The Attenbury Emeralds

by Jill Paton Walsh

  ‘And she is?’

  ‘The scholar writing about historic jewels for whose sake the Attenbury king-stone was taken out of the bank on the most recent of those three occasions.’

  Miss Pevenor lived in a large mock-Tudor semi-detached house just a step from Woodside Park, on the Northern Line. Peter and Harriet therefore set out to visit her by Tube, starting deep underground and emerging into sunlit suburbia several stops before their destination. Harriet’s attention was distracted from the task in hand during the journey, because a young woman sitting opposite her was reading one of her books, The Fountain Pen Mystery. This woman, being rather short-sighted, was holding the book very upright and close to her face, giving Harriet a good view of the cover – she had always disliked that particular cover – and no way of seeing from the thickness of the pages left and right of the opening how far the reader had got. Harriet had to be content with seeing how rapidly she was turning the pages. At Camden Town she looked up and jumped up and squeezed between the closing doors only just in time, having obviously nearly missed her stop.

  ‘That’s a nice compliment to you,’ Peter observed.

  He sounds as pleased as I feel, thought Harriet.

  Miss Pevenor had a large study with a bay window overlooking the garden. A smart up-to-date Olivetti typewriter stood on a table facing the window, and another table in the centre of the room was covered with documents and photographs. There were two office chairs and an armchair. The three of them sat down. But before she sat, Harriet took a step or two across the room to look at the typewriter, a model which her secretary was asking her to invest in.

  ‘Do you type your own work, Lady Peter?’ Miss Pevenor asked.

  ‘I don’t these days,’ said Harriet apologetically. ‘I used to have to; now I have a secretary.’

  ‘Lucky you. I have to type up my stuff myself, and I do find the footnotes so tricky!’ Miss Pevenor said. She was a rounded, rosy-cheeked woman wearing a lacy see-through pink sweater, not perhaps the best choice for her figure, but obviously hand-knitted. Harriet suspected a kindly mother or aunt. Although she was a student of jewellery she was herself wearing absolutely none – not a ring, brooch, earring or bracelet, not a necklace about her, not even a watch.

  Peter told her that they were interested in exactly what had happened to the Attenbury emerald when it had last been taken from the bank. He emphasised exactly.

  Miss Pevenor wrinkled her brow. And then she rose and fetched a large blue-bound ledger from a shelf. She turned pages. ‘Here we are!’ she said. ‘I fetched it from the bank with a letter of authority from Lady Sylvia Attenbury on 5th September, 1949. And I returned it on 8th October that year, and here is the receipt, signed by a Mr Snader. All in order.’

  ‘And while the jewel was in your possession, where was it kept?’ asked Peter.

  ‘In the safe every minute it was not on the desk in front of me,’ she said. ‘I pride myself on my security measures, Lord Peter. My insurance premiums are quite modest, considering the value of what is insured. I see you looking round for the safe,’ she added. ‘Let me show you.’

  Miss Pevenor rose, and went to the bookcase that lined the wall behind her. She pulled out a book, and thrust her hand into the void it left. Silently a section of the bookcase slid sideways to reveal a small, but very professional wall safe.

  Peter nodded. ‘As long as not too many people know about this,’ he said.

  ‘The book that covers the buttons is changed every month,’ she told him proudly. ‘This month it is Urn Burial. Last month it was Religio Medici. And not many people, Lord Peter, would come looking for untold wealth hidden in Woodside Park. It is not as if I lived in Mayfair, or Westminster.’

  Warming to her, Harriet asked, ‘Can you tell us what the book you are working on is about, Miss Pevenor?’

  ‘It is called The Great Jewels of England,’ she was answered.

  ‘A kind of catalogue?’

  ‘With histories, and provenances, and descriptions, and numerous illustrations – some in colour! It will follow the passing of these numinous objects down the generations. A great deal can be learned, you see, about the fortunes of our proudest families, from seeing when they acquired their treasures, and when, alas, sometimes they had to part with them.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Peter politely. ‘Who is to publish it?’

  ‘A firm called Hummerby,’ said Miss Pevenor, visibly proud, ‘who publish a lot of fine books and monographs for various establishments, including the Duke of Norfolk, and the Victoria and Albert Museum.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Peter. ‘I have seen some of their productions, and they make a very good job of things. We shall put our name down at Hatchard’s, to receive a copy as soon as it is published.’

  ‘How kind,’ said Miss Pevenor.

  ‘You borrowed the jewel,’ Peter said, ‘and kept it in your safe. May I ask you why you needed to borrow it? Was it to have it photographed?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. There are photographs of it in a volume called Historic Jewels, Clocks and Watches published in 1890, but of course those are black and white. I wanted an illustration in colour. Kodachrome 25 gives excellent results. Nothing ever equals the splendour of the jewels themselves, of course.’

  ‘It would not have taken very long to get a single stone photographed,’ said Peter. ‘But you kept the stone for just over a month, I think.’

  ‘I needed to measure and weigh it. I needed to describe it minutely and accurately. I needed to transcribe the inscription on the back. I returned it the moment I had done the work.’

  ‘You transcribed the inscription? Do you read Persian?’

  ‘Alas, no. But in the hope that I might be able to find someone who did I copied the lettering very carefully with the aid of a magnifying glass.’

  ‘I must ask you whether there is any chance at all that while the jewel was in your possession it got exchanged for another. Did you have any second carved emerald in your safe or on your desk?’

  ‘Another such emerald? Good lord, no. It is surely unique.’

  ‘There is another such. Long ago I myself saw two side by side. I have to ask you if there is any possibility that someone – a fellow expert perhaps – visited you and effected an exchange of one jewel for another.’

  ‘What an extraordinary idea!’ Miss Pevenor exclaimed. ‘Of course not. Nobody visited me while I worked on the Attenbury emerald, and I showed it only to the photographer.’

  ‘Were you present the whole time the photographer was working?’

  ‘Yes. No – I was absent long enough to make her a cup of tea.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Mrs Vanderby. She was sent by the agency I use for such work. It is a respected agency used by the Victoria and Albert. They always do very good work. I can give you their card.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peter, pocketing the proffered card. ‘I wonder if I might also ask you to lend me the copy you made of the inscription on the jewel. I will find someone to translate it for us, and return it to you with the translation.’

  ‘Could you really? That would be most kind. Now that I no longer have access to the jewel, I would be reluctant to part with the transcription, but by good luck I made a carbon copy, and you are welcome to that.’

  ‘Do you ever find obstacles in the course of your work?’ asked Harriet. ‘I mean, do the owners ever refuse to let you see their treasures? Or object to publication of photographs and descriptions?’

  ‘Very seldom. Usually they think that it will redound to their glory to have their property recorded in such work as I produce. They often think that their titles and aristocratic status lend lustre to their jewels, and they regard my work as though it were another volume of Debrett’s. But I myself think the jewels lend lustre to the family names. It is certainly a great loss to their reputation when they are obliged to sell their heirlooms.’

  ‘You don’t wear any jewellery yourself,’ remarked Harriet, and was asto
nished to see Miss Pevenor immediately blush deeply.

  ‘My work has given me tastes that I cannot afford,’ she said.

  ‘Are you ever tempted, in private, to try on the glories you have been lent?’ asked Harriet.

  Miss Pevenor’s blush deepened. She hardly needed to answer. ‘The Attenbury emerald is unmounted,’ she said. ‘It is not in a condition to be worn. A jeweller would have to remake the golden clip that once accompanied it.’

  ‘I wonder how you became interested in your subject,’ said Harriet. She was really finding Miss Pevenor rather strange – an exotic bird in plain plumage.

  ‘My aunt took me to see the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London when I was eleven or so,’ Miss Pevenor told her. ‘I have never got over it.’

  ‘Just one thing more,’ Peter said, ‘and then we will leave you in peace. Was the jewel when you borrowed it damaged in any way?’

  ‘There was a very tiny chip off the point of one of the carved leaves in the lower right-hand corner of the jewel. That is all. One would not notice it, I think, without a loupe. Considering that it had been through the Blitz, the damage was astonishingly slight.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Peter, rising to go.

  ‘I would be glad to include that ruby ring you are wearing in my volume,’ said Miss Pevenor to Harriet. ‘It is certainly fine enough to warrant inclusion.’

  Harriet felt a shuddering reluctance – the very thought of her ring sliding slyly on to Miss Pevenor’s slender finger appalled her.

  Peter sprang at once to her defence. ‘It is an engagement ring,’ he said. ‘Never to be parted with.’

  ‘People don’t always wear their engagement rings once they have a wedding ring to supersede it,’ Miss Pevenor said.

  ‘I do,’ said Harriet firmly.

  ‘No offence, I hope. It was only a thought,’ Miss Pevenor said. ‘I am not short of material for my volume. I’m afraid people are pressing me to include their treasures because they want to put them up for sale. Times are not good at the moment for the better sort of people.’

  ‘Nothing as certain as death and taxes?’ said Peter.

  ‘Do you mean,’ asked Harriet, ‘that inclusion in your work will enhance the saleability of jewels?’

  ‘Very much so, Lady Peter. Everyone likes a good provenance.’

  As they trundled back on the Tube to Green Park, Peter said, ‘Oxford next, I think. We have Bunter’s photograph, and Miss Pevenor’s transcription. Someone will surely be able to read it for us.’

  ‘Any excuse will do,’ said Harriet, ‘for the towery city.’

  ‘I expect there is someone in Cambridge, if you would prefer,’ said Peter.

  ‘Cambridge is very beautiful,’ said Harriet, ‘but it is not ours.’

  ‘Oxford, then,’ said Peter. ‘Tomorrow.’

  18

  But as it happened, Bunter shot their excuse from under them. He was brimming with satisfaction as he took their coats and hats in the hall.

  ‘I am delighted to tell you, my lord, my lady,’ he said, the moment they were disrobed, ‘that I have secured a translation of the words on the suspect emerald.’

  ‘The devil you have!’ said Peter. ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant. And how, may I ask, did you do it?’

  ‘As you know, m’lord, m’lady,’ said Bunter, almost smiling as he spoke, ‘I teach a WEA course in photography on Wednesday afternoons in Fulham.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Harriet. ‘Beyond knowing that Wednesday was your afternoon off, I have never enquired.’

  ‘Your ladyship is very considerate of my privacy,’ said Bunter. ‘But having had such satisfaction over many years in practising photography, and having been so often useful to his lordship in that way, I have been giving some time to helping others to the same satisfaction as I have had myself. I am completely self-taught, my lady, but of course Hope has been able to assist me in any matter in which I find myself at a loss.’

  Harriet was distracted by the thought of Bunter at a loss, but Peter cut straight to the chase. ‘How has this helped you to decipher Persian, Bunter?’ he asked.

  ‘A young lady in my class is an Iranian by birth,’ Bunter answered, ‘and it occurred to me to show her the photograph I took in Mr Snader’s office, and to ask for her comments. She was puzzled at first, and told me that she did not read Arabic. But then on looking more closely she realised that the words were in Persian. She told me that having come to England as a young child she was not fully fluent in her native tongue, but she managed even so to tell me…’ Bunter was talking on his feet as they mounted the stair together, and as they reached the library door, he opened it triumphantly, and added, ‘What the words said.’

  ‘Be done with the theatricals, Bunter, and tell us all,’ said Peter.

  ‘On the table, my lord,’ said Bunter.

  Two sheets of paper were lying side by side on the library table. The first one was a note made in Bunter’s handwriting, so long ago.

  ‘I will not cease striving until I achieve my desire…’

  ‘That is what is on the Attenbury stone,’ said Peter.

  ‘Just so, my lord. You told me at the time, and I made a note of it. And this’ – Bunter indicated the second sheet of paper – ‘is what is on the stone in the bank.’

  The second paper said: ‘or my spirit leaves my own body’

  Harriet took up both sheets of paper, and read out: ‘“I will not cease striving until I achieve my desire, or my spirit leaves my own body.” Well, that’s clear enough.’

  ‘What do you take to be clear enough, Harriet?’ Peter asked her.

  ‘That the stones belong together. The inscriptions make perfect sense paired like this.’

  ‘They do. But logically, the stone in the bank cannot be the Attenburys’. QED I had been wondering if the Maharaja’s stone might have been floating about in England somehow, and had thought of trying some way to approach the distant potentate tactfully about it…Because tracking the movements of his jewel would require his co-operation. Care and diplomacy required.’

  ‘Diplomacy comes naturally to you, Peter,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I was about to tell you, my lord,’ said Bunter, ‘that the potentate in question is not at the moment very distant. The court pages in this morning’s Times indicate that he is visiting London this month and staying at the Savoy.’

  ‘Good lord!’ said Peter. ‘I have occasionally wondered if he was a real person at all. But fictional persons do not breeze into London and stay at the Savoy.’

  ‘They might,’ objected Harriet. ‘They can do it more easily than real people can and more easily afford it.’

  ‘They could also, I suppose, own fictional jewels. The problem with that is that I saw and held the Maharaja’s jewel, which was too tangible by far to be an act of the imagination. But, tally-ho! Bunter, present my card at the porters’ desk at the Savoy, and request an appointment to see the great man at his earliest convenience. Oh, and let Miss Pevenor have that translation in the post, would you?’

  It was a foggy early evening when they set out for the Savoy. Not the white fog which from time to time enveloped their house at Paggleham but the dirty grey London fog, smelling of the coal smoke with which it was laden. In only a few yards a pedestrian would have soot-rimmed nostrils, and soot-lined lips tasting foul to the tongue. Harriet’s petticoat, still one made of parachute silk from the war years, would be filthy for four inches above the hem by the time they reached their destination. The street lights had shrunk into themselves, dimly bright but casting no brightness. There were very few cars, and those were crawling along the kerb, moving more slowly than the Wimseys were walking. But there was a weird sort of beauty about it. It had the capacity to make the familiar look like a ghostly mystery. All sounds were deadened, and the two of them walked in silence, because opening one’s mouth allowed the entering caustic miasma to burn in one’s throat. Both of them had wrapped their scarves over the lowe
r half of their faces. We look, thought Harriet, like bit-part actors in a Hitchcock film.

  ‘Shall we turn back?’ Peter asked her, as they passed the Royal Academy.

  ‘No, we don’t need to,’ she replied, in a voice muffled in her scarf.

  Peter drew her arm through his as though he thought he might lose her, and they trudged on.

  ‘They’ll have to do something about this some day,’ he observed as they crossed Piccadilly Circus and headed down the Haymarket.

  ‘People in England can’t do without coal fires,’ Harriet said.

  ‘Anthracite,’ Peter replied, and with that they were silent till they reached the entrance to the Savoy. A cloud of fog accompanied them through the doors and dispersed at the sight of the good fire burning in the lobby. They could see each other’s breath as they both exhaled vigorously to expel the foul air from their lungs.

  The receptionist phoned up to the Maharaja’s room, and a resplendent servant all in white with a bright red turban appeared to escort them up in the lift.

  The Maharaja rose from his sofa, and advanced to meet them with extended hand. ‘Lord Peter!’ he exclaimed. ‘After all these years I would have known you anywhere!’

  Peter stopped dead in astonishment. ‘Mr Nandine Osmanthus!’ he said. ‘Good lord! Mr Nandine Osmanthus, may I introduce my wife, Lady Peter…’

  The Maharaja turned his attention to Harriet. A man of about Peter’s age, she thought, with a lean, intelligent face. He greeted her gravely in perfect English. He was, in contrast to his servant, very plainly and austerely dressed, wearing a dark grey silk achkan, over western trousers. Then as they all sat down a sudden flash of light made her notice his only adornment – a large diamond on the buckle of his left shoe.

  ‘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?’