The Blue Diamond

by Joan Smith

  “But you have not ridden for two years.”

  “To be sure, I have not,” the Countess admitted, fin­gering the bedspread in a distracted fashion.

  “Well then,” Maria said, with incorrigible optimism.

  “Oh damme, Maria, I refer to making love!” the Count­ess exclaimed, then blushed and looked away quickly.

  “Oh!” was all Maria could find to reply. Even that much was barely audible. “I see,” she added foolishly, and cleared her throat in embarrassment.

  “You know your Papa and I have been friends for years. A sort of understanding has grown between us. . . . Not that an actual settlement has been made, but recently Peter has been agreeable. . . . That is, he actually suggested himself . . . Not to say he made an offer in so many words. . . .”

  “Yes, I quite understand,” Maria said hastily, hoping to forestall further unwanted explanations.

  “It is all over now. He would never marry an—an in­complete woman. He is too virile for that. It is all over,” she said, and lifted a handkerchief to her eyes, which were dry but grieving.

  “I don’t think that would make any difference to Papa,” Maria said.

  “Ho, you don’t know much about men!” the Countess scoffed.

  “Could I bring you a book, Auntie?” Maria asked, to bring this conversation to an end.

  “A Bible, if you have one in the house,” Hermione re­quested, with a despondent sigh.

  On her way to the library, Maria bumped into her father. “Oh Papa, you must go upstairs and cheer up Her­mione!” she begged. “She is in such a mood, and asking for the Bible.”

  “I shall go up and gossip her into humor,” he agreed readily.

  “It will take more than gossip today. You may find her lament a trifle obscure at first. I did. The fact is, the doctor has told her she is no longer able to indulge in the rites of the conjugal bed. She is afraid it will turn you against any match with her.”

  “The poor old girl! Dear me! Well, this is hard news for her indeed,” he said, shaking his head in surprise.

  Maria turned and looked after him as he went down the hall to the staircase. He took some eight or nine steps before he came to a halt. She watched as he stood stock-still, but for a certain jiggling of the head that was ha­bitual with him when he was thinking. Which was very odd, for that jiggling usually accompanied happy thoughts. Then he proceeded on his way, his gait a great deal livelier than before. Almost running, in fact.

  A caller was announced before Maria reached the morn­ing parlor. It was Gentz, come again to contradict the news of the night before. “He has escaped! Bonaparte has really done it this time.”

  “You cannot mean it! Where is he gone?” Maria asked, turning pale.

  “Who knows? We had an express dispatch early this morning—the Austrian Consul General in Genoa sent word to Metternich. Napoleon is missing from Elba. No one knows where he might be, or be headed.”

  “He’ll go to France, surely.”

  “Metternich thinks so. Talleyrand has the notion he will go to Switzerland and seek asylum. I don’t think it at all likely myself. He hasn’t escaped one prison to pitch himself into another.”

  “What will happen to the Congress?”

  “Oh it is all at sixes and sevens. Metternich called and was received by the Tsar for the first time in three months. There is nothing like a common enemy to patch up minor differences. What happens must depend on Napoleon’s destination and plans. And of course his degree of success. Well, I must be off. You may imagine how busy I am, but after misinforming you last night, I thought I would tell you the news. All officialdom is buzzing with it, but it is a great secret of course. How is von Rossner?”

  “Not too well. Have you time to go up to her for a moment? She would appreciate it.”

  “I can spare a minute,” he said, and nipped quickly upstairs.

  At this crucial moment in history, Miss Kruger went into the saloon and wondered if this new development meant Lord Moncrief would be leaving Vienna. Gentz, on his way to the Chancellery, stayed only long enough to deliver his news abovestairs, then took his leave. Maria ran after him to the door, asking, “What had Wellington to say of all this? What will the English delegation be doing?”

  “Mustering their troops in the Low Countries to meet Bonaparte I expect. Ah—here is the chap can tell you,” he said, as the butler opened the front door to reveal Lord Moncrief with his right hand just raised to lift the knocker, and his left arm done up in a black sling.

  A searching look was exchanged between the two gentlemen, each wondering if the other knew the secret. “Shocking thing, isn’t it?” Gentz said, then he lifted his hat and left.

  “You know then,” Moncrief said to Maria, as he stepped in and handed the butler his hat.

  “Gentz just told us.”

  “So much for diplomatic secrecy. It was agreed we would not speak of it—Metternich particularly asked it. Person­ally, I think he only wanted folks in a good mood for the performance at the Court Theatre tonight.”

  “Surely it will be canceled!”

  “Not at all. It makes spying and eavesdropping on each other so much easier than finding excuses to pop around to all the headquarters,” he replied, entering the saloon and taking up a seat. “I can only stay a minute,” was his next highly unsatisfactory remark.

  “Kind of you to bother dropping in at all,” she answered curtly.

  “I thought you would be interested to hear how the great affair of the Blue Tavernier turned out.”

  "Oh, and here I thought you called to see how I am, after being kidnapped and tied up, and how my Aunt Her­mione goes on, with her hip broken.”

  “What are you talking about!” he shouted, leaping to his feet.

  “It is nothing so startling after all. Merely Mademoiselle Feydeau—and I know she is the culpritess, if that is what you have come to tell me—kidnapped me, had that female bruiser who keeps her company hit me over the head, and tied me up in the kitchen, while they ran off somewhere. My catching them all packed up for flight, with the jewels in a case by the door made it necessary, I suppose.”

  “So that’s why you weren’t at the party. And what were you doing at Feydeau’s place?”

  “I was going to sneak her into the masquerade party. So much for Christian charity. I only did it out of pity for her, the wretch.”

  “A wasted effort. She took pity on herself and went without even a secondhand invitation.”

  “Papa said she was there.”

  “Oh yes, sold my cousin what she chose to call the Blue Tavernier for fifty thousand pounds. Got clean away too.”

  “So much as that! Fifty thousand pounds! But how does it come no one caught her? Papa said Chabon went after her.”

  “She had a great many unforeseen accomplices, you see. Cousin Palgrave for one, provided her with a footman’s suit and mount, to facilitate her escape past the guards I had posted all round the chateau and down the roads. He showed her some secret path past the orangery, to evade capture.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because he is a fool. She convinced him her arrest would mean he must turn over the blue diamond. Then her other accomplice, Chabon . . ."

  “Chabon! He never had a good word to say about her! There were times I confess when I did not know which of them . . . When did you discover all this?”

  “I discovered it at various times. First, when a Monsieur Castonguy’s name turned up in Eynard’s books as having commissioned a job of which I suspected Chabon. Then I realized Chabon was Castonguy, which of course made him Mademoiselle’s husband, if we were to believe that wedding certificate she had hidden in her room. It was imperative to their plan we not tumble to it they were working in tandem, and that is why they were forever accusing each other of everything in front of us. He ranted and raved on against her, right till the last gasp. At the end, he convinced me, once again, that they were at odds, working against each other, despite bei
ng man and wife. Right while he had the loupe in his eye authenticating the nice piece of strass glass as the Blue Tavernier, he was warning Harvey not to buy it. A beautiful piece of acting. He counted on my cousin’s greed to carry the day, as it did,” he said, while a little smile hovering at the corner of his lips suggested the evening had not been such a total fiasco as he was painting.

  “Are they captured? Have they been arrested?”

  “Oh no, they got clean away. Chabon went after her, and hopped into whatever rig she had waiting beyond my guards. She was still passing him information at the last minute, right under my nose, talking about the guards I had posted. He, I believe, did not know it. I expect the pair of ‘em are well on their way to Italy or Switzerland or somewhere by now."

  “Why didn’t you go . . . but of course, you were wounded. I hope it is not serious?”

  “Kind of you to ask! It is extremely serious. I lost a quart of blood at least.”

  “How did it happen?” she asked, with a sympathetic look towards his sling, which encouraged him to move down the sofa closer to her chair.

  “It was like this. I was listening at the door, keyhole actually, when Feydeau opened the door to escape. She was holding a gun on Chabon and Harvey. I was behind her. I grabbed it, and Chabon pulled a pistol out of his pocket, took aim, ostensibly at Feydeau, but winged me instead. It was a marvelous touch. I don’t doubt they are a pair of actors. He did it on purpose, of course, to let her get away. Then he had the admirable excuse of delaying his pursuit till she got through the conservatory to her mount. They had arranged for a cohort to come, mean­while, and announce Boney’s escape, to throw the whole place—the whole countryside in fact—into confusion.”

  “You mean to sit there and tell me they sold your cousin a piece of glass for fifty thousand pounds, and you let them get away! I cannot think what you find to smile at, Mon­crief. Of course it is not your money. I doubt Palgrave is smiling.”

  “True, he is deep into sulks. He always is when he doesn’t get his own way. Very much out of sorts, and blam­ing the whole on me.”

  “Lord knows you warned him often enough not to buy it.”

  “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word gratitude. You would think when I managed to save the greater part of his blunt, he would at least have the courtesy to say thank you."

  “So that’s it! I knew you weren’t grinning like a cat for no reason. How did you recover the money?”

  “Not recover. They never got it at all. They got away with the case of money all right and tight, but with so many un­expected happenings, they hadn’t time to look below the first layer. Harvey lost a thousand, but the rest of it was cut up newsprint, which my valet and sometime more impor­tant accomplice substituted. Of course I had Wragge mark the bills he used on top. Harvey hadn’t even had the com­mon sense to have the bills marked, imagine! A good lesson for him, losing a thousand. He can well spare it.”

  Maria sat for a moment digesting all this news. “Do you actually know Chabon is her accomplice, or is this mere hypothesis?”

  “He never came back. I take his flight as prima facie evidence of guilt.”

  “Or death. She might have killed him, Moncrief.”

  “I never thought of that,” he confessed. “No, I’m sure she did not. It would ruin all my carefully laid explana­tions. Their collusion explains all the loose ends. The busi­ness of those earrings she sold Poronovitch, for example, that miraculously turned from diamond to glass during the trip. Chabon was your partner that night. He made the switch, then ‘noticed’ it, to establish himself as not only Mademoiselle’s opponent, but also a gems expert. He had ample time to shoot Eynard before coming here. Now, of course, we know the reason why.”

  “We do?” she asked uncertainly.

  “I do, and am about to tell you. It was not to prevent his telling about making copies, as we suspected. The real secret was that he—Eynard—actually designed the Blue Tavernier, the only incarnation of it that was ever in Vi­enna at least. Chabon had Eynard design a large blue diamond following a description of the Blue Tavernier.”

  “You think he doesn’t actually have the original at all?”

  “Not a bit of it. I doubt he’s ever seen it. The only thing they have of the French crown jewels is a written descrip­tion. They begged, borrowed or stole that ruby somewhere, then Chabon had the notion of pretending it was part of the collection, which naturally led to the possibility that the rest of the stuff was here. He accused her, and she accused him, of having it, to keep the rumor alive that it was here."

  “And they got off scot-free. They killed Eynard, they shot you, and hit me and tied me up in the dark. Surely you will not let them get away, Moncrief?”

  “Wellington has taken the unaccountable idea Bona­parte is more important,” he pointed out.

  “Well he is not more important to me. I shall go to Baron Hager.”

  “That much has been done. He should have been han­dling it from the start, but in these times of delicate ne­gotiations, everyone keeps his own secrets. Like Boney’s escape, no one knows except the world.”

  “Do you think the announcement at Palgrave’s party was a hoax to divert attention, or did they—Chabon and Feydeau—know it already? She is a hot supporter of Bo­naparte. I daresay they are both on their way to Paris this minute to join forces with him."

  “My intuition tells me Mademoiselle is more interested in herself than in any Emperor, unless he can do her a great deal of good. It was a sympathy-invoking pose, and explained her having the ruby, and possibly the Blue Ta­vernier as well."

  “I daresay Chabon was lying about loving Louis too, just so he could be at odds with her.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “It is odd how they could have carried out so compli­cated a plan without ever meeting, is it not?”

  “I expect they met in secret. I have been wondering whether it was not Chabon she met in a dark alley the night I got knocked on the head. Squabbling like man and wife, now I reconsider it. I expect they were each jealous of all the other’s assorted lovers.”

  “We have been duped royally,” she said, setting her chin in her hands to think of a revenge.

  “So we have, but after we settle Boney’s hash again, we shall get back to it.”

  “It will be too late then.”

  “I hope not. Speaking of late . . . I really must run. Wel­lington ain’t called the Iron Duke for nothing. He would have my head on a platter if he knew I was out courting when I . . ." he stopped suddenly, gave a conscious, startled look, then continued, “. . . when I should be working.”

  She took no verbal notice of his slip. “I hope your shoul­der is not too painful,” was all she said, but her fingers were trembling in her lap.

  “Hurts like the devil,” he admitted, arising with a little wince of pain. “But we heroes, you know, care nothing for agony. Will I see you at the theater this evening?”

  “I cannot go. My aunt is bedridden for the present, and we stay home to bear her company.”

  “Three’s a crowd. Let your Papa keep her company. It will be an excellent opportunity for the Countess to bring him round her thumb. You will be wished at Jericho, Maria. Come to the theater with me instead. I have been assigned to it, or I would offer to come to you here.”

  “If you are offering your escort, that is a different mat­ter,” she answered happily. “As to a match between those two, however, it is quite out of the question now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “My aunt is . . . That is, the doctor feels . . . Her hip is broken, you see, and . . ." she stuttered to a stop, unable to find any acceptable euphemism to express her meaning.

  “That won’t stop them. From getting married, I mean,” he added. “Do you dine at home this evening?” he asked, as he began walking towards the door, with Maria at his side.

  “Yes, I have had to cancel our other plans.”

  “Your Papa used, when he was hoping t
o snare a rich English melord for you, to tempt me with his chef’s won­derful meals. Do you think, now that he is in the suds again, he would like to repeat the offer? I am free for dinner, and have got this English stomach of mine accus­tomed to your country habit of dining at five.”

  “We would be happy to see you,” she offered.

  “Good. I shall be here a little early—say a quarter of five.”

  The butler handed him hat, and with Shutz looking on, Moncrief did no more than make his bow before leaving.

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  Herr Kruger, when he was informed of the visit, brought out his best bottle of cognac to welcome his guest. Every thinking Austrian knew the English drank from dawn to dark of the most intoxicating liquors available. One could only be grateful for it. If there were a duller specimen than a drunken Englishman, it was a sober one. No mat­ter, he was so full of joy himself on this occasion that he would have accepted even a Methodist for a son-in-law.

  “Maria tells me our little French tenant has flown the coop. She was in with Chabon all along,” Kruger men­tioned when Moncrief was shown in.

  “So it seems. Hager is having them followed. He has a lead now suggesting they are headed north, which cer­tainly does not look as though they are going to Boney’s rescue in any case. They are believed to be traveling to­gether, with the housekeeper keeping them company in the early stages.”

  “I wonder whether all this assembling of troops will make their escape easier or more difficult.”

  “Who knows? If it were not for Eynard’s murder and the physical injury to Hermione and myself, I would not care greatly.”

  “Ha, you are magnanimous—with your cousin’s money.”

  “There was little money lost. It is hard to cheat an honest man. Anyone attempting to buy stolen goods must know he deals with criminals, and should be prepared to be robbed. I am not here to discuss that business, however.”

  “Good, but before we leave it, I have one question for you. I have not figured out why Chabon ever drew me into his little scheme in the first place. There was never any question of turning jewels he did not possess over to Louis of France. What was my part in his plan?”