Diamonds & Dust

by Carol Hedges

  “Keep your eyes in, Jack,” Stride murmurs to his colleague, who is making a mental inventory of the vast array of expensive and delicate objects that furnish the room.

  But Jack Cully is not thinking what his boss thinks he is thinking. He is thinking instead about the book he has just finished reading. It is called The Communist Manifesto by Mr Karl Marx.

  Right now, Cully is asking himself why these people have so much wealth, while every day he encounters rickety children paddling in filth, and young women forced to sell their bodies to keep themselves from starving.

  Eventually the door opens, and Sir William Snellgrove stalks in. He gives Stride and Cully a look so stiff they could have ironed sheets on it.

  “At last!” he exclaims. “A heinous crime has taken place in my house. I expected the police to attend far sooner than this.”

  “We came as soon as we could, sir,” Stride replies evenly. “And now that we are here, I should like to view the unfortunate victim.”

  Sir William Snellgrove favours them with another long disapproving stare. Then he leads the way up the richly-carpeted stairs, along the richly-carpeted landing, to a small dressing-room on the first floor. Brushing aside the group of servants gathered outside, he ushers the two detectives across the threshold.

  “There, officer,” he says, gesturing towards an open window, in front of which lies something covered with a green woollen cloak.

  “The discovery was made early this morning,” Sir William continues. “The gel failed to appear for her normal duties, and was subsequently found here. The room, as you can see, is not much used. Last night, it was employed as a repository for the outdoor garments of some late-arriving guests.”

  Stride crosses the room, bends down and folds back the cloak. From the angle of the head, it is quite clear that the unfortunate victim’s neck has been broken. Her throat has also been torn open. But that is not what causes the expression on his face to change. He beckons to Cully.

  “Take a look at this.”

  The young woman’s face is frozen into a look of sheer terror. Even in death, her eyes seem to be starting out of her head, her mouth gapes in a rictus of fear.

  Sir William Snellgrove peers over Stride’s shoulder.

  “Good gracious,” he exclaims, “the gel must have had some sort of fit.”

  “That’s not a fit, sir,” Stride counters grimly. “The poor young woman was clearly frightened out of her wits.”

  He steps carefully over the body, and peers out of the window.

  “It’s a sheer drop down to the pavement. Whoever did this can’t have entered that way. So, it must have been a person, or persons, already in the house.”

  Sir William bridles indignantly.

  “What are you suggesting, officer? That one of my own people may have killed this poor unfortunate gel? That is outrageous – all the staff in this house are hand-picked by myself or my wife, and have worked in my employment for years. You could say they are practically part of the family.”

  Stride pulls out his notebook.

  “What was the name of the deceased, sir?”

  “Mary Smith.”

  “Jenny Brown,” comes a voice from the landing.

  His face expressionless, Stride writes both names down.

  “I shall arrange for the body to be transported to the police morgue.”

  During this exchange Cully is still staring thoughtfully down at the poor dead terrified face.

  “Throat torn open. Frightened to death. Remind you of anybody else, sir?” he murmurs.

  Stride breathes in sharply, but does not reply. He makes a final careful inspection of the room, writing further notes as he goes. Then he thrusts the notebook briskly into his topcoat pocket.

  “Has anything of value been taken?”

  Sir William shakes his head.

  Stride nods.

  “I should like to talk to her ladyship now, if I may.”

  Sir William gives him an indignant look.

  “My wife has retired to her room. She is far too indisposed to talk to anybody right now.”

  Stride fixes his gaze upon the far wall.

  “I do not think the murderer entered through the walls,” Sir William says sarcastically. “Nor down the chimney.”

  “I am sure you are right, sir.” Stride’s voice conveys nothing.

  Sir William fidgets with his waistcoat buttons.

  “Now look here, officer, I understand you will have to ask questions, carry out a full investigation, that sort of thing. All I ask is that everything must be done with the utmost discretion, d’you see? Not a word of this must get out. My name must not appear in the gutter press. People would gossip. My reputation as a host would be in tatters.”

  Stride's face is a study.

  “Oh, we would certainly not want that to happen, sir.”

  Sir William subjects him to a long stare.

  “Very well then. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

  “The names of your house staff. Oh – and a list of all the guests who attended the party last night.”

  Sir William’s lips twitch, but he gives a curt nod and leaves the room.

  “It is identical to the Herbert King murder, isn't it?” Cully remarks when the room is empty.

  Stride’s mouth tightens.

  “Similar, Jack, I grant you. Similar.”

  He stares into the middle distance, his expression inscrutable. Then he turns to face Cully.

  “'Right Jack, onwards and upwards,” he says firmly. “Onwards and upwards. We’re not going to learn any more standing around here. Let’s start asking questions. And remember, these people are not like you and me, so mind your manners.”

  Cully nods. By the time he has finished spending the day questioning rich people and snooty house-staff, all of whom seem unfamiliar with words like please and thank you, he will have become more and more convinced that Mr Karl Marx’s opinions about the unfairness of society, and the need for a redistribution of wealth, are quite correct.

  ****

  As Cully is preparing himself for this ordeal, in another part of London Josephine King is once again climbing the steps to the offices of King & Co.

  She is wearing a brand-new black bonnet and a grimly-determined expression, and she carries a large notebook under one arm. In the outer office, she is greeted cautiously by Trafalgar Moggs, who half-rises from his stool.

  “Good morning Miss King,” he says. “I shall be with you in half a jiffy.”

  Josephine crosses the floor and enters her uncle’s office, where she positions herself behind the desk, setting the notebook down in front of her. As Moggs comes in, she sits a little more upright and tries to look brisk and efficient.

  The clerk is carrying a set of ledgers, which he places on the desk.

  “You are certain this is what you wish to do, Miss King?” he asks.

  She nods.

  “Quite certain, Mr Moggs. My uncle left me his business in his Will. It is my duty to make sure that it is run properly. And I cannot do that unless I understand what exactly the business is.”

  It is either that, or staying at home, answering endless letters of condolence and fending off Mrs Thorpe and her not-very-subtle hints about the attractions of her son.

  “I see,” Moggs says slowly, picking his words with care. “It is quite unusual ... for a young woman ... like yourself ... to be concerned with business affairs.”

  Josephine gives him a cool stare.

  “The Queen was only a few years older than me when she came to the throne.”

  “But she had ministers to advise her.”

  “And I,” she says crisply, “have you. So, Mr Moggs, where shall we begin?”

  ****

  Meanwhile, Gussy Thorpe has been summoned to the family abode for a scolding. Here he is, hovering in the over-furnished drawing room, his big body bumping into little side tables and upsetting their contents. Delicate porcelain statuettes teeter and f
all like china in a bull shop.

  Gussy knows what this is all about. Demmit. Rolling noisily out of the notorious Cave of Harmony in Covent Garden a couple of nights ago, where he and his friends had been enjoying themselves with rum, cigars and bawdy songs, he’d run slap-bang into one of his parents’ toffee-nosed friends leaving the Italian Opera House.

  At the time, he thought he’d got away with it. But now he strongly suspects that the spoffy old cove has peached to the guv’nor, which means he’s in for a wigging. He sucks his thumb, a habit retained from his childhood that still returns whenever he is feeling anxious.

  Eventually the door opens and Mrs Thorpe comes in. Gussy feels his sagging spirits lift. Mater never blows up like the governor, in fact, she's a regular brick, and has even been known to slip him some tin when funds have got low. He grunts an awkward greeting.

  Mrs Thorpe gives him the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger look. Gussy looks at the floor. Suddenly he is nine years old again, and standing outside the headmaster’s study.

  Mrs Thorpe shakes her head.

  “I am very disappointed in you, Augustus.”

  The Disappointment shuffles his feet. He knows he is in trouble when the mater calls him by his full name.

  “Well, what do you have to say?”

  The Disappointment clears his throat a couple of times.

  “I believe I have mentioned to you, on several occasions, that I hoped you would try to find some nice military friends to introduce to your poor sister Isabella. And what have you done? Nothing.”

  Ah. Gussy brightens. This is not what he thought.

  His mother continues her tirade.

  “You have not brought a single young man round to meet her. In fact, you haven’t been near the house for days. Why is that, pray?”

  Gussy mutters something about being “fwightfully busy on pawade.”

  “No Augustus, this is not good enough.” Mrs Thorpe shakes her head again. “You know poor dear Isabella has been so unwell – her only pleasure in life is her little outings in the barouche. The least you could have done is invite some of your friends along to amuse her.”

  “What fwends?” Gussy queries dubiously.

  “Oh, really! All those young men you seem to spend all your time with. What about that friend you’re always mentioning: George Osborne? Isn't he the son of Mr Frederick Osborne, the owner of the Osborne Private Bank? I'm sure he and poor Isabella would get on splendidly.”

  Gussy winces. Of all the reprobate crowd he hangs out with, George Osborne is undoubtedly the worst. It was George who sold him those pictures of ladies with no clothes on, lacing their boots. It was George who introduced him to Madame Beauty. (‘All clean girls, sir. Do anything you like. Money on the night-table, after you’ve done.’)

  The thought of his sister becoming acquainted with George Osborne in any way sends a shiver down his spine. Gussy is very fond of his sister, though he rarely shows it.

  “Yes, Augustus? What do you have to say?”

  Gussy opens and closes his mouth a couple of times in a codfish sort of way.

  Mrs Thorpe ignores him. She repeats her instructions to invite George to accompany Isabella on her next carriage drive.

  “And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you,” she adds for good measure, “that your father is still debating whether or not to purchase that commission you want.”

  Gussy makes his way out. He doesn't want to think about what he has been asked to do. To take his mind off it, he decides to think instead about last night's visit to the Alhambra Music Hall, where he’d seen the daring Monsieur Léotard on his Flying Trapeze, and some very naughty French dancers.

  The girls had kicked their legs right up into the air, so you could see they were not wearing anything underneath their skirts. He’d enjoyed that very much. Maybe he’ll call in tonight, and see it all over again.

  ****

  It is two days later. A bitterly-cold morning. Cold to the bone. Warehouse-cold. Murder-cold. Detective Sergeant Jack Cully is making his way towards Scotland Yard to begin his shift. He is just about to cross the road and enter the building when he sees something that makes him stop dead in his tracks and breathe in hard.

  A small group of reporters is gathered outside. Even from a distance, Cully senses the anticipation. They look like cats waiting in front of a mouse hole. He swears under his breath, then swears again as he realises his presence has been noted by two of the Fifth Estate’s most persistent: Dionysius Clout and Richard Dandy.

  Cully darts between a couple of carriages and gains the opposite pavement.

  “Morning Sergeant Cully,” Dandy Dick greets him genially.

  “Detective Sergeant Cully.”

  “If you say so. Is it true then?”

  “I doubt it,” Cully snaps.

  “You’re sure about that, are you? Because the Man in The Street, and in this case, we’re talking a very nice street, and a very nice nobby man, has every right to sleep peacefully in his bed without his servants being strangled to death under his very nose. And this ain’t the first time it's happened recently, is it?”

  Cully stiffens.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Dandy Dick produces the ever-ready notebook, and flips it open.

  “Does the name ‘Herbert King’ ring any bells? Nice gent. Own business, hobnobbed with the h’aristocracy. Strangled upon Westminster Bridge only a short while ago. And now, this. Does the word ‘pattern’ ring any bells?”

  Cully cuts across him.

  “Two murders are hardly a pattern. And I don't think it is any of your concern.”

  Dick rounds on him.

  “Two murders amongst the h’aristocratic classes most certainly is our concern. Found out who killed Mr King yet? Thought not. Arrested any of the criminals yet? Thought not. Arrested anyone for anything? Thought not.”

  The small group of reporters begins derisively chanting: “Thought not ... Thought not ...”

  Cully bridles.

  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have work to do.”

  “How is the gov’nor? Taking it all in his stride?” Clout sneers, to hoots of derisive laughter.

  His mouth set in a rigid line, Cully elbows him roughly out of the way, and gains the front entrance.

  “Oi, Cully!” Clout shouts after him. “You want to watch yourself – I could have you for assault!”

  And I could have you arrested for loitering, and polluting a public thoroughfare by your presence, you useless fat arsehole, Cully doesn’t say. But he is certainly thinking it as he hurries inside.

  He is also thinking that once his boss finds out that information about the Snellgrove murder has escaped the hallowed Park Lane confines and filtered down to the gutter press, he, Jack Cully, is going to get it in the neck. Even though it was not his fault.

  “Where’s old eagle-eyes?” he inquires, as he signs the duty roster.

  The duty sergeant grins.

  “Summoned to Marylebone first thing,” he says. “Very important business. Left you a note.”

  He hands Cully a piece of paper.

  Cully reads, his eyes widening.

  “Oh Hell! Hell and double Hell!” He stuffs the note into his greatcoat. “If anyone wants me, tell them I’ll be back when I’m back,” he says, as he heads for the rear exit. “And whatever else you do, do not talk to that lot out there!”

  ****

  Jewels and weapons have coexisted together for over fifty thousand years. Jewels are made out of love of something beautiful, weapons out of a need to kill. Love and death. It is how we define ourselves, what we are.

  The sequence of events that has sent Detective Inspector Stride and now Detective Sergeant Cully hurrying to Marylebone police station actually began in the middle of the previous night. Josephine had been startled awake from a terrifying dream in which she had been running down endless corridors, carrying a pile of heavy ledgers and pursued by numbers that refused to add up.

&nbs
p; She’d sat up. Moonlight was ghosting through the blinds, silvering the familiar outlines of the furniture. On her chest of drawers, the diamond was glimmering to itself in the dark. It drew her eyes to it, so that eventually they'd seen nothing else. She’d risen from her bed, and picked it up, gazing mesmerised into its cool white depths.

  The room had been close and stuffy. She’d parted the curtains and lifted the sash window slightly, letting the night breeze fan her face. Down below all was still. The pale golden glow of the streetlamp was creating a chiaroscuro of light and dark. The unsteady gas flames flared and waned, giving everything an aura of perceptibility. As if objects were both present and absent at the same time.

  She was still not sure whether she was fully awake or wholly asleep, so when a dark hooded shape had emerged from a pocket of shadow, and moved into the pool of light, it was as if what she was seeing was not a dream, but not quite a reality. Like being trapped in between two states.

  The formless shape had stopped directly opposite the house and turned, lifting its head until it seemed to be staring directly at her and at what she held in her hand. There was something disquieting about the way the light both disguised and revealed, so that the figure appeared to be both human and unknown at the same time.

  For a moment, she had hesitated. Then, putting the jewel down and wrapping a warm shawl around her shoulders, she had slipped her feet into her boots and stumbled downstairs. Unlocking the front door, she’d hurried out into the silent street.

  “Hello?” she’d called out. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The shape had turned. For a moment, she had caught sight of its face, but it was a face that did not make sense, because it did not resemble anything she had ever seen before. Then, opening its mouth in a snarl of rage, it had dropped onto all fours and bounded off, melting into the shadows at the end of the street.

  Josephine felt a comet’s tail of fear run down her spine. She had not understood the old soldier’s words. She had not believed him. But now she had seen it for herself. Now she did believe him, even though she still did not understand. Suddenly footsteps had approached from behind. She’d whirled round, her heart beating wildly. A police constable had materialised.