by Granger, Ann
‘I have done so on occasion,’ he agreed.
‘Could you tell me when was the last occasion?’
He didn’t want to do it, but he couldn’t break off the conversation now. He rose from his chair, made a majestic progress to a shelf, and returned with a stout ledger. He turned the pages carefully. ‘Here, you see, Inspector, I delivered “Bedouin tribesmen before the Great Pyramid”, by a minor French artist, to her two months ago. I do not undertake to deliver the paintings to everyone, you understand. But Mrs Scott likes my advice on hanging the subject.’
‘She takes your advice on that, but not on the quality of the painting!’ I said with an attempt at humour.
But for Angelis it was a serious matter. ‘Quite, Inspector. In this case I did explain to her that if she would wait a while, it was more than possible that a better work with a similar subject would come on the market. But she was in a hurry to have a replacement painting on her wall.’
‘Replacement?’ I asked.
Angelis flushed. He had said more than he intended. Good, that’s what I wanted a witness to do.
‘A painting had been taken down. It left a gap. Mrs Scott was less interested in the quality of the painting than the size of the frame. The absence of the previous one left a paler rectangle on the wall covering. She wanted to disguise it.’
I felt that prickle run up my spine that always signifies something of real interest is about to be revealed.
‘Why?’ I asked simply.
He gave a rueful smile. ‘So that her friends would not notice the other one had been sold, I dare say.’
‘Sold?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, by us.’
‘For how much?’ I asked tersely.
‘That is a very private matter . . .’ he began feebly. But then he sighed and went to fetch a second ledger. ‘Here,’ he said.
I looked at the entry beneath his pointing finger.
‘That is a great deal of money,’ I said, when I found breath.
‘It was a very fine painting.’ Angelis gave a kind of muted growl. ‘And she replaced it with a bread-and-butter piece by a virtual unknown!’
I sat for a moment digesting the implication of all this. ‘You said she had no money problems,’ I said at last.
‘I told you I have no knowledge of the lady’s fortune,’ he corrected me gently. ‘But even if a person is in comfortable circumstances, he – or she – might want to raise an extra lump sum of money for something special. Something, let us say, that she would not wish her usual financial advisers to know about?’
‘And you think that is what she was doing when she sold the good painting and replaced it with a cheaper one?’
‘I had that impression. But I repeat, only an impression. I can give you no details. I may have been wrong.’
No, I thought, you weren’t wrong. I’d wager my month’s wages on it, and I think I can guess where that sum of money was going.
‘May I ask,’ I began and Angelis looked wary, ‘if you have ever called at her Clapham house socially? She holds soirées, I understand.’
‘Never, Inspector,’ Angelis said coolly. ‘Have you further questions? Because if not, I think I shall close the gallery for the day now, and let Gray go home.’
I left the gallery well satisfied. Now I knew the question I had to put to Signor Tedeschi the following day.
I arrived at the Burlington Arcade promptly at eleven the following morning. Harry Barnes was on duty and greeted me by name. He was the sort of employee who would remember all regular customers by name – and an inspector of police, if he should turn up. If Mrs Benedict had asked him to call her a cab that fateful Saturday afternoon, Barnes would have remembered that, too. I was surer than ever that she had not.
Tedeschi was waiting for me in his private sanctum, a tiny room above his shop. It was a pity the room was not larger because the jeweller himself was a big man. Whereas Angelis presented a well-built but elegant figure, Tedeschi was simply fat, with curling grey hair and sharp, pouched eyes. He didn’t attempt to rise from the chair in which he was wedged. Perhaps it would have been an ungainly action and he didn’t wish me to see his struggle. Instead, he waved a podgy hand at the one other chair. I sat down.
‘They told me,’ he said, ‘that you would be coming today. I have already spoken to a Sergeant Morris.’
‘Yes, sir, but matters have progressed a little since then.’
Tedeschi’s chest wheezed faintly as he expelled his breath. I thought he was probably asthmatic. But he said nothing, waiting for me to go on.
‘Mrs Benedict came with her companion to visit you last Saturday afternoon, the afternoon of the fog. She brought you a brooch.’
‘She did,’ he agreed.
‘You still have the article?’
‘I do.’
‘May I see it?’
In reply, Tedeschi reached for a bell pull. From beneath our feet I heard a jangle and then footsteps on the spiral stair. A middle-aged assistant appeared.
‘You wish something, Signor Tedeschi?’
‘Open the safe,’ ordered the jeweller.
The man went to a steel safe in a corner and opened it as bid. Kneeling before it, he turned his head and looked at his employer.
‘The Benedict brooch,’ said Tedeschi.
The man brought over a rather worn blue velvet case and placed it reverently before the jeweller. Tedeschi nodded, and the man returned to the shop below.
I watched as Tedeschi opened the case, took out a brooch from it and placed it carefully in the centre of a square of black velvet laid on his desk. He put the case to one side and sat back, looking at me. When I hesitated, he gestured towards the brooch.
I leaned forward and studied it.
‘You wish a glass?’
I realised Tedeschi was offering me a jeweller’s magnifying eyeglass.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I am, alas, not well enough versed in gems to make good use of it. I take it these are real gems, and not paste?’
‘They are real gems, Inspector. Three small medium-quality rubies and one larger, very good stone. A ring of small diamonds, also of medium quality. Three small freshwater pearls. Excellent craftsmanship.’
‘Of your own workshop?’
A faint smile crossed the jeweller’s soft white countenance. ‘The brooch is at least sixty years old, or even a little more. I would say it was made shortly before eighteen hundred. After the establishment of the Directoire in France, in the seventeen nineties, Roman and Greek antiquity was very much in fashion. There is no assay stamp on the gold because it is not of British manufacture. I suspect it is Italian.’
I looked down at the thing. It was larger than I’d expected. An intricate net of woven gold strands formed a shape like a Grecian urn, which was ornamented with gems. Three small pearl drops were attached, one to the base and one either side where, if it had been an urn, there would have been handles or rings. The resulting impression was vaguely classical; some Italian admirer of the new French Republic had ordered this made for the lady of his affections. I hoped she’d liked it. It was a very fancy piece but not one that appealed to me.
‘I see in your face that you don’t care for it,’ Tedeschi observed. ‘It is old-fashioned.’
‘I can’t tell if it’s old or new in style,’ I admitted. ‘Mrs Benedict wanted a ring made of this? Could that be done?’
‘It could. It would mean destroying the piece.’
‘It would make a very good-sized ring,’ I murmured.
‘Yes, or even two rings,’ Tedeschi agreed, ‘or a ring and a pair of small earrings.’
‘Did you discuss the design of the ring, or rings, with Mrs Benedict?’
‘No, that was to be done at a later date.’ The jeweller’s voice was curt. His chest wheezed more audibly. He took out a lawn handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘So what will you do with it now?’
‘At a suitable moment,’ Tedeschi said, ‘I shall write
to Mr Benedict and ask him what he wishes done. But the time is not right.’ He paused. ‘He is in mourning. It would be inappropriate to ask him about it now.’
‘It would be even more distressing, perhaps,’ I said, ‘to tell him the real reason why his wife had brought you the brooch.’
The silence was broken only by the wheezing from the other man’s chest. Then Tedeschi said quietly, ‘There is no need. The lady brought me the brooch for it to be converted into something else. She was entitled to do so. The brooch is part of a collection of jewellery, family jewellery, which she inherited on the death of her mother. As her mother had died when Allegra was only twelve, her father kept it in safety for her until her marriage. When she became Mrs Benedict, the casket of jewellery was handed to her and she brought it to England. I doubt Mr Benedict has ever known exactly what it contained.’
‘So he would not miss one item?’
The jeweller sat very still. ‘Possibly,’ he admitted at last. ‘I hope you are not going to suggest that, in these unexpected circumstances, I would not return the item to Mr Benedict, simply because he doesn’t know I have it?’
‘Of course not, Signor Tedeschi. Any jeweller who trades in the Burlington Arcade has a reputation above reproach!’
Tedeschi inclined his head graciously at the vote of confidence.
But I was about to upset him again. ‘But possibly the true situation is somewhat different. You would not be obliged to return the brooch, let us say, if it belonged to you.’
Tedeschi twitched an eyebrow.
‘May I suggest that the story about the brooch being made into some other item of jewellery is a convenient fiction? The motives for it are of the best.You wish to protect the lady. I believe Mrs Benedict wished to sell the brooch. You bought it from her. A condition of the sale was that no one should know of it. In fact, any knowledge of it would really put the cat among the pigeons. Her husband would be horrified, furious.’
I gestured at it. ‘It is your property now and there’s no need for you ever to write to Mr Benedict about it. Am I right?’
Tedeschi tucked away the handkerchief and tugged at the bell cord. The assistant ran up the spiral staircase again, and was dispatched to fetch coffee.
As we waited, Tedeschi began to talk. ‘Let me tell you a story, Inspector. It concerns a beautiful young girl. And she was, believe me, a great beauty. Please don’t think me impertinent in my observations. I knew Allegra from babyhood. Her father Stefano was my old friend. He was very worried what would become of her should he die. He was not a young man. There was no suitable relative to whom he could turn in Italy. When Benedict made an offer for her hand, Stefano was delighted. He trusted Benedict. He knew his daughter would have a comfortable life.’
‘But she wasn’t happy here in England,’ I suggested.
He shook his head and sighed. ‘No, she was not happy. She didn’t complain. But she liked to come here and talk to me about her childhood, her father, the family home she’d left on the shore of Lake Garda. Benedict was a generous husband, please don’t doubt that. He liked to buy her presents, jewellery. He bought several expensive items here, in my shop. He liked to see her wearing his gifts. He did not want to see her wearing her mother’s jewels or her grandmother’s. He was . . .’ Tedeschi waved a hand. ‘He was a little jealous, I think, a little possessive. That, I believe, is why he did not give her a great deal of “pin money”, isn’t that what you call it? He paid all her bills, dressmaker and so forth, without a murmur. But he wanted to be the one to pay. He wanted her to depend on him.’
The coffee arrived and there was a short break in our conversation. I thought I understood exactly what Tedeschi meant. It tied in perfectly with the impression I had had of Benedict and his attitude towards his young wife, and also with what Henderson, the maid, had told me.
‘She had no fortune of her own, apart from the jewellery?’ I asked. ‘No dowry or inheritance from her father? The family property you mention on Lake Garda? What of that?’
‘Oh, there was a little money, but not a great deal.’ Unexpectedly Tedeschi chuckled. ‘My dear friend Stefano liked to live well: fine wine, fine dinners, to spoil his daughter, to make merry with his friends . . . There was not much money, no. The house was sold on his death to pay his debts. Allegra’s husband took charge of what inheritance there was; and invested it on her behalf. He controls it. The law in England does not protect married women well in such matters. She has – had – no access to it without his permission. No independence, you understand.’
I did understand. ‘You had bought items of her mother’s jewellery from Allegra before?’
‘On two or three occasions,’ Tedeschi admitted. ‘A string of pearls and, I recall, a hair ornament. Neither was of great value.’
‘And on last Saturday you bought this brooch?’
Tedeschi nodded. ‘This . . .’ he gestured at the brooch on its velvet bed. ‘This is of greater value than either of the other pieces. She expressed some urgency about its sale. I was a little concerned for her.’
‘She didn’t tell you what she wanted it for, I suppose?’ I could guess the reason. It had been destined, I had no doubt, for the same recipient who had benefited from Mrs Scott’s secretive sale of her painting. But I needed confirmation of the fact. However I was not to get it from Tedeschi.
He looked shocked. ‘No, and I could not ask her why she needed the money! That would have been highly indiscreet, impertinent. In any case, she would have not been obliged to reply.’
I was suitably chastened. ‘Of course, but how did she seem to you?’
He pursed his plump lips. ‘She seemed . . .’ he hesitated.
‘Worried?’ I prompted.
‘No, no!’ The jeweller leaned forward. ‘Not at all worried. Excited, perhaps.Yes, that’s the word. She seemed excited as if she were embarking on some adventure. I confess, I did suspect what form such an adventure might take.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I guessed a bel ami, as the French so charmingly put it.’
Like a cat on hot bricks . . . Charlie Tubbs had called it. Tragic Allegra, rushing full of hope towards a dreadful death.
I tried to put emotion from my mind and asked briskly, ‘May I ask how much you paid her for it?’
Tedeschi told me. As when I learned from Angelis what Mrs Scott had been paid for her painting, I was left temporarily speechless.
‘Cash?’ I croaked at last.
‘Cash, Inspector.’
‘And she left these premises carrying this money?’
‘Yes. She put it into her bag, a little pink leather bag, suede.’ Tedeschi took out his handkerchief again and wiped his eyes. ‘I begged her to be careful, carrying such a sum. I feared some rogue might snatch her purse. I did not fear for her life.’
Elizabeth Martin Ross
The investigation into the death of poor Allegra Benedict was worrying Ben. He had given me a detailed description of George Angelis and of Francis Gray, and that evening he told me about his meeting with the jeweller, Tedeschi.
‘I feel I hold the pieces of a puzzle in my hand,’ he said, ‘but I can’t put it together, Lizzie.’
‘You will!’ I told him confidently. But he did not look reassured.
That night I woke up and lay, as I did by habit already, listening for the sound of Ben’s breathing on the pillows alongside me. But I heard nothing. I stretched out a hand. He was not there, the sheets cold. He must have got up and gone downstairs at least an hour earlier.
I slipped out of bed and lit a candle. With a shawl round my shoulders and candlestick in hand, I made my way cautiously downstairs. Ben was not in the kitchen so I peeped into the parlour.
The fire still burned low in the hearth; he must have added some coals to its dying embers. They glowed red and made the brass fire-irons and fender gleam like gold. The air was warm. Ben was slumped in his chair so still I thought he must have fallen asleep there. But he became aware of me and stirred, asking, ‘Lizzie? What are you d
oing?’
‘I might ask the same of you,’ I said. I went to put my candlestick on the mantelshelf. Its flame allowed me to see the face of the clock standing there. It was almost two o’clock.
‘Oh, Ben,’ I said. ‘You’ll be so tired in the morning.’
‘I think I fell asleep here for a while,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve been thinking over the case.’
‘Shall I make us some tea?’
‘No, no, Lizzie. There is no need for you to stay awake. Go back to bed.’
In answer I pulled up the little footstool and sat down on it by him. The fire rustled and sank down on itself as the underlying ashes compacted. A tiny red and purple flame flickered into life and was quenched.
