The Black Diamond

by Joan Smith

  “I have to go away for a little while, Jane,” he said.

  “For how long?” I asked, aware of an unreasonable stab of dismay. I disliked to have his son’s safety in my sole hands.

  “Not long. He will be perfectly safe. Laver will keep him at night, and spell you for a few hours during the afternoon to give you a rest.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked, overstepping a nursemaid’s prerogative, and not caring one jot.

  “I have to make some inquiries. I am not certain where my questions may take me. Mrs. Palin will not be here,” he added, trying to make it sound like an irrelevancy, without quite succeeding. The relief surely must have been obvious on my face. “Martin, of course, accompanies her.”

  “I see.” A great weight fell from my shoulders. It was madame and Martin I dreaded. With all the family away, I would feel perfectly safe, strange as it might sound. “Where are they going?”

  “To Tor Bay, to oversee the doing up of the saloon in our summer house there. It is a damnable time for me to have to leave, but it must be done.”

  There were a million questions I wanted to ask. What was he going to investigate? Was it something to do with curare, or with Mr. Rupert, or Martin, or madame herself? I noticed flecks of water on his hair. His face was highly colored too, as though he had been out already. Looking at his boots, I saw I water and mud around the soles.

  “I rode out on the moors looking for that tin box you mentioned, but of course found nothing. Like looking for a needle in a haystack. It must be Mr. Rupert who dropped it. He often rides out toward the west. There are some remains from the Bronze Age there, circles of stone that were once homes, or something of the sort. He expresses an interest in them.”

  “I didn’t know you knew him personally.”

  “We met him at a few social functions. Mrs. Palin was better acquainted with him than I was myself. They usually had a dance together. She suggested I hire Mr. Rupert to replace your sister, but I never cared for him. He would have been no worse than the young man I did hire, as it turned out, but that is hindsight. You have driven out with him a few times. What do you make of him?”

  “I can’t agree with Monsieur Arouet that he has nothing of interest to say. He is fairly amusing.”

  “There is nothing serious brewing between the two of you?”

  “No, he is not the sort of gentleman a girl becomes serious about.”

  “I expect a young lady like yourself would have objections to a divorce?” he asked, looking at me, his eyes bright with interest to hear my reply.

  “Is he divorced?” I exclaimed. “He never said so.”

  “No, that was not my meaning,” he answered, with a conscious, embarrassed start.

  The breath caught in my throat, as the truth washed over me. He referred to himself.

  “What is ‘vorced mean?” Bobby asked. He was looking at us with the keenest interest.

  “It means your father is being foolish,” Mr. Palin told him blandly. “While our Bingie, of course, behaves with her customary calm good sense. What must she think of us?”

  “Bingie likes us,” his son replied, then set down his ear trumpet and picked up a tin soldier.

  “I hope so,” Mr. Palin said, his eyes sweeping from the bed to where I stood, rigid with shock, and shame, for the color that was staining my cheeks, and the wild thumping of my heart. “I certainly hope so. Take care of each other,” he said. He gave us a long, searching look, then he left.

  “I want to draw now,” Bobby told me, shoving the soldiers aside.

  “Very well, but you must pick up your toys first. Don’t leave the mess for someone else to clean up.”

  He obeyed, but with one of his pouting looks. The drawing was soon interrupted by the lunch trays. After lunch, Bobby settled down for a nap. It was not till he awoke some hour and a half later that he began his drawing in earnest. I watched him, thinking, occasionally looking at the book on my lap, but I was too overwrought to concentrate on a book.

  At the sound of a carriage passing beneath the window, I looked out to see madame’s black traveling carriage being driven to the stables. She was back! She was supposed to have gone to Tor Bay. Why had she returned?

  At the same moment, Mrs. Steyne bustled in, her eyes enlarged with astonishment. “She’s come back!” she exclaimed, frightened.

  “I just saw the carriage go to the stable.” There was no need to identify “she.”

  “Mr. Palin would never have left if he had known this.” She stood irresolute a moment, then took her decision. “I’ll go below and see what she has to say.” She turned on her heel and fled from the room, her haste and excitement, indeed very transparent dismay, causing my own dread to mount higher. I had the awful feeling they—Regina and Martin— had returned to try again to get at Bobby.

  “Who is back?” Bobby asked.

  “Regina. Mrs. Palin,” I answered, unthinkingly.

  “Bad girl. Bad Gina.” He scowled.

  I debated with myself the wisdom of quizzing him about Regina, or anything he had seen that might be imperiling him. I didn’t want to upset him more, but if I could get any knowledge from him, it would be a help.

  “Why is she bad?” I asked. “Why don’t you like her?”

  His reaction was unexpected. He lowered his head, then turned it aside, to look at the wall. He wasn’t about to answer. The question had upset him, caused him to withdraw into himself. I was sorry I had asked it. “Want to sit on my knee, and I’ll read you a story?” I tempted, hoping to return him to a more normal mood.

  He shook his head from side to side, without saying a word. A few moments later, he returned to his paper and pencils and began drawing, very busy. I thought it best to let the matter rest.

  Mrs. Steyne was soon back. “She says the roads are bad toward Tor Bay. Monsieur Arouet didn’t seem to have any trouble. He didn’t come back.”

  “He was going the other way, toward London.”

  “Yes, like Mr. Palin, so he won’t be back. The master, I mean. I hardly know what to do....” She stood irresolute, worried.

  Her edginess transferred itself to me, adding to the weight of fear and worry I already bore. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t trust her, Miss Bingham. Don’t trust her an inch. Don’t let her near either the child or yourself.”

  “What is she likely to do? If you know something, Mrs. Steyne, tell me!” I urged, with a cautious glance over my shoulder to see Bobby was paying no heed. He was drawing, more intent on his work than usual.

  “Who knows what she might do? She takes what she wants, and doesn’t care who she hurts in the process. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t believe it.”

  “What did you try to tell him?”

  “That she killed his wife. I don’t know how she did it, but from the time she set foot inside this house, April was never well. She started having bouts of nausea, cramps, fatigue. It would come and go, but getting worse each time. The woman poisoned her with some slow poison. Maybe it was that curare Monsieur Arouet spoke of. The way Mrs. Palin died suggests it, though how it could have been administered, I don’t know. Regina wasn’t in the house at the time she actually died.”

  “Where was she?” I asked, trying to visualize the scene.

  “She was out walking in the park. I remember she wore a bonnet when she stepped into the saloon. There was such a look on her face, Miss Bingham. Excited she was, eager, almost gloating. She knew what she would find when she came back. Planned the whole. She set her cap for Mr. Palin the day she came. Always smiling and primping and flattering him. He paid her no heed. None in the least. She knew she would have to be rid of his wife before she made any headway with him, so she killed her.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “I could believe anything of her. She had no money when she came here; she only came to batten herself on her cousin, herself and that hatched-faced Martin. She saw what a cozy nest it was, and determined to stay. She wa
s as sweet as honey with Mrs. Palin, and she such a fine good-natured lady she would never look for any deceit. She liked the hussy, bought her things, treated her like a sister.”

  “How did Mrs. Palin die?” I asked. “Exactly what happened?”

  “She had been out that afternoon. She was not suffering from one of her attacks at that time. She had paid a condolence call on a neighbor whose husband had just died. She was all in black, looking so pretty, but sad. She felt for everyone in their trouble. She had just put off her bonnet and wrap, and come into the parlor for a cup of tea. Her husband, was there. ‘Sit down, April,’ he said. ‘You look weary.’ He worried a good deal about her condition. She sat down, took a sip of tea, but there was nothing amiss with the tea. Mr. Palin was drinking from the same pot, as I was myself, ‘I see you’re wearing the mourning ring,’ he mentioned a bit later. He had no particular aversion to it at that time. She smiled, made some remark about since it was a condolence call, it matched her outfit. She was looking at the ring, playing with it, you know, turning it around on her finger, then she suddenly gasped, fell from the chair, to the floor. He ran and gathered her up in his arms. She was shuddering and gasping for breath. Within minutes, she was dead. The doctor didn’t know what to make of it. He thought it was poison at first, but decided in the end it must be the heart.”

  “They analyzed the tea, the things she ate?”

  “Yes, but we knew it wasn’t that. We all ate the same food.”

  “It must have been the ring.”

  “Monsieur Arouet said that curare stuff only works if you have an open wound. It would have killed her long before, if that was the case.”

  “Where is the ring kept, Mrs. Steyne? I’d like to see it.”

  “In madame’s room, with her other jewelry. She is there now, but I don’t believe the ring can have anything to do with it.”

  “It belonged to the Borgias. Did you know that?”

  “Where did you get such a story, Miss Bingham?”

  “I read of it in a book. I think the ring referred to was the Arnheim ring. The Borgias have an unsavory reputation, have they not?”

  “Did you read that story in the book Molly borrowed out of madame’s cartons? Best not let the madame find out. She was furious. You remember she slapped Molly till her poor teeth rattled.”

  “Was that why she slapped her?”

  “Yes. She accused the girl of cutting up the book, but Molly denied it, and does to this day. Miss Thompson was with her, and it might have been her that did it. She was never around to ask.”

  “I’ve got to see that ring, Mrs. Steyne. How could we get hold of it?”

  “If she and Martin leave the room, I’ll let you know. Maybe at dinner, if they dine downstairs.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “You must be very careful, my dear.”

  “I intend to be.”

  “I don’t just mean of handling the ring; I mean of Mrs. Palin.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’m going to tell Laver to keep his door open, and if she comes this way, he can follow after her.”

  This idea had the dual effect of increasing my alarm, to see how worried Mrs. Steyne was, and to allay it, with the knowledge that Laver was on hand to help.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Not long after the housekeeper left, Laver came along to relieve me. I was so nervous from the worry and being cooped up that I longed to go out for a walk, but the wind was rising again, and the moors a most unwelcome sight. I went instead to the kitchen for tea and companionship.

  The talk there was of yesterday’s spoiled party, and of madame’s unexpected return and the possible reason for it. It was generally agreed the roads were no worse than usual. There was traffic coming from the direction of Tor Bay, so obviously the roads were open. I was so distrustful of the woman that I took it into my head she had only let on she was leaving to get Mr. Palin out of the house, though how she could know he would leave I could not fathom. I was sure by this time that relations between them had deteriorated beyond repair. A gentleman did not speak of himself as a divorce if he had not the intention of becoming one. Neither did he ask a lady her feelings about marrying a divorce if he was not interested.

  Whether I could ever accept any offer was unclear. It must depend on how Rosalie had died, and just how culpable he was in the affair.

  “Is madame dining downstairs?” I asked Cook.

  “No, she and Martin are having trays in their room.”

  I tried to hide my disappointment at not being able to look for the mourning ring. The next best thing to seeing it was to look again at the portraits depicting it. I went to the gallery, to see Bess sliding down the front staircase as I entered the foyer. She looked frightened. Bess was so sly, one never knew what was in her mind. She listened at keyholes, was more in madame’s confidence than the rest of us. I felt she could tell me things, if only she would.

  “Hello, Bess. What are you up to?” I asked, in a friendly way, trying to ingratiate myself with her.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes wary, her voice light.

  “Nothing.” I noticed she was carrying her outdoors shawl. If she was going for a walk, it would be normal for her to use the back stairs of the house. “Going for a walk?” I asked. I even toyed with the idea of joining her.

  “I’m leaving here, leaving for good. I know who you are. I overheard them talking. You’re Rosalie’s sister, aren’t you?”

  “Who said that?”

  “I heard them. I heard them talking,” she said, her voice sinking lower, more frightened.

  “Yes, I am, since you already know it.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her. It was nothing to do with me,” she said, backing away from me, as though I would strike her.

  I reached out boldly and grasped her wrist. She came without argument or violence into the gallery. “You have got to tell me what you know, Bess. Tell me, and I’ll keep you out of it when I go to the police,” I said, deciding this brave note was the most likely to appeal to her self-interest.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. I only packed up her things into her trunk. Madame asked me to do it, and not to answer if anyone knocked at the door. She said Rosalie was in her room, getting a good talking-to about stealing. But they didn’t have Rosalie’s gowns and that sent off in that trunk, miss. They burned them. All the next day there was the smell of burning clothes in the hall upstairs. More than the smell of one burned suit, like madame said. The trunk went out, and it took two men to carry it. Why should an empty trunk be so heavy? I think Rosalie was in it. That’s how they got rid of her body. They put it in a trunk and took it somewhere.”

  “Mrs. Palin and Martin?” I asked, willing down the nausea at the images conjured up. Rosalie, trussed up in a trunk.

  “He took it away. Mr. Palin. They didn’t leave the house that night. They were locked up in her room, whispering. They know who you are, and they know why you’re here. If you’re smart, you’ll come with me, now.”

  “You don’t really know Rosalie was in that trunk. You’re just guessing, figuring it was that way.”

  “She was in it. If I was you, Jane, I’d run. They’ve had another trunk brought down.”

  She cast one last, furtive look to see if I understood her meaning, then she darted out of the room, out the great front door of Palin Park, down the pathway toward the road, without even waiting to pack up her clothing, or any other things. I understood her, all right. The other trunk, she meant, was for me. How much reliance was to be placed on her story was debatable. She was motivated by self-interest, by and large, so the question was whether she had anything to gain by lying to me. I could not see that she had.

  I went back upstairs, but before doing so, I asked Molly if she would take her dinner with Bobby and myself in the nursery. I told her I was bored, lonesome. She was happy to join me. By the time we had finished, the shadows were lengthening; alread
y the candlelight was reflected in the windowpanes. When I looked out, it was myself I saw, staring back at me, a white moon of face with two black holes in it. The wind was rising again, but it was a gentle, soughing sound in the background, not so violent as the night before. Laver would soon come to take Bobby to his room for the night, and I could escape to the kitchen. I managed to keep Molly with me till he came.

  His insouciant smile, his down-to-earth manner and his strong shoulders gave me a feeling of security. He began a bit of roughhouse with Bobby, playing with him on the floor.

  “All this commotion isn’t good for him today, Laver. It will only keep him awake. A story would be more restful.”

  “We’ve got a grand book,” Laver volunteered readily. “All about pirates and sailors. We’ll have some more of that, eh, mate?”

  Bobby nodded happily, apparently familiar with the story from his afternoon stint with the valet. “I’ll get it, Laver. Where is it?” I asked, thinking it would be somewhere in the next room.

  “In my room, miss. I was having a read of it after I started a story to the lad. Just on the table beside my bed you’ll find it.”

  I was glad Molly had not left yet. I confess I was frightened to even walk down the hall alone. “I see madame has given Bess an extra day off,” Molly mentioned in a tone of pique as we went along.

  “Is that what Bess said?” I asked, wondering if it was true, if it was some trick the upstairs maid had been trying to play off on me.

  “She didn’t say nothing. Just walked out, bold as brass, and not by our back door either. The hussy went out the front way. I’d like to know who she’s meeting.”

  “I don’t think she’s coming back, Molly. She said she was leaving, was frightened.”

  “She’ll be back all right. She left all her things in her room. Cook sent me up to call her for dinner, and she wasn’t there, but her clothes were.”