The haste with which I was required to finish it had the effect of making me dizzy when I began to climb the stairs to my room. In fact, I decided to lie down for a moment before joining the others in the kitchen below. I glanced at my watch. It was six forty-five. Mr. Palin and Bobby would not be home for a while yet. Late evening, he had said. That was why Regina had herself decked out so finely. She would welcome her husband home in grand style. Lucky Regina, I thought lazily, snuggling down. I was curiously warm, despite the lack of a grate in my room, and the lack of a cover over me. Before a minute had passed, I glided off into sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When I awoke, the room was in complete darkness. There was a strange smell in the room, not of perfume, but of something sweet. I was no longer pleasantly warm, but shivering on top of the counterpane. My head felt as though someone were inserting a screw in one temple, and twisting it out the other. The sherry? Or the tedious day of setting fine stitches for milady? No matter, I must arise and see if Bobby and his father were back yet. I knew in some undefined way that I had slept for a longish time. Even without the utter blackness beyond the window, I would have known it was more than a nap I had just taken. I lit my taper and glanced at my watch. I could hardly credit that it was already after ten o’clock! Good grief, three and a half hours slept away! Bobby would be not only home but in his bed. I checked on him, and saw it to be the case. Someone, probably dear Molly, had done my job for me. I would go down and say thank you. Before going, I sniffed the air in my room, wondering what it was that gave it that curious odor. There was nothing unusual in sight.

  As I turned toward the servants’ stairs, I heard raised voices coming from around the corner, in the family part of the sleeping quarters. Madame was giving someone a piece of her mind. Her voice, raised to a shrill pitch, rang out quite unmistakably. It was the first time I had heard it used in such a way, but I knew it was not unusual for her to chew out the menials.

  Curious to discover who was receiving her wrath, I walked toward the corner. I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard Mr. Palin’s voice shout back at her, every bit as loud and angry as her own.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” he said. “Miss Bingham is unexceptionable.”

  You may imagine my shock to discover I was the bone of contention between them. Inching cautiously toward the source of the voices, I observed they came from Mr. Palin’s room. In a flash, I had darted to the attic door, slid the bolt, mounted the stairs to the listening post provided by the missing floorboards above his ceiling. As my own name was being used, and as I had come here to learn, I did not hesitate to stoop to the device of listening to a conjugal battle. My chief worry was they they would be finished before I got there, and thus I would not discover why they discussed me. My other worry, of course, was that madame had indeed stolen my letter, read it and revealed its contents to her spouse.

  This did not seem to be the case. “I must confess I have suspected it for some time,” Mrs. Palin was saying when I knelt behind the trunk that hid the missing plank. Their voices penetrated so clearly I might have been in the same room. In fact, tiny slits of light shone up from below, where the chandelier mount was imperfectly fitted. Had the slits been half an inch wider, I might have seen the fight. My ears pricked up to hear what madame suspected.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “I have been with her dozens of times, both day and evening. I would have noticed if she had been drinking.”

  I nearly fell over with shock. Was it possible she was accusing me of being a drunkard? “You saw the evidence for yourself. Laid out on her bed, completely senseless, with the smell of it on her breath, and the glass tipped over on her table. Martin took a look around the room, and found not less than three bottles of your best wine. Sherry it is the girl fancies.”

  “I don’t believe it. There’s some explanation for this,” he insisted.

  “No doubt you will find an explanation for the bottle and glass hidden behind the books in the nursery as well. A nice touch—a drunken female to have the care of Bobby in her trembling hands.” .

  “There was never any evidence of drinking, any time I was there.”

  “Take a look at these gowns she worked on for me today. See where she put the scissors through the armpit of this good blue afternoon gown. It is fit for nothing but the trash bin. The stitches too are a mile long, and all crooked.”

  I knew for sure then that a deliberate campaign was being mounted to get rid of me. That gown had had no cut when I returned it to her, and the stitches were not as described, either. “Miss Bingham was not hired as a seamstress,”he pointed out.

  “I begin to wonder why she was hired, Robert. I have heard reports of those snug nightly tête-à-têtes in your study during my absence. No doubt there were other visits to her chamber as well. Or did she join you here? Yes, to be sure, you would not care for a servant’s cold room. You like your creature comforts too well. Did you get her drunk to have your way with her, or was that necessary? Were you already aware of her little affliction when you hired her, sight unseen by me?”

  “Don’t deposit your salacious imaginings in my dish, Regina. There is nothing between us. She had done an excellent job with my son. He likes her, and she will remain as his nursemaid.”

  “I am aware that Bobby likes her too. I can only conclude you are besotted with the girl, when you allow a drunken wench to have the charge of your own son.”

  “There is a rational explanation for this. I don’t hesitate to tell you what I suspect. You arranged for her to be in that state when I arrived home. It is damned suspicious, its occurring the day I was away, and no other.”

  “True, that is a point to ponder. Do you suppose she held off her bouts of drinking when you were home in the hope that you would invite her down to your study? I daresay she would not want to stagger in, reeling. I have seen her gazing at you in rapture, with those calflik
e eyes. That would appeal to your masculine vanity, Robert, as I of all people know so well.”

  My fingers clenched into claws, as I listened to her mocking, insinuating words disparage me. I could hardly restrain myself from storming down the stairs, into her room, for a cat fight.

  “Did you feed her doctored wine? Is that it?” Mr. Palin asked, in a remarkably sane voice.

  “Don’t be absurd. You accused me of planting that ring in Miss Thompson’s room as well, when you know it was not true. I was jealous of your friendship with Miss Thompson, but when you refused to turn her off, I learned to live with it. She was at least pretty. This one is not likely to incite me to anything but pity that you are sunk so low in your choice of mistress.”

  Even as I fought down the urge to go below and yank Regina’s copper curls from her spiteful little head, I wondered at the significance of Mr. Palin’s “friendship” with Miss Thompson.

  “The fact that I do not encumber your bed does not necessarily mean I have got a mistress. I would not be likely to choose a servant in my own household for the post if I had. You take your notions of love and romance from those trashy novels you read.”

  “Thank you, Robert. Would you like to know which one I was reading when I chose you?”

  “I am not in the least interested in ancient history. What puzzles me more is why I ever thought I could be happy with you.”

  “You have a short memory, darling. Shall I remind you?” she taunted, then laughed, a sultry, mirthless laugh. This was followed by a long silence.

  At its end, Mr. Palin spoke in a determined tone. “The girl stays. Your stunt has not impressed me, Regina.”

  “Must I resort to blackmail, Robert? Must I reveal to the world what you did with poor little Miss Thompson?” I froze on the spot, crouched, to the floor, my heart beating wildly. “What you did...” It was Mr. Palin then, who was my enemy. There was a sound of footfalls on the floor beneath me. One of them had moved, stepped forward, or back.

  “What violent, unstable tempers you Palins have, to be sure,” she continued, still in that insinuating tone. “A family failing. It is almost enough to make one wonder what caused April’s death. You were with her at the time, if rumor serves. I had better take care, or I will suffer one of these sudden and unexplained tragedies.”

  “Bear it in mind,” he answered, in menacing accents. The little gloating laugh she returned held no trace of fear.

  “About the girl...” she said, after a short pause.

  “Miss Bingham stays. I am still the master here.”

  “For how long that will continue is a debatable point.”

  “Do your worst. You are free to broadcast your fears about Miss Thompson to the world. I doubt very much you will do it.”

  “Ah, but it is more than fears, Robert. I was there. I saw it, with my own eyes. If keeping your trollop means so much to you, however, I might be brought to silence in the customary manner. I shall need a thousand pounds next week, darling. I saw the most enchanting sable cape when we were in London. As you were so generous about Monsieur Arouet, I did not like to pester you for it. He tells me they are all the rage in Paris. Perhaps I shall nip over to Paris for a visit, after I have bought it. You would like that, would you not? To be left so conveniently alone, with your Miss Bingham.”

  “How much would you take to disappear permanently?” was his ironic reply.

  “Why don’t you just murder me and dispose of the body? You have a good idea how to set about it now, after dealing with Miss Thompson. If it is a divorce you have in mind, darling, forget it. Tantalizing as the prospect is, I rather enjoy the dignity of being Mrs. Robert Ranke Palin. Such a fine, respectable old family, and the Park makes a convenient pied-à-terre for me, between visits to more interesting spots.”

  “I must have been mad.”

  “I have suspected it for some time, Robert. But I am a demon for respectability. Mum’s the word. You can transfer the money into my account tomorrow. Don’t forget, will you?”

  Mr. Palin made no reply. There was the soft, swift sound of retreating footsteps. In a second, a door slammed. She had gone into her own room, I supposed. Mr. Palin emitted a strong expletive, then all sound ceased.

  I remained at my listening post, shivering, cramped, incredulous. Mr. Palin—Robert, as I secretly termed him when I was alone—was the one. I had my proof now, such as it was. I heartily wished I had never climbed those stairs to eavesdrop. I have no recollection of how long I remained in the attic. When I arose to go to my room, my legs were cramped. I had to feel my way along to the stairs, and down to the next floor. I felt ill. I did not want to be alone, in my room reeking of wine. I wanted noise, lights, heat, company. I went to the kitchen, half in a daze. I sat in the corner for a long time, listening, and occasionally forcing myself to contribute a comment.

  Eddie, one of the footmen, came down at about eleven. “The master’s soaking up the brandy tonight,” he said. “He’s in his study.”

  “She must have kicked him out of her room,” Bess said, laughing.

  Eleven was already late for us to be up. Shortly after Eddie’s announcement, we went to our rooms. I walked with Molly, and took advantage of the privacy to ask if Mr. Palin frequently indulged in bouts of drinking.

  “No, just once in a while when she’s acting up,” Molly replied angrily. But Molly was a prejudiced person. Mr. Palin had allowed her to go to London to visit her family, while madame had slapped her face. Perhaps I had paid too much attention to Molly in the past.

  I went into my room, my headache gone, or at least relocated to my heart. I was saddened, my frustration rapidly mounting to acceptance of defeat. The Palins were rich, powerful. Without a body, how was I ever to prove they had murdered Rosalie? No, not they. He had done it. That was the fact that lay so heavily on my heart. I was too dejected to undress. I lay down on top of my counterpane. I was there, staring wide-eyed at the invisible ceiling, when a tap sounded at my door.

  Without a single idea who it might be, I arose, like a zombie, and answered it. It was Mr. Palin, standing with a single taper in his hand. It trembled, giving me a fair idea how far his intoxication had advanced.

  “I have to talk to you,” he said, with no effort at lowering his voice. But then there was no one nearby to hear us. Only Bobby, lying asleep and practically deaf in his bed in the next room. If Mr. Palin should turn violent, there was no one close to help me.

  It seemed exigent that I not let him get a toe into my bedroom. I went quickly into the hallway. He took a grip on my arm and walked briskly toward the nursery schoolroom. He set the taper on a table, then stood looking at me, silently, for a half minute, that seemed like much more. He meant to discuss my alleged drunkenness, of course. There was a strange look on his face, a glitter in his eyes as he gazed at me. At the bottom of any conversation we had, I would know what he had done. An accident? It might have been an accident.

  At last I could endure the silence no longer. “What is it?” I asked, my voice sounding sharp, impatient.

  “You were in a state of intoxication when I arrived home this evening. The bottles in your room indicate it is habitual with you. I cannot believe it is so. Is it? Do you have a problem with drink?” he asked bluntly, his voice not slurred, but only angry.

  “No, I do not.”

  “How did it happen, then?”

  “Mrs. Palin invited me to have a glass of wine with her before her dinner. I had two—well, one and a half. My last memory is of lying down on my bed, feeling dizzy.”

  “I see,” he said curtly. “You give me your word on this? You must realize Bobby’s safety comes first with me.”

  “Yes, it is true.”

  “That’s all right then,” he said, relief so clear as to be easily readable on his features. He appeared to realize some explanation was necessary to me, and went on to make it, in a halfhearted fashion. “Some servants’ prank, obviously,” he said. “They have been known to put brandy in the sherry befor
e.”

  “Have they also been known to put bottles in one’s room?” I asked.

  “Not to my knowledge. One of the footmen may have been tipsy himself, pulling off this stunt during my absence.”

  “Drink seems to be quite a problem in this house, one way or the other,” I said boldly, unable to hold in all my angry frustration. It was difficult to have to pretend to believe his patent nonsense about the footmen. Before I revealed too much, I turned to leave.

  His hand came out and grabbed my arm in a painful grip, whirling me back to face him. His lips were clenched in a grim line, his face, in the flickering shadows, a mask of anger. I had presumed too far on a servant’s privilege to utter a criticism of her master. For a moment, it seemed possible he would strike me. I wish he had.

  Anything, even a blow, would have been preferable to his brutal embrace. He pulled me roughly into his arms, lowered his lips to mine, to crush me in an unbreakable grip, his arms two strong tentacles binding me to him; while his angry, frustrated passion was unleashed. To struggle only made him wilder; to submit was a worse mistake. Passion is contagious, like measles, or chicken pox. As soon as I stopped struggling, I was infected with it myself. I had been wondering what it would be like to be held in his arms, to feel his hot lips on mine. It felt just as I had imagined, in my virginal single bed. It felt ecstatic, unreal, guilt-ridden, unbridled, and like a prelude to something more.

  When he stopped, it was impossible to generate any show of outraged virtue. I was too weak and breathless. He did another strange, unexpected thing. He smiled sadly, took my two hands and raised them to his lips to kiss. “Poor Bingie,” he said. “Can you forgive me?” His voice was soft, troubled.

  At that instant, I could have forgiven him nearly anything, even Rosalie. The unrealness pervaded me, weakened my sense, my resolution. I only knew I was with the man I loved.

  “I promise you it won’t happen again. I have been under a great deal of pressure. You are right about the drinking, too. It is not habitual with me, however. Don’t leave us. Please. We must talk sanely, Bingie.”