by Kathy
Her frown remained as she put the ring boxes back in the safe and turned her attention to the others on the countertop. They were not glass-topped, but solid storage boxes, and not one of them was even faintly familiar. Nor were they recorded in her ledger. Selecting one at random, she lifted the lid.
Nestled in crumpled paper was a flat jewel case, roughly shell-shaped, the dark blue leather stamped in gold with Dan's name. The shape of the container gave her some idea of what to expect, but when the catch yielded to the pressure of her thumb and the lid rose, she gasped aloud.
Electric light for rubies. . . . There were three of them, each as big as the end of her thumb, set in gold, with a trio of perfect pearls hanging from each setting. The sapphires, almost as large, and perfectly matched, held their glorious blue so well that they had to be the prized Kashmir gems; they were centered in heavy gold plaques that formed a necklace to which the rubies were pendant. Diamonds formed flowerlike petals around the sapphire centers. The gold work was spectacular; coils and curls of twisted metal framed the stones. The sheer opulence of the piece dazzled the eye and the mind; but when she recovered from her surprise and looked more closely she realized that the cutting of the gems was not of the same quality as the gold work. Crudely shaped though they were, their color and size were outstanding.
There were half a dozen other boxes. Each contained jewelry as important and at least as valuable as the necklace. The most remarkable was a tiara or diadem of gold so pure it could be bent with one's bare hands. The stones appeared to have been set almost at random, creating a gaudy blaze of color. Despite the brilliant yellows, rose-pinks, sea blues and the primitive cut of the stones, which failed to bring out their fire as the present-day brilliant cut could do, Meg knew that most of the faceted stones were diamonds, of unusual shades and considerable size. There were several rubies, all of superb color except for one stone that had a slightly rusty shade. . . .
Her breathing quickened as she took up the loupe and peered more closely at the off-color "ruby." It was impossible to be certain without putting the stone through a variety of tests, but its luster and brilliance told her her instincts were correct. Only zircons and demantoid garnets approach the distinctive adamantine luster of diamonds, and they reflect only about half the light. A red diamond? They were the rarest of all stones; no more than half a dozen of them were known to exist, and this was larger than any she had heard of. It must be a good ten carats in weight.
Meg closed the last box, thanking heaven for the impulse that had led her to open the safe that evening, instead of having the astonishing discovery burst upon her in the sardonic presence of her "cousin." Cliff would be as quick to jump to conclusions as she had been—quicker, he had that kind of mind—and his cynical amusement would have been hard to bear.
Meg tried to convince herself that she had also been too quick to condemn her grandfather. Perhaps the pieces were recent acquisitions; perhaps Dan had recorded them elsewhere. She tried—but she failed. There was no sensible reason why Dan should have used her little safe, except as a temporary repository for objects whose very existence he wanted to keep secret. From her grandmother, from George, from the IRS? Or from their original owners? Like love and a bad cold, such important jewels could not be disguised, they were distinctive enough to have histories of their own. Even individual stones could be traced through time, from owner to owner, and identified by means of their chemical and optical characteristics. If the odd red stone was indeed a diamond, it was absolutely unique, yet Meg was ninety-nine percent certain there was no record of it anywhere in the literature.
The pieces were all of Indian, or at least eastern, design. Wild fantasies swirled through Meg's mind. Avenging priests stalking the violators of their god; starving descendants of deposed imperial houses hunting the man who had robbed them. The tiara was of queenly quality. Where on earth—how on earth—had Dan acquired those objects?
With a sigh she turned her thoughts to more practical matters. Avenging priests and princes were figments of fiction. Not so the avengers of the Internal Revenue Service; she had no intention of playing dangerous illegal games with them, but before she went running off to confess she had better make certain Dan was guilty. Downstairs, in the library, were the reference books Dan had collected over many years—everything that had been published on the subject of gems and jewelry. Perhaps in one of the catalogs she could find mention, or even a photograph, of one of the pieces she had discovered.
She opened the door and started toward the stairs. Preoccupied as she was, she was halfway down them before she noticed the change in the temperature. A gust of frigid air rose to meet her; icy, invisible fingers plucked at the fabric of her robe. Shivering, she gathered its folds around her. Someone must have left a window open. But how could the temperature have dropped so dramatically? The sun had been midsummer warm earlier that day.
Holding the banister with one hand and her fluttering skirts with the other, she examined the hall below. There were no ambiguous shadows or patches of dark; the lights shone dimly but steadily, nothing moved. The chains and inner bolts on the front door were unfastened; one or both of the men must still be out. But the lock was a dead bolt, it could not be opened without a key.
Her throat was dry and her feet wanted to turn and run back up the stairs. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. If a window had been left open, all the more reason why she should investigate. No one could have entered the house without setting off the alarms, but rain coming through an open window could ruin draperies and carpets.
The brisk breeze had died by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. Without a current of air to guide her she could not find its source; the windows in the drawing room, parlor, dining room and library were closed and locked, and nothing audibly or visually alarming occurred. But the air still felt cold.
Deciding that she had exhibited enough courage for one night, she selected a few of the large, illustrated books on historic jewels and started back to her room. The books were heavy; she had to wrap both arms around the unwieldy pile. As she climbed the steps the cold lessened, and she stopped at the top to get a better grip on her burden, feeling a little foolish. The house was old; despite the constant maintenance there must be cracks, gaps, through which air could sometimes blast. Hadn't she read about strange winds blowing through one of the Egyptian pyramids, winds whose origin no one had ever been able to find? She should have stayed in the library instead of dragging a heavy load up the stairs.
Clutching the books to her breast, she was about to proceed when she heard a noise. It was barely audible, just over the threshold of sound—a soft, happy murmur of laughter.
Slowly, reluctantly, Meg turned away from her own room, whose open doorway spilled brightness into the dimness of the corridor. The door of her grandmother's suite wasn't far. She stopped in front of it and stood listening.
At first there was nothing but silence. No light showed under the door or through the keyhole. Then it came again, soft as a far-off ripple of water, wordless and musical. Shivering, dry lips parted, Meg pressed her ear to the cold wooden panels and heard her grandmother laughing, alone in the dark.
"The furnace man says he can't come till this afternoon," Frances said dourly. She slapped a plate of bacon and eggs down in front of George. "I told him if he wasn't here by one we'd get someone else."
"There's no urgency. It's June, after all." George spoke without lowering his newspaper, but this pitiful attempt to avoid conversation was as futile as such hints usually were with Frances. Hands on her hips, arms akimbo, she said, "That's all right for you to say, Mr. George; the upstairs heating system wasn't affected, and your room was nice and toasty, but mine sure wasn't. They said there was a cold front coming through, but they didn't say it was coming from the North Pole. It felt like a blizzard blowing through my window."
"Why didn't you close the window?" Cliff asked.
Frances glowered at him. "Dour" was the key word this morning; she
had switched to role number two, the loyal family servant whose crusty exterior covers a heart of gold. In this part she was entitled to grumble as much as she liked. Cliffs question smacked of criticism; she refused to give it the dignity of a reply.
"How is Gran this morning?" Meg asked.
"She didn't sleep too good." Frances's glum face lengthened still more, but the distraction succeeded. "I told her I'd take her up a tray. If you folks are finished wasting my time, I'll get to my other duties."
"Do," Cliff said earnestly. "Oh, do, Frances. Please do.
"I wish she'd go back to being Mrs. Danvers," he added, after the door had slammed after the affronted housekeeper. "I hate the crusty old servant with the heart of gold even more than the jolly fat servant with the heart of gold. You remember that one, Meg, the one that pinched our cheeks and clasped us to her motherly bosom till we were half suffocated?"
"Now, Cliff," George murmured. Eyes still fixed on the financial page, he offered a strip of bacon to Henrietta Marie, who had jumped up on the chair next to his as soon as Frances left the room. Bacon was the only comestible that overcame Henrietta's aristocratic reserve; she had been under the table for some time, but she knew that Frances's number-two role disapproved of cats in the breakfast room. (The jolly fat housekeeper doted on pussycats.)
Meg returned her cousin's smile. She was in excellent spirits this morning; the news that her frightening experience on the stairs had been caused by a perfectly normal phenomenon had been a salutary reminder that she mustn't let her imagination run away with her. Henrietta Marie emitted a soft but peremptory mew, and George obediently offered another scrap of bacon. Meg laughed. Even if that other laughter had been real, it could be explained as rationally as the cold breeze from Frances's window. Lying wakeful and lonely in the dark, her grandmother had been chatting with Henrietta.
"It's nice to hear you laugh," Cliff said approvingly. "First time since you got here."
"Funerals don't inspire a lot of hilarity," Meg said.
Cliff refused to be offended. "That shows how much you know. I've attended some happy and hilarious wakes and at least one funeral service where the eulogy was funnier than any comedian's routine. Here, Henrietta, have one on me: a reward for making the pretty lady laugh."
Henrietta condescended to accept the strip of bacon. She took it under the table and killed it, growling pleasurably.
George folded his newspaper and put it on the chair the cat had vacated. He looked tired, Meg thought; his closely shaved cheeks were a trifle pale and there was a suggestion of shadow under his eyes. However, he was impeccably groomed, from his thick cap of silvery hair to his three-piece suit and silk tie. He was one of the few people Meg knew who still wore shirts with French cuffs, and as he extended his arm to glance at his watch she saw a glimmer of purple at his wrist.
"What gorgeous cuff links," she said. "Are they antique?"
George offered one for inspection. It was an amethyst intaglio, showing a Medusa's head. The carving was superb; the snaky locks writhed and the mouth gaped in a silent scream. Meg ran an appreciative finger over the gem. "It's very old. Classical Greek or Roman."
"I didn't know the ancient Greeks wore shirts with French cuffs," Cliff said.
"Dan had them set for me," George said. "I believe they were originally a pair of earrings."
"The earrings probably weren't original either," Meg said. "Dan wouldn't have vandalized an ancient Greek piece, even for you, George. He was fanatical about. . . ."
George waited for her to continue. After a moment he said, "Is something wrong with the links, Meg?"
"What?" She came back to reality with a start. "Oh—no, of course not, Uncle George. Sorry. I just thought of something I had ... I had forgotten."
She hadn't forgotten. Dan had tirades about jewelers who failed to retain the original integrity of a piece of jewelry. He had pounded that principle into her head at an early age, but she had failed to apply it to the objects he had hidden in her safe. There was a market for such pieces. However, a collector would pay far less than the gems themselves would fetch if they were properly cut and reset. Most jewelers would have taken that course, especially if they wanted to conceal the origin of stolen jewelry. But to Daniel Mignot such an act would have been worse than vandalism. He had done it upon occasion, when the gems were sufficiently outstanding, and the design of the piece lacked originality, but even then he had mourned as over the death of a living thing.
Thanks to Dan's ledger, it did not take long for them to examine the ring collection. That was all George seemed to care about—that the entries in the ledger matched the objects themselves. Handing Meg the final box, he said with visible relief, "Everything seems to be in order. If I may make a suggestion— take the ledger to Darren and ask him to have a copy made."
"That's a good idea." Meg put the box in the dresser drawer.
"If I may make a suggestion," Cliff began.
He had spent even less time looking at the rings than his father, but he had pored over the ledger; remembering his comment about old-fashioned methods of record-keeping, Meg was torn between amusement and resentment as he inspected the pages with her loupe. Did he really expect to find signs of erasure?
"What?" she asked, closing the drawer.
"That's not a particularly secure place to keep your valuables."
Before she went down to breakfast Meg had removed the rings from the safe. She had not been thinking clearly the night before or she would have realized she would have to do so, or disclose the existence of the hiding place. The tone of Cliffs voice, and the way his eyes moved curiously around the room, told her he already suspected there was a hidden safe somewhere. She had no intention of admitting it, though. It was none of his business.
Before she could reply to his comment her uncle said, "It's safe enough, Clifford. None of Meg's little rings is particularly valuable in itself, and the collection couldn't be marketed by a thief; it's too well known in the trade."
Does he know? Meg wondered. He suspects—but he doesn't want Cliff to know.
"I've got to run," George went on. "It's late. Meg, I took the liberty of calling Darren this morning and making an appointment for you. I knew you were too considerate to call him at home, and if you had waited till afternoon to call he might have been booked up, and. ... I hope you don't mind?"
She did mind, but his apologetic air disarmed her. "Thank you, Uncle George. What time?"
"You've got ten minutes," her uncle said. "I'll drop you off."
"I'll meet you downstairs in five minutes," Meg agreed.
"Why rush?" Cliff hadn't moved from the sofa across which he was sprawled, as much at ease as if he were in his own room. "An important client can keep a lawyer waiting. Want me to drive you? I'm at your disposal, coz dear."
"Be at my disposal somewhere else," Meg said, opening the door.
By the time Cliff had drifted out, the five minutes were considerably less. Hastily Meg applied fresh lipstick, tied her hair back with a scarf and returned the ring boxes to the safe.
When she trotted downstairs, to find her uncle waiting, Cliff was nowhere to be seen. Meg suspected he had been on the receiving end of a forceful lecture from his father, a suspicion that was confirmed when George said, "I hope Cliff isn't proving to be a nuisance, Meg. If he bothers you, tell me."
"I can handle Cliff. He's not Jack the Ripper."
Her uncle gave her a look of surprise. "I didn't mean—"
"Eyes on the road, Uncle George," Meg said, smiling.
"Of course, of course."
He was silent for the remainder of the brief drive.
The offices of Blake and Morgan were no longer in the shabby downtown building Meg remembered, but in a refurbished cottage behind the stately mansions of The Square. In a former life the row of small houses had sheltered the servants, and the horses, who had served The Square's aristocrats. Shops and offices filled them now; preoccupied as she was, Meg noticed a boutique whose
window held a couple of potential additions to her limited wardrobe.
She thanked her uncle and got out of the car. "This wasn't such a bright idea," he said ruefully. "I should have let you drive the Ferrari. Call when you're ready to go home, and someone will come for you."
"Don't fuss, Uncle George." She reached back through the open window and gave his hand a squeeze, to show she was teasing. He was slow to relinquish his hold; almost, she thought, as if he were afraid she were walking into an ambush, instead of an ordinary office.
It was ordinary enough, and familiar; law books lined the walls, the rug on the floor was the same beautiful Bokhara and the woman behind the old oak desk was Mrs. Babcock, who had presided over the other office—a little grayer, a little plumper, but still unmistakably the self-appointed moral force behind Blake and Morgan. She showed no sign of surprise or pleasure when Meg greeted her by name; she expected to be remembered.
Darren looked older and more dignified as he rose from his chair behind his father's desk; he even looked taller. The warmth in his smile and the gleam in his eyes told Meg that his pleasure in seeing her wasn't entirely professional. Mrs. Babcock lingered. "Are you sure you don't want me to take notes, Mr. Blake?"
"No, that won't be necessary." After a moment Darren added firmly, "Thank you, Mrs. Babcock."