Hannah stopped, frowning. Something was wrong; the woman’s face was chalk-white and against it circles of rouge glowed garishly like the cheeks of a Dutch doll. Hannah saw Monica gasp. Then she turned swiftly and, with Miss Tulip close behind her, began to edge her way rapidly through the crowd. Hannah craned to see where she was heading, and saw her push open the door of the ladies’ cloakroom.
Someone must have been taken ill, she thought: then, with sudden anxiety, looked for Lady Ursula, who was no longer sitting on the couch. Perhaps she’d been overcome by the heat?
In her turn, Hannah too started in the direction of the cloakroom, looking about her as she went, and to her relief caught sight of the old lady just ahead of her. She was shaking her wrist and holding it to her ear.
‘Have you any idea of the time, my dear?’ she asked as Hannah reached her. ‘My watch seems to have stopped.’
‘A quarter to eight,’ Hannah told her, thankful to find nothing wrong. ‘Is your husband calling for you?’
‘No, he’s in Steeple Bayliss this evening.’
Of course; the lectures at Melbray, which necessitated his absence from tomorrow’s governors’ meeting.
‘Then how are you getting home?’ Hannah asked. ‘If you need a lift —’
‘Not at all, my dear, thank you. Jenkins is coming for me at eight o’clock.’
Stupid of her to forget the Rudges’ chauffeur. ‘There’s a quarter of an hour to go, then, and it’s getting hotter and noisier by the minute. Would you like me —?’
She broke off at the sound of a handbell which Miss Tulip, still white-faced, was ringing frantically and which eventually cut through the hum of conversation until it tailed off uncertainly into silence. From the end of the room, Monica addressed the throng.
‘Ladies, I’m afraid something rather distressing has happened. Mrs Stacey-Blythe has mislaid her emerald and diamond ring; she took it off to wash her hands in the cloakroom and when she turned back after drying them, it had disappeared. The room was crowded at the time, and it’s possible one of you caught it up with your own things without noticing. I should be most grateful if those of you who’ve been to the cloakroom in the last five minutes could please check.’
There was a murmur of consternation and one or two women near Hannah obediently opened their handbags and searched inside.
‘Perhaps it was knocked to the floor and kicked under a basin?’ someone suggested.
Monica shook her head. ‘We’ve had a thorough search and there’s no sign of it.’
‘What about the attendant?’ asked someone else and, as Monica prepared to vouch for her staff, added hastily, ‘She might have seen something.’
‘Apparently not.’ Monica paused. ‘Have you all looked in your bags? Or pockets, if you have any? The ring could have caught on rough material if someone bent over it to look in the mirror.’
‘She’s clutching at straws,’ murmured someone behind Hannah.
A woman appeared at Monica’s side, her face distraught as she caught at her arm.
‘It’s no use beating about the bush,’ she said hysterically. ‘Someone’s taken it. They must have done. I insist you call the police immediately.’
There was a stunned silence, then an outbreak of indignant protest. Monica’s voice cut through it. ‘This is extremely embarrassing, ladies, but it seems I have no choice. I’m sure everything will be cleared up soon, but in the meantime I’d be grateful if you all remained here. There’s plenty of food and wine left, so do please help yourselves.’
Dilys, appearing at Hannah’s side, commented, ‘Poor Monica — what a thing to happen.’
‘It has to be a mistake,’ Hannah said positively. ‘It’s just not possible that anyone here —’
‘If the ring was taken, either deliberately or not,’ Dilys went on, ‘this could all be too late; several people have already left, and although they can be contacted, they’ll have had time to dispose of it.’
‘What’s so disturbing,’ Lady Ursula murmured, ‘is that it must be one of us. It’s not as though there have been gatecrashers; the doorman was most meticulous in admitting only those with invitations.’
Hannah said, ‘I’m going to see if there’s anything I can do.’
Monica was by this time surrounded by an angry throng, all complaining that their cars would be waiting for them and they had further engagements to go on to. Hannah went to her side.
‘Please, everyone — I’m sure you understand how difficult this is for Miss Tovey.’ Monica was known professionally by her unmarried name. ‘Your patience would be much appreciated. Perhaps some coffee might be a good idea?’
She turned to Monica, who nodded gratefully.
‘Thanks, Hannah. Could you ask a couple of the girls to see to it? The tearoom will have everything that’s required.’
Their better natures appealed to, most of the voluble ladies around Monica began to drift away and Hannah added quietly, ‘Is someone on the door?’
‘Yes, that was the first thing I saw to. But Hannah, most of these women are friends as well as customers. If they take offence —’
‘They won’t; when they’ve calmed down, they’ll see there’s nothing else you could have done. Have you sent for the police?’
‘Tulip’s doing it now. I just can’t believe this. The evening was going so well.’
She turned as the Honourable Mrs Stacey-Blythe reappeared.
‘I’ve been having another search,’ she announced, her voice shaking. ‘I keep telling myself it just has to be there, but it isn’t.’
‘Exactly what happened?’ Hannah asked her.
‘I took my ring off to wash my hands. I don’t usually bother, but one of the claws is jagged — I’ve been meaning to take it to the jeweller — and I didn’t want it to catch on the towel. I turned away for only a minute —’
‘Can you remember who was standing near you?’ Hannah inquired, aware of Monica’s startled glance.
‘No, it was pretty crowded. I’d been speaking to Mrs Ponsonby — she helped me look for it — but I didn’t know any of the other ladies.’
‘Would you recognise them?’
‘I shouldn’t think so, I didn’t pay any attention at the time.’
Hannah glanced at Monica’s worried face. ‘Well, the police will know what to do. I’ll go and see about that coffee.’
*
Inspector John Baker replaced the phone and went to the outer office. ‘I’ll need some WPCs to accompany me to Randall Tovey’s. A valuable ring has gone missing.’
‘At this hour, sir?’ queried Sergeant Thomson, glancing at the wall clock.
‘They’re having some kind of function. The gathering is predominately, if not entirely, female, and body searches will probably be necessary. How many women officers are on this shift?’
Thomson consulted the duty roster. ‘Penton, Crossley and Vane,’ he said.
‘Are they in the building?’
‘I’ll check, sir.’
‘I want them in the car park on the double. We might need back-up but we’ll see how it goes.’
‘If they’re at Randall Tovey’s, sir, they’re not going to be your usual type of villain,’ WPC Crossley ventured as they drove up Duke Street.
‘Which means a great deal of tact will be necessary. Nonetheless, if this ring has been nicked and not just mislaid, one of them at least is no better than she should be.’
‘Definitely “she”, sir?’ queried Vicky Penton from the back seat.
‘Definitely “she”. It was nicked from the ladies’ loo.’
They turned the corner into East Parade and immediately came upon a long line of cars drawn up at the kerb as impatient husbands awaited their inexplicably detained wives. Opposite the brightly lit entrance to the store, three wooden chairs had been placed to reserve a space, and as the police car approached, a uniformed doorman came forward and moved them. Baker slid into position.
Mrs Latimer was awaiting them in t
he foyer, pale but composed. Baker knew her from the magistrates’ court, where she sat on the bench. She recognised him, and came quickly forward.
‘Oh, Inspector, thank goodness you’re here. This is all most embarrassing.’
‘Has anyone left the building, ma’am?’
‘One or two, before the ring was missed.’
‘And none since?’
‘No, but they’re getting very restive.’
‘Those that left, how long was it before the discovery of the theft?’
Mrs Latimer turned to the doorman. ‘Frank?’
‘A couple of ladies left together about half an hour ago, ma’am, and two others separately only a minute or two before you sent down and told me no one else was to go.’
‘Any way of identifying these ladies, particularly the last two?’
The doorman shrugged helplessly.
‘Do you remember what they were wearing, Frank?’ Monica turned to Baker with a quick smile. ‘Frank has instructions from his wife to report on people’s clothes.’
‘Well, Miss Monica, I do recall the last two. One was all in pink — I remember thinking she looked like Barbara Cartland — and the other in navy and yellow, with gold buttons.’
Monica nodded swiftly. ‘I think I can identify them, if the need arises.’
Baker reasserted himself. ‘Now, ma’am, how many ladies are up there?’
‘About seventy.’
‘Well, I’ll come up and have a general word with them, take a look at the scene and so on. Then, I’m afraid, we shall have to search everyone.’
Monica’s eyes widened. ‘But Inspector, you can’t! The Duchess of Hampshire and her daughter are here, and several other titled ladies. Whatever —’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Latimer, we have no choice.’
‘But surely you need only search those who were in the cloakroom at the time?’
‘It was crowded, I understand. The thief, if thief there be, might not admit to being there. Now’ — as she started to protest again — ‘shall we make a start?’
*
That evening was one of the longest Hannah could remember. The excited talk that had broken out after the inspector explained the procedure had given way to anxiety about the length of time required to search everyone, quite apart from the indignity of it.
There was a moment of drama when one middle-aged woman fainted, causing the uncharitable suspicion that it might be a ruse to avoid being searched. Lady Ursula, whose chauffeur was no doubt in the long line outside, bore up reasonably well despite her air of frailty. Chairs had been brought from downstairs to implement the sofas that furnished this upstairs showroom, and there were seats for all who wanted them.
Having taken the police back downstairs, Monica showed them into the tearoom and watched while they organised themselves at a couple of the tables. At their request, she’d already furnished them with a copy of the guest-list, which she assumed would be ticked off as, one after another, the ladies submitted to the search.
‘What exactly will be involved, Inspector?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Don’t worry, ma’am, it won’t be an intimate search. The ladies will simply be asked to empty their pockets and hand-bags on to the table and to unfasten their bras, which, as you’ll appreciate, would be a convenient hiding place. They’ll be asked whether they used the cloakroom this evening, and if so at what time and who else was there. Then one of the woman officers will quickly pat their bodies like when you go through security control at the airport.’
‘You might as well start with me, then,’ Monica said. She’d no handbag with her, and no pockets in her two-piece, but one of the constables ran her hands over her body, and she unfastened her brassiere and as requested jumped up and down. Then, with heightened colour, she walked over to the screen which concealed the entrance to the kitchen.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘that last part would be less embarrassing if performed privately.’ And she moved the screen to cover a corner of the room.
The inspector nodded impassively. ‘Now, Mrs Latimer, if you’d kindly get them organised upstairs, we can make a start.’
The first to appear was a middle-aged lady with protuberant eyes and a large, tightly corseted body, who fixed Baker with an icy glare and stated, ‘Young man, I might as well tell you I have no intention of being put through this indignity.’
A good start. ‘I understand your feelings, madam, but I’m sure you realise —’
‘If it’s any of your business, I did not go near the cloakroom all evening. I demand to be allowed to leave at once.’
Baker sighed. ‘I was hoping not to have to mention this, madam, but normal procedure is that anyone refusing to be searched is arrested on suspicion.’
‘Arrested?’ Baker thought for a moment the woman was about to have a stroke. Her face suffused with colour and she seemed to have difficulty breathing. ‘Young man,’ she spluttered at last, ‘do you know who I am?’
‘No, madam, though I appreciate there are some very eminent ladies present, and I greatly regret —’
‘My name,’ she stated, drawing herself up and glaring at him, ‘is Lady Soames.’ She paused. ‘Did you hear that, young man? Soames. My husband is the Chief Constable.’
Baker closed his eyes briefly. ‘I’m sure, madam, that he would be proud of the example you’re setting.’
‘Humph!’
So much for his chances of promotion, Baker thought bleakly. But to his surprise Lady Soames up-ended her handbag on the table without further urging, and produced a lace handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt. He nodded in answer to Vane’s anxious glance, and the WPC conducted her behind the screen for the frisking.
‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied,’ Lady Soames commented as she emerged, and, retrieving her handbag, she sailed majestically from the room.
‘After that,’ Sue Crossley said with feeling, ‘the Duchess will be a doddle!’
*
The staff were the last to be seen, by which time it was after eleven. There were a dozen of them, including the weird old bird who’d made the phone-call, who gave her name as Hermione Tulip. Well into her seventies, her heavy makeup was of theatrical proportions but her hair, silver-grey, was smartly if severely cut and she stood tall and straight in an impeccable black suit. She was, Baker gathered, the linchpin of the establishment and appeared if anything more upset by the evening’s occurrences than Mrs Latimer herself.
The models who’d taken part in the parade had, Baker gathered, left immediately afterwards and were therefore of no interest. Of the rest, the cloakroom attendant, one Daisy Phillips, was inclined to be tearful, convinced that suspicion lay heavily on her despite repeated assurances to the contrary. She knew the regular customers, and named several who had been in the cloakroom around the crucial time, which Sue Crossley checked against the relevant statements.
There were three waitresses, normally employed in the tearoom but brought in to take round the wine, and four sales assistants who had helped dress the models and stayed on to book fittings if required. And last came the three members of the catering firm, Home Cooking, who had provided the food for the evening.
In view of the eminence of the clientele, Baker was inclined to regard the staff as the most likely culprits. However, Monica assured him that apart from Mrs Phillips, who was on duty, they used the staff facilities and would not have gone near the first-floor cloakroom.
And when even they had been allowed to leave, there were the entire premises to be searched, for which Baker had requested back-up. When the culprit had heard the police were coming, her first instinct would have been to dispose of the ring, probably in the hope of reclaiming it later. The long showroom offered dozens of hiding-places, each of which must be searched out and examined.
It might also, he reflected, be worth SOCO’s having a look at the cloakroom, though unless they proposed to fingerprint the entire gathering — which heaven forfend, Baker thought tiredly — he could
n’t see that much good would come of it.
While the search took place above and around him, he sat in the tearoom, accepted his umpteenth cup of coffee, and read through the list of statements which Vicky Penton had laboriously written down. The cream of Broadshire society, no less, but apart from Lady Soames no one had objected to their questioning. Nor, not unnaturally, had anyone admitted the crime. So where was the blasted ring, for heaven’s sake? It seemed that one of those rich, highly bred ladies had after all had the last laugh.
7
Webb learned of the evening’s events on his arrival at Carrington Street the next morning, where it was the main topic of conversation and where Baker’s confrontation with the Chief Constable’s wife had been recounted with more glee than accuracy, growing in unlikeliness with each repetition.
‘She’s a battle-axe all right, Lady Soames,’ Webb acknowledged with a grin. ‘Poor John — I shouldn’t have liked to be on the receiving end.’
‘His only consolation was that she kept calling him “young man”!’ Crombie said. ‘Naturally the press are having a ball. With all those big names, who can blame them? Jack says they’re even asking if there could be a connection with the country house break-ins.’ Jack Williams was the press liaison officer.
‘For Pete’s sake!’ Webb exclaimed. ‘At this rate, they’ll be looking for connections every time a kid nicks a Mars Bar! It’s obvious this was an opportunist crime and the villain a woman. What possible link could there be?’
‘But all those nobs, Dave! It makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m glad it’s not our pigeon, I can tell you that,’ Webb commented and returned to his work.
*
Helen’s chance came at lunch-time, when she spied Sir Clifford ahead of her in the lobby, for once unaccompanied. She quickened her step and touched his arm.
‘Sir Clifford, could you spare me a moment?’
He smiled down at her. ‘Of course, my dear. Let me buy you a drink. We lecturers have the use of a private bar — it will be easier to talk there.’
He led her into a small room off the hall, with large windows looking over the gardens at the side of the house. There were comfortable chairs and a glass and chrome bar in one corner. Two or three ladies were already seated at a table; in addition to their own group, a one-day seminar on lace-making was being held that day.
The Seven Stars Page 8
