“Oh come now, Inspector,” Magnus switches easily into the tone of supplicant. “I fear we got off on the wrong foot. Perhaps you would care to explain to me how you came by this intelligence that led a deeply underestimated police officer in a sleepy part of England to solve one of the crimes of the century?”
Uncertain whether he is being made fun of, Bradstreet straightens his jacket and tilts his head back. He has read a pamphlet on body language and believes that this posture makes him look intimidating. It does not. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he says.
“No, but you will need to explain yourself to someone when you are revealed to have been played for a fool.”
“What are you talking about?” Inspector Bradstreet’s head resumes its normal position, but his Adam’s apple bobs up and down—unfeigned evidence that he is anxious.
“I am saying,” Magnus says slowly, “that you have been tricked into arresting my sister and that if you put in a formal report of this matter you will soon be the laughing stock of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. That’s why I’m here: to help you.”
“To help m—me?” Bradstreet sputters, beginning to turn purple.
“Inspector, the tip you received. I’m guessing it was anonymous and untraceable. And I am also guessing that it told you exactly where to find the jewel. Do stop me if I’m mistaken?” The Inspector’s silence indicates that he is not. Her brother nods with satisfaction. “Now, there are two ways that another person would know that said jewel was in my sister’s desk. Either they saw her put it there, or they put it there themselves. Let us take the first scenario: how could they have seen her put it in the desk drawer?”
“I don’t know and I must say I don’t particularly care,” Bradstreet declaims. “Maybe she bragged about it. Said something on the phone. Or Facebooked about it on YouTweet.”
“I think you mean posted something on social media, sir,” Lestrange corrects helpfully, earning a scowl.
“Yes, all of that is possible, I suppose,” Magnus concedes. “But really, does my sister strike you as the kind of person to make such an elementary mistake? Or, indeed, to have many friends either in real life or in the virtual world?”
“Thanks a lot, Magnus,” she says. But her brother is leading Bradstreet towards the obvious deduction. The trick is to make him think he has reached it himself.
Magnus flashes her a winning smile. “One shouldn’t count one’s friends,” he says in mock earnestness. “It’s more important to have a few friends one can count on.” Allowing the cereal-box wisdom to sink in, he addresses Bradstreet. “I’m sure you see my point, Inspector Bradstreet. The obvious inference is…” He allows his voice to trail off expectantly.
Like a trained seal, Bradstreet tries to balance the ball upon his nose: “Yes, well, clearly it is possible that whoever tipped us off put the gem there. Even if that were the case, however, being in possession of such stolen property still makes your sister a person of interest in the case.”
“Ah yes, the jewel itself,” Magnus gives an exaggerated sigh. “I very much regret that you may have been misled in that area also.”
“What do you mean?”
“If my hypothesis that the jewel was planted is correct, it beggars belief that the true perpetrator would part with a priceless stone simply to inconvenience my sister in the weeks before Christmas.”
Bradstreet looks puzzled, so Magnus restates it more simply: “I mean that you found a gem, but I am not sure you found the gem. Would it be possible to have a look at it?”
“A look?” Bradstreet turns to Lestrange, incredulous. “Does he think this is some kind of game?”
“No indeed, but in about”—Magnus casts a glance at the clock on the wall—“one minute, the station phone is going to ring with the Commissioner of Scotland Yard asking how cooperative you are being in my efforts to help you. All things considered, I believe it would be best for both of us if the answer is a simple ‘very’.”
Bradstreet looks from Magnus to her and back again. His eyes narrow as his brain ticks over the possibilities. Then his jaw sets in a sign of determination. “Just how stupid do you two think I am?”
From within the cell she cannot resist: “Do you really want to know?”
“Now, now, Arcadia,” Magnus intervenes. “Let us remain civil.” He turns back to Bradstreet. “I do realise that I am putting you in a difficult position, but believe it or not I really am trying to help.”
The sincerity in her brother’s voice is almost perfect. Almost. But will it be enough to sway Bradstreet?
The Inspector is weighing his options when a chirping noise announces an incoming telephone call on the station’s official line. No one moves, but Magnus is finding it hard to resist a smile of anticipation.
After a third ring Lestrange lifts the receiver. “Hello?” He listens for a moment, back straightening noticeably as he does. “Yes, just a moment, sir.” He stretches out the receiver to the Inspector wordlessly.
Bradstreet snatches it and brings it to his ear. “Bradstreet here,” he barks. “Yes? Commissioner? Well, it’s very good to hear from you also.” His eyes dart from Magnus to her as he listens. “Of course I’m grateful for the assistance.” Then his eyes close in resignation. “Naturally, we’re offering every accommodation.” His shoulders fall in defeat. “No, thank you, Commissioner.”
He hands the receiver to Lestrange, who returns it to the wall. “Go on then,” he snaps, “get it from the evidence room.”
“Very good, Inspector.” Lestrange bustles off.
The tapping of Bradstreet’s foot is the only sound until Lestrange returns with the black velvet pouch and hands it to him. The Inspector reaches inside and carefully removes the octagonal gemstone, looking at it suspiciously.
“May I, Inspector?” Magnus asks gently, extending a soft palm.
After a second’s delay, Bradstreet places it in her brother’s hand. His fingers close around it like so many sausages and he takes a silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it down fussily. He then approaches the duty sergeant’s desk, on which a cup and saucer from a recent tea-break rest. Setting the cup aside, Magnus places the gem in the centre of the saucer.
“As I’m sure you know, Inspector,” he says, “sapphire—also known as corundum—is the second hardest mineral on the Mohs scale.”
Despite irritation at being forced to cooperate, the flattery hits its mark. “Sure,” Bradstreet says gruffly. “The hardest would be diamond.”
Magnus beams at him. “Excellent! I see you are a fellow aficionado.” From his pocket he produces a small glass bottle. “I happen to have brought with me some acetone—a simple organic solvent that you might find in nail polish remover or paint thinner. To a real sapphire, it should be completely harmless.”
“Now just wait a minute—” Bradstreet blurts, realising what he is about to do. But Magnus moves with unusual fluidity, emptying the clear liquid over the stone. It fills the saucer, a sweet fruity smell wafting through the air. Bradstreet’s hand is halfway to the stone but he stops, watching in fascination.
From her position in the cell it is hard to see, and for a moment nothing happens. Bradstreet clears his throat, a triumphant witticism on the tip of his tongue. Then the liquid begins to change colour, leeching it from the stone. Bradstreet’s open mouth, poised to speak, simply gapes as the stone lists to one side. Within a minute it sinks further, submerged in the acetone, now blue, as the sapphire dissolves like an over-priced lozenge.
“What have you done?” Bradstreet whispers, having at last regained control of his jaw.
“What have I done?” Magnus replies cheerfully. “Why, I’ve saved you the trouble of filling in tedious forms about a non-existent crime.” He picks up the saucer and carefully pours the liquid into the cup. “Just as I thought: it was Lucite—a type of plastic. Oh don’t feel bad, Inspector. This substance has been used to make costume jewellery for almost a hundred years. Now, what do you say to letting my
sister smell the fresh air of freedom once again?”
She had decided earlier to phone Magnus not out of desperation but curiosity. For Moira to steal the jewel and then have her arrested made little sense. And, in relation to the sapphire in particular, her brother had access to more information than was at her disposal.
“I will come post-haste,” her brother said easily when she reached him. “Though I fear I’m in the midst of some rather pressing matters; I shall be with you before the end of the day.”
She ignored the invitation to ask what was more pressing than his sister’s incarceration and resigned herself to an afternoon of introspection. When, a mere thirty minutes later, the call of “visitor” echoed through the custody suite, it seemed unlikely that her brother had hastened his arrival. In addition, the footsteps were of leather soles on the linoleum; her brother preferred rubber, putting comfort ahead of fashion.
“Dr. Bell?” she said as the Oxford physician was ushered through. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied. “I don’t mean to, er, intrude.” His thinning hair was askew, absent-minded fingers running through it. He was preoccupied with something, presumably the reason for his visit.
“Not at all,” she said. “I must apologise that I am not really in a position to offer you much in the way of hospitality. But perhaps I can assist you with your inquiry?”
“My inquiry?” Dr. Bell repeated.
“I doubt you would have travelled all the way to the Priory School and then obtained information about my current location without a pressing reason. To come in person suggests a matter of some sensitivity. Possibly you wish to share some news, but more likely you have a discreet query?”
He shook his head as if baffled. Then nodded, a combination of movements that left his hair in rebellion against his scalp. “Yes, I visited your school. Are the students always quite so—unruly? It took some time before I could find a porter to assist me. He was most reluctant to part with the information as to your location, but I explained that I needed to see you about your Oxford interviews.”
“You do?”
Dr. Bell dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “I confess that I may have taken some liberties in giving the impression that it concerned admission to Oxford. Oh, rest assured: I am cautiously optimistic on that front. Assuming, of course, that the current”—he gestured vaguely to the cell bars—“unpleasantness can be resolved.”
A glance out to where the duty sergeant sat at a nearby desk and he leaned in closer: “In fact, I wanted to speak with you about your twin sister—your late twin sister.”
“The one who tried to kill us?”
“Er, yes, that one.”
“What do you need to know?”
“As you might imagine, her spectacular demise threw something of a pall over our admissions interviews. And next week’s Gaudy was almost cancelled. But, more importantly, I realised that we never had a chance to talk about what happened—and what this meant in terms of your quest to find your true identity.”
“Not much, I fear. There’s no record of Moira in the files that I’ve seen. And neither my brother nor I have had much success locating any information about her whatsoever.”
“Ah yes, your brother. How is he these days?”
She laughed. “Magnus always lands on his feet. He’s finished his studies—at the other place, I fear—and now works for the government.”
“Good, good,” Dr. Bell replied. “Though there is a resemblance, you cut a somewhat different silhouette than he.”
A polite way of saying her brother is fat, which he is. “Magnus is of the view that life is uncertain and so one should always start with dessert, preferring not to wait until the end of a meal.”
“While you disagree and, evidently, do some sort of cardiovascular exercise. Aerobics, perchance?”
“Boxing,” she said, quietly, as the information was unlikely to help her in the eyes of the police.
“I see.” Dr. Bell nodded. “An unusual choice for a young woman, but assuming you avoid head trauma and other injuries it offers a profitable fitness regime. Mens sana in corpore sano.”
“That’s the hope,” she replied. “A healthy mind in a healthy body. Though Magnus never quite accepted the connection. Actually, he’s on his way here right now to try to help clear this up.”
“Oh very good, very good,” Dr. Bell said. “Now is there anything I can do myself to be of assistance? Having saved my life on multiple occasions, it surely behoves me to do what I can for you.”
“That’s kind of you, but I should be fine.”
“Very well.” He looked down at the watch on his wrist, winding it absent-mindedly until the coiled spring inside was at maximum tension. His eyes drifted up towards hers but he said nothing.
“Is everything all right, Dr. Bell?”
“Hmm?” Startled from his reverie, he blinked rapidly before looking away. “I’m sorry, Miss Arcadia. It’s nothing. You remind me a little of my wife, that’s all. She passed away many years ago. Long before you were born.”
Was there a tear in his eye? If so, it was blinked away quickly. “Anyhow,” he continued briskly, re-buttoning his coat. “I had best be off. The college will be in touch about admissions matters in January. All being well, I hope to see more of you in the coming months. Goodbye, Miss Arcadia.”
It was only after he left that she realised she had not told him that Moira was still alive. Why? The urge to protect her sister only partly explained the dissimulation. If anything, she felt she was growing to trust Dr. Bell. And it was at that point that she realised she was starting to doubt herself.
Notwithstanding Magnus’s prediction, even releasing her from custody apparently requires the filling in of various forms. On entry, as part of being processed, her bag was taken and put in a locked cabinet. It is now returned to her by a contrite Lestrange.
“I’m sorry about all this, Miss Greentree,” he says.
“Oh don’t worry,” she replies. “I know you were just doing your job.”
“Precisely,” echoes Bradstreet. “I’m pleased to see that you accept this was a simple misunderstanding. Though”—there is a glint in his eye—“one upside is that we now have a record of you, with photograph, fingerprints, and DNA sample. You never know, perhaps that will come in handy one day?”
“Goodbye, Inspector.” Magnus puts an arm on his sister’s to steer her from the police station, even as he preempts a caustic reply.
She simply nods as they exit onto the street, where a navy blue Bentley is waiting for them. The engine starts as they approach and Magnus opens the rear door for her.
“Travelling incognito, I see?” she says, climbing into the luxurious interior.
“Needs must,” her brother replies, sinking into the seat next to her.
“I suppose I should be thanking you for getting me released from jail.”
Magnus taps the frosted glass panel separating them from the driver and the car glides away from the footpath. “I believe that would be customary.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.”
They drive for a few minutes in silence, the main street giving way to country lanes en route to the motorway.
“So, I hate to admit it as much as you do,” she says at last, “but I have no idea what Moira is up to.”
Atypically, Magnus does not gloat but simply nods. “Indeed, it is more than a trifle disconcerting to deal with someone entirely rational and yet also entirely unpredictable.” He adjusts a shade to keep the sun from shining in his eyes, a line of shadow crossing his face. “Possibly because of the unusual circumstances of her upbringing, Moira lacks not only the social graces but the very reference points of society. The means she adopts are perfectly logical, but they are in pursuit of ends that are themselves inscrutable. We can only try to deduce them in hindsight. Moira, on the other hand, appears to be prodigious at predicting the decisions of those around her.
”
She nods also. “In order to outwit someone who is able to predict your moves, it is necessary to choose differently—to act differently from how you would be expected to act. If that’s possible.”
“Indeed,” Magnus says. “It reminds me of an old problem in which a game is played with a supercomputer said to possess the power of prediction. You are presented with two boxes: the first is opaque; the second is transparent and holds a thousand pounds. You are then asked whether you will take the contents of both boxes, or only the first box. The catch is that the machine claims to know what you are going to do—indeed, in hundreds of games with other players, it has never been wrong. And so, before you make your choice, the computer predicts whether you will take both boxes, or just the opaque one. If it predicts that you will take both boxes, the first box is left empty. But if the computer predicts that you will take only the first box, then it places a million pounds inside. So what do you choose?”
“We’re assuming that I want to get as much money as possible, correct?”
“You can replace the cash with puppies, if you wish,” Magnus says. “The principle remains the same. But yes, it is rational to maximise your return.”
“And once the prediction has been made, the value in the first box will not change—regardless of what I choose.”
“Correct. The prediction is final.”
“So, rationally, if I want to maximise my return I should choose both boxes. Whichever prediction has been made, that brings me a higher return in each case. If the computer predicted that I would take both boxes, I get a thousand pounds instead of nothing; if it predicted I would take one box, I get a million pounds and an extra thousand.”
“Yes,” Magnus observes. “Your logic is impeccable.” He waits.
She frowns. “But we’re also told that the supercomputer has never been wrong. If we exclude the possibility of outwitting the machine, then we can rule out the scenarios in which I get either none or all of the money. So the choice is only between getting a million and getting a thousand pounds. In which case I should choose only the first box.”
Being Arcadia Page 6