Dawn looked puzzled at this. “But why else would anybody want to hurt Jack?” she asked.
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Carmichael. “It happened in a rather bad neighborhood, you see.”
“Oh.” She sighed again and shook her head. “I’d always heard how dangerous London was,” she said, “but it’s different, actually living here. Lots of the time it seems quite ordinary, but then something happens to remind you … well, I expect you know all about that.”
Carmichael did, but he also knew her scant time in London could not possibly have bestowed on her the worldly wisdom she thought it had. If he was any judge, she was going to have difficulty with what he had to tell her next.
“So you didn’t hear from Jack on Tuesday at all?” he asked. “You had no plans to see him that evening?”
“No.” She frowned, her large eyes looking a little confused. “Did I forget a date we’d made?” she asked. “I’m usually very careful to write everything down …”
“I don’t think so,” answered Carmichael. “I only asked because the incident took place not far from your home. Down in Walworth is where Jack was found.”
As he had expected, she looked quite shocked. “He was shot?” she asked. “In Walworth? And you think it might have been a random crime?”
Carmichael spread his hands. “As of yet, we just don’t know,” he said.
But the worried frown did not leave her face. “I know he didn’t much care for the neighborhood,” she said, half to herself. “But it was so convenient, and the flat was so much bigger than the others I’d seen—I thought it seemed all right.”
Carmichael had every sympathy for her plight, but it was not his business to solve it, nor did he know of an answer offhand. Living in London was often a trade-off unless one was very wealthy.
“Tell me this,” he asked, “is it possible Jack might have decided to drop in on you for some reason?”
She looked doubtful. “He never has before,” she said. “I guess he could have, but I would have expected him to ring first before he came all that way. I mean, what if I were out?”
Carmichael nodded. “But you were at home on Tuesday?” he asked. “I mean, you would have been there if he had rung, or even dropped by?”
“Oh, yes, I was home all evening with my daughters. But we never heard from Jack.”
And that, thought Carmichael, was that.
He thanked her for her help, gave her Gibbons’s room number at the hospital, and escaped, feeling now as if he had wasted his time. His temper was not improved by finding Constable Lemmy waiting outside for him, his navy jumper liberally dusted with powdered sugar as if he had recently finished eating a donut.
“Why on earth didn’t you come in and find me?” growled Carmichael, striding away from the day-care center with Lemmy trailing in his wake.
Lemmy looked startled. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything, sir,” he answered.
“If you’d come straight here from the Yard,” retorted Carmichael, “you wouldn’t have had to worry about interrupting—you’d have been before me. Where the devil were you, anyway?”
Lemmy seemed more perplexed by this question than concerned over his superior’s annoyance. “I came straight along, sir,” he said. “Just as soon as I thought you could get here from Euston.”
Carmichael opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it again with a shake of his head. There was, he thought to himself, really no use in trying.
Unsure whether or not Colin James was fond of dogs, Bethancourt elected to leave Cerberus at home and duly presented himself, fortified by two cups of coffee, at James’s office by 12:20. Early enough, he hoped, not to interfere with lunch.
Having never before been in a private investigator’s office, Bethancourt was surprised to find it much resembled the office of a very well-to-do solicitor. The furniture was all solid oak, highly polished, and the carpet was an expensive, thick oriental. The usual shelves held books on art and jewels rather than tomes of law, and the paintings adorning the walls were more inspired than a law office’s prints, but these things only gave the atmosphere a different accent rather than changing it altogether.
James’s inner sanctum held his treasures. In pride of place hung a small Constable, and in one corner a small Degas sculpture stood on an eighteenth-century tea table.
James himself lounged behind an early Victorian twin pedestal desk, its mahogany surface burnished like satin. He rose to greet his guest and the two men shook hands, amiably taking each other’s measure.
“Sit, sit,” said James, motioning toward a leather-upholstered armchair. “Do you want a coffee or some tea or anything?”
Bethancourt, sitting as asked, declined this offer.
“So you’re young Gibbons’s friend,” said James, resuming his own seat behind the desk. “I was terribly sorry to hear he’d been seriously injured. How is he today, do you know?”
“He was asleep when I rang,” said Bethancourt, “but his mother said he was recovering well. I’ll be popping by there later.”
“Good, good,” said James. “I don’t mind telling you, I don’t look any too kindly on whoever was responsible for this. If it turns out to be connected to the Haverford case, I shall be most distressed.”
“It’s about that that I’ve come,” said Bethancourt. “Not being able to work on his own case is driving Jack loopy, the more so as he’s forgotten nearly all of Tuesday. We spoke of it yesterday and, in comparing notes, discovered that he had apparently come across something in the course of the day which changed his view of the case.”
“Did he indeed?” James was immediately alert.
“We believe so. It might not have any bearing on who shot him, but I thought it worth looking into to start with.”
James took a moment to ruminate before replying, his shrewd gray eyes considering Bethancourt as he did so.
“Did Gibbons tell you about the case?” he asked.
Bethancourt spread his hands. “He outlined it for me,” he answered. “A collection of valuable jewelry belonging to a recently deceased woman was stolen from her house in Southgate. Her heir and his wife discovered the theft.”
“That’s the bare bones of it,” said James. “Did he tell you that the jewelry itself was most extraordinary?”
“He said it was antique, inherited from a grandmother or great-grandmother,” replied Bethancourt.
This answer did not appear to satisfy James, who sighed.
“Did he tell you the grandmother in question was one of the most notorious actresses of belle epoche?” he asked.
“Really?” asked Bethancourt, immediately fascinated. “Who was she?”
“Evony St. Michel,” said James, and when Bethancourt let out a low whistle, he added in some surprise, “You’ve heard of her?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bethancourt. “She and Caroline Otero and Polaire and Lillie Langtry—not that I know a great deal about any of them, but my grandfather liked to tell stories of the old days, mostly culled from his father, who supposedly met Langtry. Didn’t Evony St. Michel used to wear her jewels onstage, or was that Caroline Otero?”
James looked gratified. “They both did,” he answered. He opened a leather-bound folder that lay on his desk and selected a photograph, which he then handed to Bethancourt. “That’s Evony in costume.”
Bethancourt examined the picture curiously. It portrayed a young, sloe-eyed woman who smiled flirtatiously at the camera. She was festooned in jewels and very little else, and the angles of her broad cheekbones suggested a Slavic descent.
“Exactly right,” said James when Bethancourt mentioned this. “She made her reputation in Paris, and Evony St. Michel was a stage name she adopted. She was actually born and raised in Kiev.” He consulted a sheet of paper from his folder. “Her real name was Ionna Hrushevsky—not really appropriate for a Parisian actress.”
“Doesn’t have a very romantic ring, no,” agreed Bethancourt, handing ba
ck the photograph. “So she was Miranda Haverford’s great-grandmother? It seems an odd relationship for a respectable English spinster. How did a Ukrainian actress in Paris end up here in England?”
“She married a respectable English button manufacturer.” James smiled slyly at Bethancourt’s startled expression. “Yes, it was a very peculiar way to end a most notorious career. Like to see the wedding photo?”
“I would indeed,” said Bethancourt, leaning forward to take the picture James plucked from his folder.
By the style of Evony’s wedding dress, the photograph had been taken around the turn of the century. She stood, stiff and proper, by her new husband’s side, her cloud of dark hair liberally adorned with pearls. The groom was the possessor of a fine walrus mustache, behind which he looked quite young and rather uncomfortable.
“She was somewhere in her forties there,” said James, “but she looks much younger. Charles Haverford was thirty-one when he married her, and by all accounts completely besotted. His friends and relations predicted she would ruin him, but in fact they did very well together. Apparently Evony became financially prudent in her old age, having learned from her own past mistakes, and never let Haverford spend too much money on her.”
“A happy ending, then,” said Bethancourt. “I take it they had a child?”
But James shook his head. “No, I imagine Evony was past that by the time of the marriage. But they did officially adopt one of her sister’s children, a son by the name of Michael.”
Bethancourt raised his eyebrows and James laughed heartily.
“You’re a quick one, aren’t you?” he said. “Yes, he is thought to be Evony’s own child, whom she had foisted off on her sister after giving birth. No one knows who his father was, although he seems to have been born during the period that Evony was the mistress of the Russian Grand Duke Alexander. But of course she was notoriously unfaithful—she may not have known herself who her son’s father was.” James tucked the wedding photograph away and began leafing through the others in the folder. “In any case,” he continued, “Grand Duke Alexander—whether he fathered Evony’s son or not—is the reason we’re all here now. He was an extremely generous man.”
James had withdrawn another photograph from the leather folder, which he now held out for Bethancourt to take. In it was pictured an elaborate necklace, mid-Victorian in style, whose centerpiece appeared to be an emerald of nine carats or so, accompanied by smaller emeralds and diamonds forming the pattern around it. A second photograph on the bottom half of the page showed an identical necklace, only this one used rubies instead of emeralds.
Something was ringing a dim bell in Bethancourt’s mind as he studied the gemstones. Glancing up, he met James’s gaze, which had an expectant air. He returned his attention to the photographs, frowning as his eye picked out details.
“These aren’t two different necklaces,” he said slowly.
“Hah!” said James, obviously pleased. “Then what are they?”
“I would imagine,” answered Bethancourt, “that this is an example of a necklace made from color-change gemstones.”
James was grinning broadly. “You’re as clever as Sergeant Gibbons,” he said, satisfaction in his tone. “Although he was somewhat hampered in his answer by never having heard of a color-change gemstone. What you’re looking at there are some of the famed Ural Mountain alexandrites.”
“Yes, of course,” said Bethancourt excitedly. “I remember now—the mine didn’t last long, but the jewels it produced were said to be extraordinary.” He glanced back at the photograph in his hands. “I’d forgotten they were red and green, though.”
“The Russian imperial colors,” supplied James. “In the beginning, alexandrite was only mined for royalty. It was a mark of special favor to be gifted with one; but then, Evony St. Michel was said to be the sort of woman to whom men gave special favors.”
Bethancourt was still looking at the necklace. “Which is which?” he asked. “I can’t tell from the picture.”
“You mean natural and artificial light?” said James. “Oh, the green’s the daylight, and the red electric light. This particular necklace is said to be of the very finest quality: a clear, deep green in daylight, and a rich purple-red under an electric lamp. The original appraiser’s assessment goes on about it at great length. The Haverfords used to lend it out for museum exhibits—I’ve got some of the clippings here—but Miranda Haverford refused all requests over the last few years. Possibly it was just too much bother as she got older.”
“Do you have a picture of her?” asked Bethancourt, handing back the one of the jewels.
“Of Miranda Haverford?” said James, surprised. “I think there’s one in one of the newspaper clippings … let’s see … yes, here it is.”
It was just a small, square headshot accompanying a much larger photo of the necklace itself, both in illustration of a review of a museum exhibit in Paris. The photograph showed a woman in her sixties with widely spaced eyes and just a hint of the broad cheekbones of her forebear. It was a studio photograph with nothing of the candid about it, but Bethancourt thought he could just see in those wide-spaced eyes and the tilt of the narrow lips a hint of intelligence and humor.
“Thank you,” he said, handing the clipping back.
“What did you want to see it for?” asked James, curiously. “Miranda Haverford has nothing to do with the case—there’s not the slightest doubt that she died naturally, of old age.”
Bethancourt smiled. “Well, they were her jewels, after all,” he said. “And Jack thought she sounded interesting. I’m interested in people,” he added. “It’s more or less why I like to hear about Jack’s cases.”
“Ah, yes,” said James, steepling his fingers and leaning them against his chin. “Do you mind my asking how you come to know Gibbons’s boss so well?”
Bethancourt was startled. “Detective Inspector Davies?” he asked. “I don’t know him—never met him.”
“No, I wasn’t referring to Davies,” said James. “I meant Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael—who, I gather, is thirsting for my blood for having placed his favorite sergeant in peril.”
“Really?” asked Bethancourt alertly. “And did you?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said James ruefully. “And I like to be aware when I’m taking risks. I’m not even sure that what happened to the sergeant has anything to do with the Haverford case. Frankly, it looked very much to me as if the robbery was just another example of thieves who check the obituaries regularly. It’s quite common, you know, a burglary at a house just after the occupants have died.”
“No,” sighed Bethancourt. “I didn’t know.”
“But you haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, about Chief Inspector Carmichael.” Bethancourt paused for a moment. In general, he liked to be as circumspect as possible about his involvement in any police matters, but he was a good judge of character and James struck him as a discreet man. And the investigator was, in any case, to a certain extent already in the police confidence. “Jack sometimes lets me tag along on some of his cases,” he said. “I’ve naturally met Chief Inspector Carmichael during the course of those investigations.”
James raised an eyebrow. “It’s absolutely none of my business,” he said, “but I must confess to a violent curiosity as to how you managed to pull that off.”
Bethancourt smiled deprecatingly. “My father was at school with the chief commissioner,” he said, inwardly sighing.
James laughed. He had a big hearty laugh, and Bethancourt found himself grinning in spite of himself.
“Not such a mystery after all then,” James said, recovering. He looked to the clock over the mantelpiece and began to tuck the photos back into the leather-bound folder. “There were, of course,” he said, “other jewels in the Haverford collection. In particular, a beautiful pair of ruby earrings, a Golconda diamond brooch, and a Colombian emerald ring and bracelet. Not to mention the pearls. I have the complete li
st, of course. Plus a little tract Miranda apparently wrote herself, trying to trace the various jewels to the men who had given them to Evony.”
“I’d like very much to see that, if it’s possible,” said Bethancourt, whose interest had been piqued by the story of the jewels.
James gave him a sharp glance. “It’s perfectly possible,” he answered. “Miss Haverford had several copies of it printed up. It will hardly have any bearing on what happened to Sergeant Gibbons, however—I don’t believe he’d even read it.”
“I know,” said Bethancourt, feeling faintly guilty for having let himself become distracted from the reason for his visit. “It just sounds interesting, that’s all.”
“I found it so,” admitted James. He set aside the folder and regarded his guest thoughtfully. “I’m trying a new restaurant for lunch,” he said. “I wonder if you would care to accompany me, and we could discuss the case further there.”
To this Bethancourt happily agreed and after James had instructed his secretary to add one to his reservation, James ushered him out.
7
The Pennycook Case
Upon returning to Scotland Yard, Carmichael cast about for an errand to send Constable Lemmy on in order to get the young man out of his hair, and belatedly remembered he had wanted to have the Scotland Yard security footage from Tuesday night examined for any sign that Gibbons had returned to the Yard after his pint with O’Leary. Lemmy accepted this task amicably, without the resentment that most aspiring detectives would have shown. Carmichael barely noticed. With the constable out of the way, he went off in search of O’Leary, only to find that Inspector Hollings had apparently laid claim to his own subordinate today, and had sent O’Leary off to investigate the Pennycook murder down in Walworth.
“And Hollings may be right at that,” said Carmichael to himself.
He paused thoughtfully, frowning. He had, during the course of yesterday, glanced over both the Pennycook case file and the report O’Leary had prepared on his conversation at the pub with Gibbons. But he found that he remembered little about either today. He was quite put out with himself.
Trick of the Mind Page 10
