Anthony went to the front door and flung it open. His car stood at a little distance, the inspector and the chauffeur in close conversation. Anthony did not see them. He only saw Raymond Heritage, who was coming slowly up the steps. She was bareheaded, and her face was very pale. She wore a white dress with a black cloak over it. She stumbled twice as she climbed the steps and, if Anthony was only conscious of seeing her, she did not appear to be conscious of seeing any one at all.
It was only when the hand which she put out in front of her actually touched Anthony that she lifted her eyes and looked at him. Then she said in an odd, piteous sort of voice:
“Tony.”
“What is it? What has happening, Raymond? Are you all right?”
“I must speak to you—I must,” she said, catching at his arm and drawing him towards the study. They went in, and when the door was shut she turned to him with the tears running down her face.
“Tony, you heard? I think he’s dead. That place downstairs was mined, and he tried to kill us all, only we got away, Henry, the girl, and I. But Jeffrey’s dead—yes, I think he must be dead, and I know now what you thought. I didn’t know what you meant before, but I know now. You were wrong, Tony. Oh, Tony, won’t you believe me? I didn’t tell him about the passages, and I didn’t know anything until to-day. They can tell you I was speaking the truth—Henry and Miss Molloy; but, oh, Tony, can’t you believe me, just me?”
Anthony looked at her, and looked. His face was twitching. As her voice broke on the last two words he dropped to his knees, flung his arms about her, and hid his face in the folds of her cloak.
By the time that Jane and Henry came into the house Blotson had set all his machinery running once more. He himself presented a magnificent front to two of the most dishevelled people whom he had ever been called upon to receive. It was not until afterwards when it came home to Henry how much green slime there was in his wildly ruffled hair, and how little the original colour of his collar could be discerned, that he realised how marvellous had been the unflinching calm of Blotson. He referred neither to the explosion nor to Henry’s appearance. In point of fact, what were emergencies and accidents that Blotson should notice them? The hour being five o’clock, it was his business to announce tea. He announced it.
“Tea is served in the library,” he said, and passed upon his way.
But in the library the tea cooled while Henry, very much relieved to find that the wires had not been cut, galvanised the Withstead exchange and got on to a distinctly relieved Sir Julian.
They arranged, speaking in Italian, that an explosion had occurred in the course of an important experiment in Sir William’s laboratory. It was agreed to notify Sir William and the press. The loss of two lives was greatly to be deplored. When this was finished Piggy became less official.
“That girl of yours is a brick; you can tell her so from me. She’s all right, I hope?”
Henry said “Yes,” that Jane was quite all right. He sounded a trifle puzzled.
Piggy laughed.
“Didn’t you know she had rung me up to say you’d been nobbled? Most businesslike communication I’ve ever had from a lady in all my life. Told me they’d got a motor-boat in Withstead Cove. And, thanks to her, we ought to have gathered it in. I got through to the coastguard station at once. Now look here, what’s the likelihood of laying hands on Ember’s papers?”
“Ember’s papers?” repeated Henry. “Well, there was a safe down there, and that’s where he’d be most likely to keep them; but I expect they’re all gone to blazes, as the door was open.”
At this point Jane’s voice came in breathlessly:
“Henry, wait, keep him on the line!” she said, and was gone.
“It’s Jane, sir,” said Henry. “I think she’s gone to get something.”
In the middle of Piggy’s subsequent instructions Jane came back. She held a bundle of closely written sheets. She spread them before Henry’s eyes, holding them fan-wise like a hand at cards.
“I’d forgotten them till you said that about the papers—I’d actually forgotten them. It’s lists of his agents in all the big towns everywhere. I sat up all night copying them because I didn’t dare keep the originals. I keep forgetting you don’t know what’s been happening. But tell him, Henry, tell him we’ve got the lists.”
Henry told him.
Jane heard Sir Julian answer, and then Henry hung up the receiver and hugged her.
“What did he say? Henry, you’re breaking my ribs! What did he say?”
“Jane, you’re a brick, and a wonder, and a darling, and he said—he said, ‘Bless you, my children!’”
THE END
About The Author
PATRICIA WENTWORTH was born Dora Amy Elles in India in 1877 (not 1878 as has sometimes been stated). She was first educated privately in India, and later at Blackheath School for Girls. Her first husband was George Dillon, with whom she had her only child, a daughter. She also had two stepsons from her first marriage, one of whom died in the Somme during World War I.
Her first novel was published in 1910, but it wasn’t until the 1920’s that she embarked on her long career as a writer of mysteries. Her most famous creation was Miss Maud Silver, who appeared in 32 novels, though there were a further 33 full-length mysteries not featuring Miss Silver—the entire run of these is now reissued by Dean Street Press.
Patricia Wentworth died in 1961. She is recognized today as one of the pre-eminent exponents of the classic British golden age mystery novel.
By Patricia Wentworth
and available from Dean Street Press
The Benbow Smith Mysteries
Fool Errant
Danger Calling
Walk with Care
Down Under
The Frank Garrett Mysteries
Dead or Alive
Rolling Stone
The Ernest Lamb Mysteries
The Blind Side
Who Pays the Piper?
Pursuit of a Parcel
Standalones
The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith
The Red Lacquer Case
The Annam Jewel
The Black Cabinet
The Dower House Mystery
The Amazing Chance
Hue and Cry
Anna Belinda
Will-O’-the-Wisp
Beggar’s Choice
The Coldstone
Kingdom Lost
Nothing Venture
Red Shadow
Outrageous Fortune
Touch and Go
Fear by Night
Red Stefan
Blindfold
Hole and Corner
Mr. Zero
Run!
Weekend with Death
Silence in Court
Patricia Wentworth
The Annam Jewel
“Thou hast betrayed, and thou hast slain…”
WHAT IS THE MYSTERY shrouding the lovely but sinister Annam stone, stolen from a remote shrine? Every owner of it has suffered an unhappy fate. When Peter Waring, nephew of the original thief, inherited the jewel, it would mean great power and wealth—or so he imagined. His rude awakening leads to a maze of deceit and treachery, a bogus love affair, and a narrowly escaped death. Peter believes the gem is in the hands of the one man in the world he has every reason to hate. A game of cat and mouse is about to ensue, with each man believing the other has what he wants…
The Annam Jewel was originally published in 1924. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
“When I pick up a book by Patricia Wentworth I think, now to enjoy myself—and I always do.” Mary Dell, Daily Mirror
Chapter One
The wind drove the rain against the nursery window. It came in gusts, drove against the panes with a splash, and then withdrew, leaving them drenched. The nursery floor was covered with green oilcloth, very old, very shabby, very much stained. The fire had gone out.
Rose Ellen,
eight years old, sat cross-legged on the hearth-rug. Her eyes were screwed up tightly, her fat little hands quivered as she pressed them against her ears. All the bricks, all the toys, and all the nursery books were also on the floor.
Peter, aged twelve, had constructed an admirable gallows with the bricks. This occupied the centre of the floor, and against it, in a huddled attitude, there was propped that luckless criminal, Laura Augusta Belladonna, commonly known as Augustabel, and dear beyond words to the lacerated heart of Rose Ellen. The books had been built into a grandstand with three tiers, and all the remaining dolls and toys had been accommodated with seats from which a commanding view of the impending execution could be obtained. There was a bear without a head, a mutilated donkey, a jack-in-the-box with a broken neck, and a monkey with a scarlet coat and a permanent grin. There was also Maria, the wax doll, who appeared to have swooned.
Immediately opposite the gallows sat Peter Waring in an upright chair with twisted arms. He wore a scarlet flannel dressing-gown, and was endeavouring to balance a square of black cloth upon the top of his head. “Hanged by the neck until you are dead,” he was repeating with unction. The criminal appeared unmoved, but Rose Ellen gave a wriggle and a sniff.
“Peter,” she said, in a little soft voice, “isn’t it over? Oh, Peter de—ah, I really, truly, can’t keep scrooged up any longer. Oh, Peter darlin’—”
“Rose Ellen!” said Peter in an awful voice. Then he addressed the prisoner:
“Laura Augusta Belladonna—” he began, but in an instant Rose Ellen was on her feet, eyes and ears wide open. She snatched Augustabel from the gallows foot, clasped her to a much stained pinafore, and fixed Peter with a glance of most deadly reproach.
“Not my Augustabel—I never said you might have my Augustabel,” she said, the words hurrying with just the faintest suspicion of a lisp. “You said Teddy, and it wouldn’t hurt him, because he hadn’t got a head at all. And then to go and take a dreadful advantage like that just because of my eyes being shut and—and my ears, when you know perfectly well that I can’t possibly bear to look even when they haven’t got heads …” She paused, took a sobbing breath, and concluded:
“Oh, Peter de—ah!” she said.
“A fat lot your ears were shut,” said Peter.
“They were.”
“Then how did you hear your precious Augustabel’s name?”
“Only just at the end I did. Oh, Peter de—ah, only just at the very, very end of all.”
Rose Ellen was a good deal like a doll herself. Her mouth closed more firmly than Augustabel’s did, but she had the same biscuit-china complexion and the same close golden-brown curls. It was in the eyes that the greatest difference lay: the eyes of Augustabel were hard and blue; the eyes of Rose Ellen were very soft and brown.
“Come on, give her to me,” said Peter, and then, in deep and awful tones, “Justice must be done.”
At the last word he plunged forward, snatched at Augustabel, caught his foot in the gallows, and came down sideways on the top of the grandstand with a resounding crash.
Peter shouted, Rose Ellen shrieked, the head of the wax doll Maria rolled across the floor, and the door opened. An untidy maid stood on the threshold and surveyed the scene.
“Lor’, you children!” she said in a good-natured drawling voice. “Who’s going to pick all that up? Not me. Master Peter, you’re wanted downstairs.” Then she was gone again.
Peter made a hideous face, removed the scarlet dressing-gown, and went downstairs, his heart a little heavier at every step. He supposed one had to have relations. He supposed they had to come bothering. That was the sort of thing that was bound to happen when one’s mother—Peter choked, jumped the last four steps, and burst rather vehemently into the dining-room.
Somebody said, “Good gracious!” Somebody else said, “Gently, gently, my boy.” He caught a whisper of, “Boys have no feeling, absolutely none, my dear”, and his Uncle Matthew said, “Shut the door, Peter.”
Peter shut the door, came to a standstill about a yard away from it, and surveyed his relations. The room seemed to be quite full of them. He wondered whether other people had as many. The women had black dresses; the men wore black ties. They alluded to his mother as “Poor Olivia”. One naturally hated people who did that.
Peter fished a bit of string out of his left-hand trouser pocket. It was rather sticky because there was an old peppermint bull’s-eye, some greaseproof paper, a rabbit’s tail, and a candle-end in the same pocket.
“Don’t fidget, Peter,” said Miss Charlotte Oakley, who was a second cousin.
But Peter took no notice. He looked frowningly at his bit of string, undid the knot that he had tied, and made another, a different sort of knot, very complicated.
If Peter had but known it, his relations were all suffering from the sort of embarrassment which makes the temper uncertain. Each of them was between two highly unpleasant alternatives. None of them wished to do anything for Peter, but each of them shrank from saying so. An almost penniless Peter; a great hulking boy clumping into one’s house with muddy boots; that dreadfully mannerless boy of poor Olivia’s; a creature that would simply eat you out of house and home—thoughts like these had reduced Peter’s relatives to a condition in which everyone hoped that somebody else would speak first.
At the head of the table sat his father’s surviving brother, Matthew Waring, a prosperous country solicitor. He had just undertaken to defray the cost of Peter’s education, and felt that his conscience had no business to be troubling him with the suggestion that he might also make Peter’s holidays his affair. “Plenty of room in the house, and it would liven things up,” said his conscience unreasonably, but with some insistence. “Nice enough lad, don’t like ’em namby-pamby myself, but of course Emily would never hear of it,” was his reply. Emily sat next to him, a woman with a red face and a light, hard eye. Matthew Waring feared her a good deal more than he feared his conscience. From the moment that she had whispered, “Think of his boots on the carpets,” the matter had been settled.
Emily Waring liked her brother Matthew, but she loved her own way, and regarded boys as a wholly unnecessary evil. Boys in general were bad enough, but this boy of poor Olivia’s—well, look at him!
All the relations looked at Peter. A well-grown boy of twelve; of noticeably sturdy build; thick, colourless hair standing on end; a smudged and freckled face; dilapidated clothes; a stocking with a gaping tear, and shoes that were out at the toes; grimy hands that fiddled perpetually with a disreputable piece of string. There really was nothing very attractive about Peter.
“He certainly doesn’t take after his father,” said Emily Waring grimly. “Poor Henry was one of the handsomest young men I ever saw.”
“He is not in the least like our family,” said Miss Oakley. She tossed her head a little, and added, “Poor Olivia was considered a lovely girl.”
“The question is, the holidays,” said Matthew Waring; but his sister Emily interrupted him.
“Your Uncle Matthew has most kindly undertaken to send you to school, Peter,” she said. “He was naturally under no obligation to do this, but out of respect for your poor father—”
“Now, Emily, now, Emily,” said her brother.
He had seen a scowl pass over Peter’s face, rendering it considerably less attractive than before, and he spoke uneasily.
“Allow me to finish what I was saying, Matthew. Your uncle, as I said, is going to educate you, and we think that some of your mother’s relations may be able to offer you a home during the holidays.”
Miss Charlotte Oakley flushed. Her married sister, Mrs. Spottiswoode, coughed and looked at her rings. They were very handsome rings, and she was a well-jointured widow, with a soft enough heart. She did not dislike Peter, not really; though, of course, he would be a great nuisance in the house, and Charlotte would be put about. She looked at her sister, and half opened her lips as if to say something.
“We are only cousins, Miss Waring
,” said Charlotte Oakley in a high, protesting voice.
“Though brought up with dear Olivia—and I’m sure I was always as fond of her as if she were my own sister, and fonder.…” Mrs Spottiswoode began to dab her eyes with a very small handkerchief which diffused an almost suffocating odour of heliotrope.
Emily Waring sniffed disapprovingly.
A little dried-up man, who had not spoken before, leaned across the table and whispered to Matthew Waring. His name was Miles Banham, and he was Olivia Waring’s stepbrother.
“The money’s the difficulty, of course,” he said. “I haven’t got a sou myself, as you all know, and I’m off to Japan again next week. But somewhere …” His voice sank lower. “It’s just a chance—why not ask him?”
The scowl on Peter’s face deepened. He had made six knots in his piece of string, and was beginning a seventh—one he had learnt from Jane’s brother, who was a sailor; he was never quite sure of it. Suddenly he became aware that he was being addressed. His Uncle Matthew was leaning forward, looking at him intently. Everyone was looking at him.
Matthew Waring drummed on the table, and said in rather a loud voice:
“Peter, did your mother ever speak to you about the Annam Jewel?”
Peter stopped looking at his piece of string—he stopped in the very middle of a knot—and looked at his relations instead. His Cousin Charlotte had a very flushed face. She was saying:
“Poor Olivia had a secretive nature, she never would tell me a word about it, though we were like sisters. Not a word, I do assure you, Miss Waring, though I implored her to give me her confidence. I felt—Ruth and I both felt—that it was only right for someone on her own side of the family to know the facts, but not a word could I get out of her. Now I only ask you, is it likely that she would tell that boy what she wouldn’t tell me?”
The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith: A Golden Age Mystery Page 26