A Collar of Jewels

by Pamela Pope

  He downed another glass of whisky and tried to concentrate on the conversation around him.

  ‘Who’d work for Court Carriages? No one with any sense,’ scoffed a red-faced man in a cloth cap.

  ‘Heard tell they’ll be painting bloody posies on the sides of goods wagons next.’ A roar of laughter greeted this scurrility. The speaker teetered against the bar and basked in his success. ‘Posies the lot of ’em at CCW — eh, fellers.’

  ‘Give ’em a year more,’ said another, ‘and they’ll be under Eastleigh management. Everyone knows they can’t match us for workmanship.’

  It hadn’t occurred to Oliver that he was drinking with Eastleigh men. He hadn’t seen them arrive from the train. By now he had consumed enough to have reached an aggressive stage, and he staggered to his feet.

  ‘Shut your bloody mouths, the lot o’ you,’ he shouted, in his thickest Irish accent. ‘Bastards! Scum, so you are! Courts wouldn’t employ a man of you.’

  Shouting broke out. Oliver stood alone to fight for the honour of his company, but he was recognised as having been involved in the incident outside the West Quay Tavern, and all hell broke loose.

  ‘It’s the bugger who used his fists the other night,’ the cloth-capped man yelled.

  Oliver wasn’t intimidated. He raised his voice above the rest to defend himself and wouldn’t be silenced.

  ‘Court Carriages will still be here when Eastleigh is buried under its own scrap iron,’ he bawled.

  ‘Who are you to talk such bloody rot?’

  ‘I control Court Carriages Works,’ shouted Oliver. ‘As from today I’m the major shareholder, and I swear there’ll not be better rolling-stock built anywhere in Europe, so there won’t.’

  ‘Any Works run by the likes of you is doomed for a start.’

  The battle of words degenerated into another scuffle. Suddenly, Oliver was desperate to get out of the claustrophobic atmosphere, but the men hemmed him in, and the wall of resistance grew more menacing. He was completely outnumbered. No one from Court Carriages was there to take his side, and the stupidity of his bravado finally dawned upon him. Fear now brought an ice-cold paralysis to his limbs, yet he was sweating profusely.

  It was then he caught sight of a familiar face reflected in the mirror behind the bar.

  *

  The hatred that Julian felt for Oliver Devlin bore no comparison to any emotion he had ever felt in his life before. It seemed now as if the devil himself had made an offer too good to refuse when Court Carriages had faced ruin after the failure of Mr Kendall to invest money. Devlin had come in the guise of good fortune, but he had been satanic in his drive for power once the door was opened to him. Julian had seen his men being swept along by new ideas, veering away from the tradition set by Millicent’s father, and though the profits had soared he couldn’t claim any credit.

  The Board had proposed that Julian should concentrate exclusively on orders from heads of state and high office. Admittedly he’d had a great success with the Ezbanian train, but financially it had been close to disaster, since Ezbania had subsequently suffered a drop in its currency value and most of the bill was still outstanding. A few orders had come about through the publicity worldwide, but not enough to keep the company running, and Julian had ungraciously accepted that without the repair shop and wagon construction, there would have been the possibility of bankruptcy.

  If there had been any rapport between himself and Devlin perhaps the matter could have been resolved and an understanding reached, but as it was, the thought of acknowledging his partner’s superior business acumen stuck in Julian Cromer’s throat. He recognised his own jealousy and was ashamed of it, but the realisation didn’t alter the way he felt. He resented the man more every day, until dislike became hatred, and hatred made his temper rise to near boiling point.

  All might have stayed calm if Ellie hadn’t been involved. Ellie was the flame capable of torching the fragile link between these two men of totally opposing character. She was the essence of femininity, yet as intelligent as either of them, and antagonism spilt over into a mutual craving for this woman who could belong to neither. Julian adored her. She was everything Millicent was not, and he desired her to the point of recklessness. The affair in London had shown him the result of such impatience, but he couldn’t help himself. And every time he saw Devlin near her he felt sick.

  Now had come the final humiliation. How could the Irish bastard have contrived to acquire a majority holding without wind of it reaching Julian’s ears? He’d made a furious telephone call to his solicitor with no satisfaction. The deal had been so quietly done there’d been no leakage of information until after the signing, and shares which Julian had believed would remain in the widow’s possession had changed hands in sly secrecy.

  His hatred boiled over. He couldn’t stay at home, even though his wife had invited Hans and Clara Gottmann to dinner. First this other matter had to be challenged. There was a lot more to be said, more proof required that the outcome was legally correct before he would finally accept Devlin’s claim. He suspected fraud, and if he could prove it he would get rid of the usurper once and for all. Prison was too good for him. He’d have him deported to Ireland where he could sink in his own rotten bogs.

  Julian set out that evening with the intention of going through Devlin’s books, but as he approached the Works he saw the Irishman leaving with a distinctly suspicious air. He was hurrying as if a demon were after him, and Julian, intrigued, followed to observe him at a safe distance. Along to Above Bar, through the Bargate and down the High Street he scurried, as furtive as a thief, and only his red hair enabled Julian to keep him in sight as he mingled with the crowd. The street was jammed with carriages and wagons making for the Town Quay, and horse-droppings had been trodden onto the pavement, making it so slippery he almost tumbled. Then Oliver Devlin entered the Sun Hotel.

  There were so many people crowding in the bar it wasn’t difficult to stay out of sight. Someone thrust a tankard of beer in Julian’s hand, and though he would never normally partake of the vulgar drink he held onto it as reason for his presence. He witnessed his prey quickly becoming loquacious, and edged as close as he dared, to listen. To his consternation he discovered that most of the crowd drinking with Devlin comprised railmen who had come down from Eastleigh.

  This was a new development — something completely beyond all the previous problems which had threatened Julian’s control of his company. He’d believed Oliver’s meddling and plotting to be centred internally, but here was proof the treachery extended beyond that. Devlin was courting the opposition, and there could only be one reason for doing it. He wanted amalgamation and eventual control himself of the Eastleigh Works as well.

  Julian’s fury rose to a crazed height which robbed him of any further rational thought. He no longer concealed himself on the edge of the crowd, but pushed forward with the strength of Goliath, the need to put a stop to the traitor’s scheming uppermost in his mind.

  A barman had been opening a box containing a fresh supply of glasses. The knife he had used was lying on the corner of the bar. Julian’s gloved hand closed round the handle and gripped it hard. He saw his enemy passionately involved in a scene which smelt of violence, but his ears were deaf to the cause. Rage blinded him, so he didn’t see Devlin glance in the mirror and recognise him with what seemed to be a look of thankfulness.

  Julian used the knife with uncontrollable fury at the very moment a blow was levelled at the Irishman’s chin which sent him reeling backwards into the crowd; the blade embedded itself in his spleen. He would have collapsed on the floor if the crush around him hadn’t supported his body for several minutes.

  In horror at what he had done, Julian backed away and managed to reach the door unobserved while attention was focused on the terrible scene. Amazingly, there had been so many people compressed together it would have been impossible to see whose hand had used the weapon. With a bit more luck he would get awa
y with it.

  He reached the street and took a gulping breath to calm himself and rid his lungs of the smoke. The festive crowd milling around him sang patriotic songs, and arms were linked as men, women and children danced on this night for temporarily forgetting life’s cares.

  Julian Cromer was jeered as he thrust the merrymakers aside, but he heard nothing except the clamour within his own head as he set about fleeing as far as possible, as quickly as possible, from the place where Oliver Devlin’s life-blood was draining away …

  Seventeen

  That same evening, Max took the Western Esplanade route to the Town Quay. He, too, got caught up in the throng, and as he was a stranger to the town he could only go along with it. Children were climbing over the Stella Memorial and played around the Russian cannons along the front which had been fired earlier in celebration of the Jubilee. Isle of Wight steamers sporting bunting were tied up at the Royal Pier, and he could hear music coming from the bandstand and the pavilion, but these distractions which beckoned the revellers were not for him.

  He stood by the pier entrance for several minutes, depressed by the futility of looking for Oliver amidst such crowds. It would be almost impossible to find him. Nevertheless he didn’t intend to give up, so he walked on further. There were plenty of beerhouses and pubs at the corner of the High Street. He would start with those.

  It was about a quarter of an hour later that he was pushed by a man in an elegant grey suit emerging from the Sun Hotel, and he was struck by his manner. Even on an evening such as this the gent looked out of his province. The Sun had no appeal. Advertisements for wines and spirits, lead glass and rope adorned the white-washed wails, and the raucous sounds from within came from working-class voices.

  But it was not merely the man’s elegance which attracted Max’s attention. It was the haunted look which gave his light-coloured eyes a piercing wideness, as if he had just witnessed something unspeakable. A second later he was gone, lost in the multitude, and the encounter slipped to the back of Max’s memory.

  He was about to move on when he noticed that an uncanny silence had descended on the hotel, but even as he paused, the silence was replaced by a different clamouring, an urgent blending of voices. A man in a striped jacket dashed out.

  ‘Find a doctor,’ he cried. ‘Where’s there a doctor? A bloke’s been knifed!’

  Max was not a medical man, but during the Pullman strike he had gained enough knowledge of first aid to help in an emergency. He forced his way through the door and edged between the crowd of men with their backs towards him, gaining access to the long bench where the victim had been laid. Amidst the shouting and arguing, the landlord was appealing for calm.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said the man nearest. ‘Ain’t no use going for help.’

  ‘Bloody big-mouth Irishman,’ another muttered. ‘Deserved what he got.’

  ‘Who did it?’ someone else demanded. ‘By hell, I never saw anything happen quicker.’

  The questions and recriminations increased in volume as Max looked down in horror at the body of his brother-in-law, Oliver Devlin.

  *

  The death of a senior director of Court carriages in a celebration-evening brawl at the Sun Hotel was the talk of Southampton the next day. Eastleigh men were questioned for hours by the police, but none would confess to having used the knife which caused the fatal wound. No one had seen it used. It was a mystery which the newspapers claimed was a vow of silence to protect the guilty, but as the majority present at the time of the killing had been the worse for drink, it was deemed unlikely that the truth would ever be known.

  Ellie Berman heard of the tragedy soon after it happened. William had been disappointed at not seeing the fireworks at Portsmouth and she’d promised to read to him after Nanny Simmons had settled him in bed, but before she could go up to his room a policeman came to the house, asking for Oliver Devlin’s next-of-kin. The terrible news he brought drained Ellie’s face of all colour and she went to Grandfather Cromer’s room instead, as if in a trance.

  ‘Max murdered him,’ she said, her voice tight and toneless. ‘Max has killed Oliver.’ Then as the fact sank in she let out a cry. ‘Oh my God, what’s going to happen next?’

  It took the old man several minutes to quieten her. She sobbed in his arms, repeating garbled questions.

  ‘You don’t know that’s what happened,’ her grandfather said, stroking her hair with his gnarled hand. ‘A crowd under the influence of drink can become mindless — I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Max went after him and he was in a killing mood.’

  ‘No, child. He was angry, but not that. He didn’t strike me as a killing sort.’

  ‘A man who can desert his wife and child the way he did is capable of anything.’

  ‘I’ve dealt with a lot of men in my time and I’m a fair judge of character. Max may have let you down but I’d say he’s suffered for it and come out stronger. Don’t go condemning him before he can defend himself’

  ‘You’re excusing him!’

  ‘No, I’m repeating he’s no murderer.’

  She thought about it for a minute and conceded that he was probably right. Whatever else Max was guilty of, surely he wouldn’t take another man’s life, and certainly not that of his brother-in-law. But she wouldn’t allow that he was blameless.

  ‘They say Oliver was drunk,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t like him. Max must have had something to do with it.’

  ‘Perhaps — who’s to know?’

  Events were moving too fast for her. She hadn’t been able to absorb the completely unexpected return of her husband before having to face this new and even more terrible trauma.

  ‘What am I going to do, Grandfather? I can’t take it in,’

  ‘You’ve got guts, child. Nothing beats you.’

  But it was going to take more than guts to come to terms with all these new developments.

  She had loved Oliver. Oh, not the way she had once loved Max — she would never again be foolish enough to love like that — but Oliver had earned a special place in her heart with his seeming generosity and understanding. Even now she was still not completely convinced of his duplicity. Not once in three years had he given her grounds to be suspicious of his wealth. And now he couldn’t answer for himself.

  She couldn’t think straight. If Max was to be believed, Oliver, whose kindness she had accepted as a declaration of love, had been deceiving her from the moment he had appeared as her saviour on the quayside the day Max had sailed out of her life. Had he really been greedy, selfish, heartless, and clever? Whatever else he had done, he could never have been accused of neglect. Oliver, with his Irish charm, had looked after her. He had cared for William and Grandfather as if they were his own family. If he had embezzled her money she could never say that he’d been wholly wicked, for though it had changed his own life he had used it to improve hers also. She had often wondered where she would be now if Grandfather Cromer had been able to get his hands on it.

  Max returned not long after the policeman had left. One look at him was enough to tell that he was deeply upset, but Ellie was not yet prepared to retract her suspicions. She came into the room where they had so recently exchanged bitter words, but offered no greeting.

  ‘I’ve heard about Oliver,’ she said. ‘Were you the last to see him? What did you say to him?’

  ‘I didn’t have the chance to say anything. He wasn’t at the house and he’d left the office —’ he stopped abruptly, his expression changing. ‘Ellie, you can’t be blaming me!’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? Oh, I don’t think you killed him, though it did cross my mind at first. Grandfather talked me out of it.’

  ‘Oliver was like a true brother. What he did to you was partly my fault, so how could I have loved him any the less? Oh, I admit I was angry, but I would never have killed him.’ He rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘I found him too late. He was already dead when I got to the place where he’d been dr
inking. I’ll never forget it, seeing him lying there.’

  He was so genuinely affected that tears sprang to Ellie’s eyes. Two steps separated them as she crossed the barrier to briefly put her arms round his shoulders with an urge to share their mutual grief. The feel of him was so powerfully evocative she gave a little groan, but when he returned the affectionate gesture she hastily retreated.

  They talked for a time, debating the tragedy but unable to find a single valid reason for it. Oliver had been well-liked at the Works. To Ellie’s knowledge no one had borne him a grudge. The only possible solution was that he had again antagonised the Eastleigh men with his vociferous Irish talk, and maybe one of them the worse for drink had acted on impulse.

  ‘I don’t believe it was premeditated,’ said Max. ‘Every man there was scared.’

  She acknowledged the conclusion with a weary inclination of her head. The effect of Oliver’s death was taking its toll and she was desperately tired. So much had happened since yesterday she could hardly believe it was only a short time ago that she and William had been enjoying a happy day in Portsmouth.

  There was a commotion out in the hall and William could be heard thumping downstairs in defiance of Nanny Simmons’s command to return at once to his room. The boy had a temper, and even at three years old he could exert his will.

  ‘Mama said she would read to me,’ he was shouting. ‘I want to see Mama.’

  Ellie went to the door, and as he rushed into her arms his little pyjama-clad body was warm and wriggling like an excited puppy’s. He scolded her as he hugged her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, madam,’ his nanny apologised. ‘I just couldn’t keep him quiet any longer.’