Wimsey 014 - The Attenbury Emeralds

by Jill Paton Walsh

  ‘Now, it will be about those emeralds that you wish to see me,’ he said. Unasked, his servant placed little tables beside them, and brought green tea in paper-thin china cups. ‘In what way are they causing trouble at the moment?’

  ‘You remember, I am sure, coming many miles to confirm that Lord Attenbury’s emerald was one of a pair with your own?’

  ‘What a palaver!’ said the Maharaja, laughing. ‘I got arrested by the British police, my God!’

  ‘That may not have been the only indignity you suffered, appearing under a pseudonym, as you did,’ said Peter.

  ‘I thought it would be fun to escape my all-too-burden-some identity,’ he said. ‘A young man’s trick. You, Lord Peter, treated me with perfect courtesy. A model English lord, I thought you. Unlike, if may say so, your host.’

  ‘You might have had a better reception if you had appeared as yourself,’ Peter offered.

  Harriet listened, bemused. Why should Peter feel defensive about old Lord Attenbury’s discourtesy?

  ‘I was on his ground,’ observed the Maharaja. ‘It is not how we are treated in England that has been a cause of grievance, Lord Peter, but how we have been treated in India.’

  ‘I have never been to India, I am afraid,’ Peter said.

  ‘My dear fellow! You must come, you must both come. I shall do you proud. Would you like to go on a tiger hunt?’

  ‘I would rather hunt manuscripts,’ said Peter. ‘To see them; not to acquire them unless they were honestly for sale.’

  ‘You are sure you would not like to play the English lord in my country? Shoot a few tigers and take them home as rugs? Then you can say casually to your guests, “I shot that fellow myself when I was hunting in Sinorabad.”’

  ‘Not at all my kind of thing, I’m afraid,’ said Peter. ‘But I would like to see the observatory at Jaipur.’

  The two men sat silently for a moment, taking the measure of each other.

  ‘And you, Lady Harriet, would like to buy jewels and silks, and ride on an elephant?’

  Harriet said, ‘Yes, I would like to ride on an elephant. My interest in jewels is confined to their capacity to be the crux of interesting plots.’

  ‘As certain emeralds might be?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘It is your own emerald we have come to ask you about,’ Peter told him.

  ‘That is my own affair, surely,’ said the Maharaja.

  Peter paused, like a chess player considering the next move. ‘We believe it to be at this moment in the Attenbury strongbox in a bank vault,’ he said.

  ‘You are entirely mistaken,’ said the Maharaja. ‘The one emerald remaining to my family was returned by me to my mother’s custody on my return from the mission on which I encountered you, in 1921. And since that time it has been on display in a little treasury my family established in the palace in Sinorabad for the delectation of tourists. And, of course, to collect a fee for the privilege of gawping – is that how you would put it? – at items of immeasurable value. You can read of it, mentioned in Barham’s Guide for Indian travellers, and you shall see it when you visit me; the show also contains some very fine Mughal manuscripts. However, my curiosity is aroused; what makes you imagine that my jewel is now place-holding for Attenbury’s?’

  ‘I had better tell you the whole story, I think,’ said Peter. He launched into the tale of the bank manager’s mysterious visitor, and the alleged substitution of the jewels.

  ‘The inscriptions are the key to this mystery,’ said the Maharaja.

  Peter unfolded from his wallet the two sheets of paper with the inscriptions written on them. The Maharaja made a great show of finding his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and holding the papers up to read them. And then his demeanour changed. Suddenly the playful, supercilious guarded manner was dropped.

  ‘You know where the stone is that carries these words?’ he cried, flourishing the paper that said: ‘or my spirit leaves my own body’.

  ‘Indeed we do,’ said Peter. ‘It is the one in the Attenbury box which the present Lord Attenbury is being told is not his because another can prove ownership of it. I must ask you directly: is that other person you, or one of your agents?’

  The Maharaja left that question unanswered. He said, ‘At last, at last, the third stone has turned up! My father and grandfather always believed it would surface somehow, somewhere. And now it is found. And do I understand that it belongs to someone who would like to sell it? This is wonderful, wonderful!’

  ‘A third stone,’ said Peter. ‘My wife did wonder what kind of setting could look right with just two. But if there are three…’

  ‘The inscriptions seem to show otherwise,’ said Harriet quietly. ‘They are continuous. And what would the third one say?’

  ‘My dear lady, the inscriptions you have brought me do happen to make sense together. But they are not continuous. What a pity it is,’ he went on, ‘that after hundreds of years of common history the balance should be so one-way. We have acquired widespread knowledge of English, and a new democracy. Good railways, and a sense of the law; our departing rulers have acquired a few tiger-skin rugs and a liking for curry. You have had the worst of it. But so few of you have learned of our culture, which is the equal of yours. If you had known a little Persian you would have seen at once that we are looking at a verse by Hafez. Look, I will write it for you in English. First the words on the Attenbury stone: “I will not cease striving until I achieve my desire.” Then the words on my stone: “Either my body joins my beloved” and finally the words on the stone so long missing: “or my spirit leaves my own body.” Together they make up famous lines from a very great poet.’

  ‘And they were made as a love-gift,’ said Harriet, touched.

  ‘And if I could have them together again they would be that once more. I could give them to my son to adorn his bride.’

  ‘There is some way to go before we can achieve that,’ Peter said. ‘And there is, I think, danger in it.’

  ‘Where does danger come in?’ asked the Maharaja.

  ‘If I knew who has planted the third stone in place of the first, I could tell you that,’ said Peter. ‘But along the way in the track of these stones lives have been taken.’

  ‘Take me into your confidence, old chap, and tell me everything you have been able to find out,’ said the Maharaja.

  Harriet wondered if Peter would be willing to do any such thing, but it seemed that he was. He began to recount the occasions when the Attenbury stone, or what everybody supposed to be that stone, had been taken out of the bank.

  ‘I know of Captain Rannerson,’ the Maharaja said. ‘He was for a while a member of the Bombay Turf Club.’

  ‘Did you by any chance offer him an inducement to acquire Attenbury’s emerald for you?’ asked Peter.

  ‘My dear fellow, of course I did!’ said the Maharaja. ‘Or rather, my father did. And my grandfather before him. All my life it has been a determined aim of my family to reunite the stones. Announcements have been widely circulated. A large reward would be paid to anybody who could return a stone to us, or enable us to buy one of them. For the return of both the missing stones the reward would be quadrupled. My grandfather said this, my father said this, and I myself have likewise said it.’

  ‘So when Captain Rannerson took the Attenbury emerald as a pledge, he probably intended to claim a huge reward for it,’ said Peter.

  ‘I imagine so,’ said the Maharaja.

  ‘But the interesting question is, did the person who killed him for it have a very particular motive; were they in possession of that third stone, the existence of which has so surprised me?’

  ‘Someone killed him?’

  ‘He was strangled within a few hours of Attenbury redeeming the pledge.’

  ‘Now, this is very serious,’ said the Maharaja.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t think any question of murder arises when the stone was on the rampage in 1941. Although violent death was all around it. And the person who ha
d custody of the stone most recently returned it safely to the bank vault eighteen months ago. But about Captain Rannerson there is little doubt. If you will, sir, you must tell me all you can about that third stone.’

  ‘It has long been lost to us,’ said the Maharaja. ‘My grandfather found himself strapped for cash in the middle of a terrible famine among his people. He sold two of his great jewels, in his distress, sold them to buy rice. One of them was bought by an official in the East India Company, and taken to London where it was sold to the Attenbury family. My father had a copy of the sale catalogue in his library. The other one was taken by a military man, a compassionate fellow, who raffled it at a military banquet. It raised a decent sum of money – almost what it was worth – but the winner of the raffle was not an officer of high rank, and he was posted elsewhere very quickly. We lost track of him. We have never heard anything about the stone. And he may not have realised the value of his prize – a prize in a raffle, my God!’

  ‘And it is this stone that has somehow changed places with the Attenbury stone. Someone in possession of it contrived to make the exchange; if they are allowed now to reclaim the third stone they will probably intend to present you with both. Is that four-fold reward still on offer?’

  ‘It is. Of course it is; my family are honourable people.’

  ‘You would not scruple to reward murder?’

  ‘I would not commit a murder myself, to recover the stones,’ said the Maharaja. ‘But I would stop at nothing less. You must keep in touch with me, Lord Peter. I will pay you a retainer to act in my interest in this matter.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lord Peter, ‘but I have never taken money for detective work. And I am already engaged on Lord Attenbury’s behalf.’

  ‘There may not be a conflict of interest here,’ said the Majaraja. ‘If I understand you correctly, Attenbury wishes you to help him sell the stone and I wish you to help me buy it.’

  ‘If only things were that simple,’ said Lord Peter. ‘But there may be a grave conflict of interest between buying and selling stones, and seeing justice done to a murderer.’

  ‘And you would put justice before jewels?’

  ‘A long way before,’ said Peter.

  The Maharaja sat contemplating Peter for a few moments, and then just perceptibly nodded, as though accepting that statement. ‘Now, before you leave,’ he said, ‘I must show you something.’ He spoke a few words to his servant, who drew back the curtains, and opened the tall glazed doors of the room. The night air blew a chilly gust, but the Maharaja led the way out on to the terrace. ‘What does it remind you of?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together in the cold. Harriet peered into the murky gloom. She could see, in faint outline against the night sky, the tower of Big Ben, the clock-face lit, but obscured by the drifting fog. The shape of Westminster Bridge was just discernible against the black river with faintly glittering reflections rocking in its surface.

  ‘Monet,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Quite right, dear lady! Quite right!’ said the Maharaja, as though thrilled by her perceptiveness. ‘I always take the room he stayed in. They tell me there are better rooms, and I tell them that there cannot be. What paintings he made from this viewpoint! Do you know he called the London fog cher brouillard! He came for it specially! Can you imagine? Come in, come in,’ he added. ‘I will freeze you to death out here without your coats on. A little brandy to warm you up before you go?’

  ‘So, Peter,’ said Harriet in the back seat of the taxi which was taking them home slowly through fog and darkness, ‘in that game who was cat and who was mouse?’

  ‘Oh, we were the mice, undoubtedly,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘I rather liked him,’ she said. There had been a faint echo of Peter about him; a self-mocking involuntary glamour.

  ‘Oh, so did I,’ Peter said. ‘But a man may smile and smile and be a villain, and all that.’

  ‘He might be a trickster,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But a murderer?’

  ‘Probably not a murderer. But I take him to be ruthless in pursuing his aims, and he is certainly an element on the board.’

  ‘That reward of his, you mean?’

  ‘And the third stone. The third stone is a proverbial cat among the pigeons. Brr, I’m cold in this damn taxi. Let’s to bed when we get home.’

  Bunter greeted them at the door. ‘Lord Attenbury called in your absence, my lord, my lady. He has left a note for you, and a parcel. On the library table, my lord.’

  His lordship went leaping up the stairs, Harriet and Bunter following sedately.

  Peter picked up the note. ‘The paste copy has been retrieved from a dressing-up box at Fennybrook Hall. The servants believe it has been there since the old Lady Attenbury died. He has pleasure in leaving it with us for the duration.’ Peter waved a hand at Bunter, who took a paper-knife, and carefully slit the brown paper of the accompanying package. It was lined with tissue paper. He lifted out of the paper the entire paste copy – the rivière of emeralds and tiny diamonds, and the great green stone hanging from it.

  ‘Of course,’ said Peter, ‘this is a copy of the stones as they used to be. Before they were re-set.’

  ‘Strewth!’ said Harriet. ‘These are dazzling! Whatever can the real ones have been like?’

  ‘Oh, quite terrific,’ said Peter. ‘Real hit-you-in-the-eye. But I think I prefer the phoney ones.’

  ‘It’s not like you to go for the ersatz, Peter. Why?’

  ‘These fakes are innocent,’ he said. ‘They have lain unregarded in a box with old curtains, old-fashioned frocks and hats and stage cutlasses for a generation. There is no bloodshed to lay to their account.’

  19

  Harriet surfaced from deep sleep, dreaming of a phone ringing. Had she dreamed it, or had there really been a phone call? She turned over and looked at the pretty little alarm clock at her bedside, with luminous spots round the dial and on the hands. Two thirty. She must have dreamed it. The house was now silent, the room dark. Sometimes it was flooded with moonlight, but tonight a slender crescent moon hung in an upper pane of the window glass, surrounded by a sprinkle of stars; these astral bodies kept their light for themselves. She could hear Peter’s steady breathing where he lay beside her. Nothing had wakened him. She turned over, buried her face in her pillow and tried to return to sleep. She was cross with herself; how could she work tomorrow if she could not sleep through the night? Here she was, warm and safe and in a silent house…But no, the house was not silent. There were stealthy noises, someone moving about quietly, a brief whisper, a door being gently opened and shut. She was now completely awake, and listening intently for every slight sound. She heard in the quiet street outside the sound of a motor car. A car door being opened. Nothing and nobody should be stirring at two thirty. And then a light tap on the bedroom door.

  Bunter’s familiar voice: ‘My lord; my lady…’

  Before she could answer him he entered, and put the lights on. She sat up, blinking. Peter woke cleanly and completely; he said, ‘What’s up, Bunter?’

  Bunter was holding Peter’s shirt and trousers. ‘There has been a phone call from Duke’s Denver, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘Is it my mother?’ asked Peter, in a voice in which Harriet heard terror.

  ‘No, my lord, it is the house. There is a fire in Bredon Hall. The Duchess has asked if you can come at once.’

  Peter shook his head, as if to shake off drowsiness. ‘I’ll get dressed right away,’ he said.

  ‘When you are ready, my lord, the car is at the door, and your case is in the boot,’ said Bunter.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter, discarding his pyjamas, and pulling on a vest. ‘If you would, Harriet. And Bunter, you too, I think.’

  Bunter nodded, like a man vindicated. ‘I have taken the liberty of packing overnight cases for her ladyship, and for myself, my lord.’

  Harriet dived into her dressing-room, and got rapidly into old clothes. She ran downst
airs. The front door was standing ajar and the car with engine idling was at the kerb, Peter at the wheel. A triple thump of the front door closing, followed by the car doors, and they were on their way.

  ‘If my mother asked for me, then I take it she is herself all right?’ asked Peter as they sped along Oxford Street towards the Clerkenwell Road.

  ‘I have no reason to think otherwise, my lord,’ said Bunter. ‘But it was not your mother who called. It was the Duchess, not the Dowager Duchess.’

  ‘Helen summoned me?’ said Peter. ‘Good God. What did she say exactly, Bunter?’

  ‘That the house was burning down. Would you come at once. That’s all, my lord.’

  There seemed to be not another car on the road. Peter drove straight through all the traffic lights on Old Street, and they turned on to the A10. Peter put his foot down, and Harriet closed her eyes. They sped through north London, Enfield, the miles to Cambridge and then Ely. Out on to the vast flatness of the Fens, where the first light of tomorrow was drawing a just visible faint line of grey light between earth and sky, far away on their right. They did not speak; until they reached their destination there was nothing to be said. Sitting beside Peter, Harriet sensed his tension. Saw his hands that usually lay lightly on the steering wheel clenched on it now.

  The nearer they got to Duke’s Denver, the huger the load of dread she felt. She imagined a scene like that in Jane Eyre, when Jane had looked towards a stately house and seen a blackened ruin. They reached the park gates, which were standing open and unattended. And what met their eyes as they rounded the woodland plantation and had a clear view to the house was more like a scene from Rebecca than one from Jane Eyre. It looked as if an enormous party was being held in the house, with every window on two-thirds of the great Palladian frontage brightly lit. It was blinding; it took Harriet a moment or two, blinking, to discern the scene on the lawn and carriage drive in front of the house. There were fire engines, hoses running into the fountain basin, people running about backlit everywhere. The torches they were holding looked like frantic fireflies darting through the darkness.