The Curious Incident at Claridge's

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘She must have believed her brother wouldn’t notice the difference,’ Antonia said. ‘It didn’t occur to her that her ring wouldn’t fit on his finger.’

  ‘She made a mistake there. I’d very much like to take a squint at that ring. As you know, my love, I am a great believer in putting theories to the test. I know something about precious stones. I can tell at once if the ring is a fake … I imagine the young widow’s collected all her husband’s possessions, including the ring … Shall I pay the young widow a visit?’

  ‘How would you persuade the young widow to show you the ring?’

  ‘I would introduce myself as the representative of a top Bond Street jeweller. Um. I would say that Sir Seymour had asked me to evaluate the ring. I’ll pretend of course that I have no idea that Sir Seymour has died. Ingenious, eh?’ Payne puffed at his pipe. ‘It would actually be very interesting to meet the young widow. Vis-à-vis.’

  ‘I am sure you would enjoy meeting the young widow enormously. Vis-à-vis.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass, darling. My interest is purely criminological.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Nothing but. Who knows, I might even be able to convince Lady Tradescant that the quest for riches is little more than ignoble and illusory. Oh, don’t look at me like that! Gives me the creeps. Do let’s be sensible and constructive, shall we? Do you think Sir Seymour was killed?’

  ‘I don’t know. And I don’t care,’ Antonia said tersely.

  Some twenty minutes later Major Payne’s mobile phone rang.

  ‘Hello—that you, Payne?’

  ‘Good lord. Jesty! I’ve been thinking about you.’

  ‘Did you see today’s paper?’

  ‘I did, my dear fellow. He is dead. I know. It’s quite incredible.’

  ‘I can’t believe it, Payne. We—we expected him to turn up dead, didn’t we? And now he’s turned up dead. Sir Seymour Tradescant is dead.’

  ‘I know. Well, coincidences do happen—’

  ‘I personally think she is behind it.’

  ‘Who? Lady Tradescant?’

  ‘Who else? She is the most logical suspect. I have had time to think, you see. I am sure she lied to me. That rigmarole—about Mrs Mowbray and so on. I am sure she made it all up. She is a minx. She is a snake, Payne. She is the devil. She—’

  ‘And I was hoping you’d got over her,’ Payne said with a sigh.

  ‘I haven’t got over her. I keep thinking about her. I can’t help it, Payne. I dream about her. I see her in all sorts of different scenarios.’

  ‘You sound as though you might have been drinking.’

  ‘I have been drinking. Of course I have been drinking, Payne. Scotch, mainly. I wouldn’t have been able to survive otherwise. I tried to speak to her the other day, but met with no success. No one answers the phone. She couldn’t have gone away before the funeral, could she?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I thought you might be on the case, Payne, that’s why I rang you. I thought you might have found something.’

  ‘I am not on the case,’ Payne said. ‘I am not sure there is a case.’

  ‘Of course there is. You don’t believe the eighteenth baronet died of natural causes, do you? A clever fellow like you. If you find any incriminating evidence, please let me know at once. I would be most grateful. You will let me know, won’t you, Payne?’

  Payne promised he would.

  ‘I may actually contact the police,’ Jesty said after a pause. ‘I may give them a lead or two. Tell them about the curious incident at Claridge’s. I may make one of those anonymous phone calls. Or write an anonymous letter or two.’

  ‘You wouldn’t stoop that low, surely?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Not the conduct of an officer and a gentleman—’

  ‘Don’t give me that rot.’

  ‘These things do matter, Jesty.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘What would you be hoping to achieve?’

  ‘I want to make things as uncomfortable for her as possible, Payne. I want her to be harried and grilled and frightened. I want her brought down low, mortified, disgraced, arrested—imprisoned for life—’

  If this were a detective story, I would make Jesty the killer, Payne thought. It would be one of those solutions that are described as ‘unguessable’. Jesty was the least likely suspect and he would have killed Sir Seymour as a form of revenge on Lady Tradescant—to get Lady Tradescant suspected of her husband’s murder— because he loved her and she loved him not …

  23

  The Lady Investigates

  As they sat having dinner, Antonia said, ‘I am as good at telling fake diamonds from real ones as you are. Actually, it would be safer if I went instead. Lady Tradescant might recognize you as Captain Jesty’s fellow spy. In fact she is bound to recognize you. She saw you at Claridge’s.’

  ‘Only for a split second,’ Payne pointed out.

  ‘I am sure she is the kind of woman that never forgets a man’s face.’

  ‘You may be right. I hope you are not jealous?’

  ‘I am not going to phone. Better catch her unawares,’ said Antonia. ‘I will just turn up on her doorstep in Half Moon Street. I will use your top Bond Street jeweller ruse, if I may.’

  ‘You are welcome to it. Don’t forget to give a false name. How about changing your appearance in some subtle way?’

  ‘Do you think that would be necessary? She’s never seen me.’

  ‘Lady Tradescant may turn out to be one of your greatest fans and recognize you from the photos on the back flap of your books.’

  ‘I hate those photos. They look nothing like me. Besides, I doubt Lady Tradescant is the reading kind.’

  ‘You seem to have got your knife into her. You don’t like the idea of me going to see a pretty girl, admit it.’

  ‘I have been thinking, actually. Lady Tradescant is the most logical suspect.’

  ‘Jesty also thinks she is the most logical suspect. Perhaps Jesty and you should meet up for tea or drinks and exchange notes? Who knows, you may even take to him. The two of you may hit it off. A lot of women apparently go mad over Jesty.’

  It was a morning straight from paradise. The sun, clear of mist, was full and golden in the firmament. Bees hummed among the riot of June flowers. Pigeons cooed. Dupin, Antonia’s one remaining cat—Vidocq having died a violent death a couple of months back—strolled across the lawn with feigned nonchalance, his eyes fixed on the fattest pigeon.

  Antonia made up her face elaborately, in a manner she had never done before. She then put on a silk dress of a conservative and rather stately pattern, an absurdly smart blue hat and white lace gloves. She had worn this particular ensemble only once before, at the wedding of an impossibly stuffy cousin of Hugh’s.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You look imposing,’ Payne said.

  ‘I look dreadful.’

  ‘You might be a knight’s widow or even a peeress in her own right. The very incarnation of what once upon a time the snobbishly romantic lower-middle classes referred to as a “great lady”. You look as though you are heading for the House of Lords or one of Her Majesty’s garden parties.’

  Antonia scowled at her reflection in the mirror. ‘I look older…’

  ‘You invite trust, which is exactly what you need today. I won’t kiss you because I may smudge your lipstick. Now then. There are two things you need to find out—’

  ‘You would rather kiss Lady Tradescant, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘One. The cause of Sir Seymour’s death. Two. Lady Tradescant’s whereabouts on the morning her husband died.’

  She said, ‘I will do my best.’

  It was an hour later.

  Antonia, feeling extremely self-conscious in her white lace gloves and hat, stood in Half Moon Street, outside an elegant Georgian house with neat window boxes of scarlet and pink geraniums. She glanced at her watch. Half past ten. Too early for Lady Tradescant to have gone sho
pping, or to meet a friend for coffee at Harvey Nicks, or to have her hair done at Luigi’s of Mayfair, or whatever it was beautiful rich girls did with their time.

  Taking her courage in her hands, she rang the door bell.

  A woman’s voice answered through the intercom. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My name is Antonia Rushton. I represent Wahlstein and Innocent, the Bond Street jewellers,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I have an appointment with Sir Seymour Tradescant.’

  ‘I am sorry, but my husband is dead. He died the other day. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Dead? No—no—I had no idea! But—how dreadful! Sir—Sir Seymour spoke to us only three days ago. I am so sorry. We had no idea,’ Antonia stammered on. ‘Is—is that Lady Tradescant?’

  ‘It is. Seymour spoke to you three days ago? How odd. That’s when he died.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Antonia said again.

  ‘Bond Street jewellers, did you say? What was the reason, did Seymour explain?’ Penelope Tradescant asked.

  Antonia had worked out the details of her story carefully. ‘It was a very delicate matter. It seems Sir Seymour had concerns about his ring. It was a diamond ring of great value. The Wallis ring. That was the name Sir Seymour had for it.’

  ‘I know the ring. What was the problem? No, wait—’

  Antonia imagined she heard some other voice whisper in the background.

  ‘I think you’d better come in,’ Penelope Tradescant said.

  A moment later a humming sound was heard and the door opened.

  Penelope Tradescant led the way through a spacious hall, up a flight of stairs and into a magnificent sitting room done in white and Wedgwood blue. One wall was taken up with two large french windows, ceiling high, and opening to a balcony that was filled with flowers. The balcony seemed to extend along two walls of the house.

  The room was spotless but there was no evidence of any servants. Who was the person who had whispered to Lady Tradescant earlier on? Apart from the door through which they had walked, there were two more doors. One of them was ajar and now Antonia imagined it swayed slightly. Was someone standing there, listening? Who was it? Penelope’s lover? One of her lovers?

  Antonia hadn’t quite expected her to wear widow’s weeds, and she didn’t, though Antonia had an idea she would look good in black. Penelope Tradescant was clad in a simple mint-green dress and her hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She looked cool, composed and very young. Her face was fresh and smooth and seemed free of makeup. There was an engaging air of innocence about her. She had perfect bone structure. Hugh hadn’t exaggerated. The girl was stunningly beautiful.

  ‘Do sit down—please—Miss Rushton—that’s right, isn’t it?’ Penelope waved towards the sofa. She herself remained standing beside the window, her back to the light. Practising for when her looks start fading, Antonia thought, though that may not be for quite some time yet. ‘So, what was it Seymour said about the ring?’

  ‘Well, Sir Seymour rang one of our partners. It was three days ago, rather early in the morning. Mr Innocent’s private number, as a matter of fact—Sir Seymour was a most valued client.’

  ‘I was not aware that Seymour had dealings with your firm. Wahlstein and Innocent, did you say? Never heard of you before. Never knew you existed.’

  ‘Sir Seymour wasn’t a regular customer, but he has bought things from us in the past,’ Antonia explained. ‘The last time was twenty years ago, actually.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t married to him then. What did he want you to do exactly?’

  ‘Well, Sir Seymour asked us to look at a ring. He wanted it carefully examined. He said the band seemed to have suddenly—shrunk. He couldn’t fit it on his finger. He suspected that the ring—a very valuable ring that had belonged to his father—had been stolen and replaced by an identical-looking replica.’

  ‘He suspected the Wallis ring was a fake? This is extremely interesting,’ Penelope said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Sir Seymour believed that the substitution had taken place the day before. He was perturbed, puzzled, really, that’s why he needed an expert opinion.’

  ‘How terribly curious—but there is something even more curious,’ Penelope said slowly. ‘You see, the Wallis ring was not among my husband’s effects, which I collected on the day he died. It seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Yes. The Master ordered a search, over which he presided in person. They searched high and low, the stewards, the Master and the doctor, but they found nothing.

  The Master suggested that the ring might have fallen down the drain and he promised to have a plumber round to check. He promised to report back to me.’

  ‘Is the ring insured?’

  ‘I believe it is—it’s got to be. I don’t know. Seymour never told me. I will need to check with Seymour’s solicitor. This is one complication I could have done without.’ Penelope’s hand went up to her forehead. ‘I am sorry. Things at the moment are at sixes and sevens, as you can well imagine. It looks as though there won’t be a PM, but the situation may change. I would hate it if the police got involved.’

  ‘Oh dear. I hope not! Why should they want a PM?’ Antonia opened her eyes wide. ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking?’

  A door was heard slamming and Penelope gave a little gasp. At once she smiled and apologized. ‘Sorry. There’s a draught somewhere. I am all alone. This whole business has made me jumpy. I haven’t been sleeping properly.’

  Only now Antonia noticed the dark smudges under the young woman’s eyes.

  There must be another exit, she thought—probably to the garden at the back? Whoever was in the flat had now left …

  ‘I thought I could cope with a crisis, but I am not very good at it,’ Penelope said. ‘It feels as if I am trapped in some horrible dream. I was at Heathrow, you see, standing in a queue, thinking of France, really looking forward to it, when I got the Master’s call. A friend was seeing me off. The Master told me they had found Seymour dead in his bath. If the call had come two hours later, I wouldn’t have got it. I would have been on the plane! Then I would have had to jump on the next plane back to England.’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Antonia murmured sympathetically.

  ‘We turned round and walked back to the taxi rank … As luck would have it, we got the same cab that took us to the airport, can you imagine? The cabbie gaped at us. He was extremely curious—wanted to know why we were going back—what had happened—he kept asking questions. I hated explaining but—’

  So Penelope had an alibi for the fatal morning. She couldn’t have been in two places at the same time. Unless she had faked her alibi somehow? She wasn’t anybody’s idea of a cold-blooded murderess. She had an air of sweetness and vulnerability about her. In addition to her stunning good looks. Antonia could see how easy it would be for middle-aged fools like Hugh and Captain Jesty to swoon over her.

  ‘Dr Henley believes Seymour had a heart attack or a stroke, brought on by the hot bath, but he said he would need a second opinion. He’s managed to speak to another doctor now,’ Penelope was saying. ‘It’s someone who visits Mayholme Manor twice a month. There’ve got to be two signatures on the death certificate. That’s the procedure … I haven’t even started thinking about the funeral … All kinds of people keep ringing asking me about the funeral … I don’t seem to know any of them!’

  ‘It must be terribly nerve-racking.’

  ‘I am sure I will survive,’ Penelope said with a smile, but her eyes looked suspiciously bright.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Antonia said firmly. Poor girl, she thought.

  ‘Shall we have coffee?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Lady Tradescant. I shouldn’t really impose on your kindness at a time like this—’

  ‘Oh nonsense. I won’t be a minute.’ Penelope started walking towards the door.

  No, she didn’t give the impression of being hard or calculating or predatory—wasn’t that what gold-diggers were su
pposed to be? Antonia had come prepared to dislike and distrust Penelope Tradescant, but now she found herself warming to the girl. Something of the lost soul about her, despite her air of cool poise and sophistication … She clearly needed to talk to someone …

  Antonia glanced at the little table beside the sofa. Cards were laid out on it. Patience. The Queen of Spades looks a bit like me, Antonia thought. She has a similar sort of hat on, how ridiculous. The Joker sported a natty little moustache and a red hussar’s uniform and was depicted in the act of strangling a plump woman whose expression was one of unbridled ecstasy. A lady killer. A literal kind of joke. Antonia smiled. That’s Captain Jesty, she decided. Poor lovelorn Captain Jesty. Hugh said Jesty hadn’t got over Penelope …

  Beside the cards lay a cardboard wallet. British Airlines. Antonia picked it up quickly and took out its contents. A plane ticket. 23rd June. Heathrow London—Paris. Flight time: 10.30 a.m.

  Lady Tradescant would have had to be at Heathrow two hours prior to the flight. She had taken a cab. The same cab, as it happened, had then delivered her back. It could all be checked of course. The cabbie had been curious and asked questions. The cabbie would certainly remember the beautiful young widow. He would also remember her escort. Who was her escort? Her lover?

  Penelope appeared with a tray containing two steaming bone-china mugs.

  ‘Here you are. I didn’t put out any sugar. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘I have decided to come clean. I believe I know who the thief is. Only one person could have swapped the Wallis ring with an identical-looking replica with a smaller band.’ Penelope took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s Bets. Only she could have done it.’

  ‘Bets?’

  ‘Seymour’s sister Bettina. I call her “Bets”. She’s always been mad about the Wallis ring. She had a replica made a couple of years ago. As it happens, I helped her with it. Seymour refused to lend her the ring, so she asked me to take photos of it, from every possible angle. Which I did. She then gave the photos to some jeweller, who used them to produce the replica. She paid something like a thousand pounds for it. The real thing of course costs much more.’