CONTENTS
The Attenbury Emeralds
By Jill Paton Walsh and Dorothy L. Sayers
Imprint Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
The Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
The Attenbury Emeralds
Jill Paton Walsh
www.hodder.co.uk
By Jill Paton Walsh and Dorothy L. Sayers
A Presumption of Death
By Dorothy L. Sayers and Jill Paton Walsh
Thrones, Dominations
Detective Stories by Jill Paton Walsh
The Wyndham Case
A Piece of Justice
Debts of Dishonour
The Bad Quarto
Detective Stories by Dorothy L. Sayers
Busman’s Honeymoon
Clouds of Witness
The Documents in the Case (with Robert Eustace)
Five Red Herrings
Gaudy Night
Hangman’s Holiday
Have His Carcase
In the Teeth of the Evidence
Lord Peter Views the Body
Murder Must Advertise
The Nine Tailors
Striding Folly
Strong Poison
Unnatural Death
The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club
Whose Body?
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2010 by Jill Paton Walsh and the Trustees of Anthony Fleming, deceased
The right of Jill Paton Walsh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been
asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher,
nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Epub ISBN 9781848944664
Book ISBN 9780340995723
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
For Judith Vidal-Hall,
With gratitude for many years of friendship
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following for help in the writing of this novel. First the trustees of Dorothy L. Sayers, for allowing the use of her characters; Anne Louise Luthi for lending me books about jewellery and putting me in touch with Diana Scarisbrick and Judith Kilby-Hunt who generously advised me on the subject of heirloom jewels. To Mr Christopher Dean I am particularly indebted for making available to me his dramatic transcript of the proceedings of the trial of the Marchioness of Writtle; my account of that trial is substantially derived from his. Phyllis James made a very fruitful suggestion to me about the line of the plot. Sir Nicholas Barrington found and translated for me at a moment’s notice the lines from the Persian poet Hafez which are used in the narrative. The fate of Bredon Hall is modelled on the fate of the Manor House at Hemingford Grey. I have constantly consulted Stephen P. Clarke’s Lord Peter Wimsey Companion, and have enjoyed the support and encouragement of Dr Barbara Reynolds and of Mr Bruce Hunter.
As always my debt to my husband is beyond acknowledgement and I offer him my heartfelt thanks.
JPW October 2009
The Characters
(in order of appearance)
Lord Peter Wimsey
Harriet, Lady Peter Wimsey, née Harriet Vane: his wife
Arthur Abcock, Earl of Attenbury: a recently deceased peer
Mervyn Bunter: Lord Peter’s manservant
Honoria, Dowager Duchess of Denver: Lord Peter’s mother
Lady Charlotte Abcock: daughter of Lord Attenbury
Gerald, Duke of Denver: Lord Peter’s brother
Helen, Duchess of Denver: the Duke’s wife
Roland, Lord Abcock: eldest son of the Earl of Attenbury
Bredon Wimsey: Lord Peter Wimsey’s eldest son
Peter Bunter: son of Mervyn Bunter
Hope Bunter: wife of Mervyn Bunter
Paul Wimsey: middle son of Lord Peter Wimsey
Roger Wimsey: youngest son of Lord Peter Wimsey
Claire, Lady Attenbury: wife of the Earl of Attenbury
Lady Diana Abcock: her middle daughter
Lady Ottalie Abcock: her youngest daughter
Captain Ansel: an army friend of Lord Abcock, guest at Fennybrook Hall
Mrs Ansel: his wife
Mrs Sylvester-Quicke: guest at Fennybrook Hall
Miss Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke: her daughter
Reginald Northerby: Lady Charlotte’s fiancé
Freddy Arbuthnot: guest at Fennybrook Hall
Sir Algernon Pender: guest at Fennybrook Hall
Lady Pender: his wife
Mrs Ethel DuBerris: a widow, guest at Fennybrook Hall
Ada DuBerris: her daughter
Inspector Sugg: a policeman from Scotland Yard
Nandine Osmanthus: an emissary from the Maharaja of Sinorabad
Mr Whitehead: an employee of Cavenor’s Bank
William DuBerris: deceased nephew of Lady Attenbury and husband of Mrs DuBerris
Jeannette: Lady Charlotte’s maid
Sarah: Lady Attenbury’s maid
Sergeant Charles Parker: a policeman from Scotland Yard
Harris: Lord Attenbury’s butler
Salcombe Hardy: a journalist
Constable Johnson: a policeman
Mr Handley: a pawnbroker
Mr Handley’s son: who unexpectedly inherits his father’s business
The Marquess of Writtle: husband of Lady Diana Abcock
The Lord Chancellor
Sir Impey Biggs: a distinguished barrister
Mrs Prout: a cleaner at the House of Lords
Edward Abcock, Lord Attenbury: grandson and heir of Arthur, Lord Attenbury; son of Lord Abcock
Mr Snader: a director of Cavenor’s Bank
Mr Tipotenios: a mysterious stranger
Mr Orson: an employee of Cavenor’s Bank
Miss Pevenor: a historian of jewellery
Lady Sylvia Abcock: widow of Roland, Lord Abcock
Frank Morney: husband of Lady Charlotte Abcock
Captain Rannerson: owner of the horse Red Fort
Lady Mary Parker: wife of Commander Charles Parker of Scotland Yard and sister of Lord Peter Wimsey
Verity Abcock: daughter of Lord Abcock and Lady Sylvia Abcock
Lily: an ayah
Joyce and Susie: workers at the Coventry Street mortuary in 1941
&
nbsp; Mrs Trapps: cook in the London House
Rita Patel: volunteer at the mortuary
Mrs Smith: a visitor to the mortuary
Miss Smith: her daughter
The Maharaja of Sinorabad
Franklin: maid to the Dowager Duchess of Denver
Thomas: butler at Duke’s Denver
Dr Fakenham: physician to Duke’s Denver
Cornelia Vanderhuysen: American friend of the Dowager Duchess
Jim Jackson: gardener at Duke’s Denver
Bob: another gardener
James Vaud: a London detective inspector
Mr Van der Helm: a retired insurance valuer
Mr Bird: a retired insurance company owner
Mrs Farley: housekeeper at Duke’s Denver
Chapter 1
‘Peter?’ said Lady Peter Wimsey to her lord. ‘What were the Attenbury emeralds?’
Lord Peter Wimsey lowered The Times, and contemplated his wife across the breakfast table.
‘Socking great jewels,’ he said. ‘Enormous hereditary baubles of incommensurable value. Not to everyone’s liking. Why do you ask?’
‘Your name is mentioned in connection with them, in this piece I’m reading about Lord Attenbury.’
‘Old chap died last week. That was my first case.’
‘I didn’t know you read obituaries, Peter. You must be getting old.’
‘Not at all. I am merely lining us up for the best that is yet to be. But in fact it is our Bunter who actually peruses the newsprint for the dear departed. He brings me the pages on anyone he thinks I should know about. Not knowing who is dead leaves one mortally out of touch.’
‘You are sixty, Peter. What is so terrible about that? By the way, I thought your first case was the Attenbury diamonds.’
‘The emeralds came before the diamonds. Attenbury had a positive treasury of nice jewels. The emeralds were very fine – Mughal or something. When they went missing there was uproar.’
‘When was this?’
‘Before the flood: 1921.’
‘Talking of floods, it’s pouring outside,’ said Harriet, looking at the rainwashed panes of the breakfast-room windows. ‘I shan’t be walking to the London Library unless it leaves off. Tell me about these socking great baubles.’
‘Haven’t I told you about them already, in all the long years of talk we have had together?’
‘I don’t believe so. Have you time to tell me now?’
‘I talk far too much already. You shouldn’t encourage me, Harriet.’
‘Shouldn’t I? I thought encouragement was part of the help and comfort that the one ought to have of the other.’
‘Does help and comfort extend to collusion in each other’s vices?’
‘You needn’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ said Harriet to this, regarding it as a deliberate red herring.
‘Oh, naturally I want to. Rather fun, recounting one’s triumphs to an admiring audience. It’s a very long story, but I shall fortify myself with the thought that you asked for it.’
‘I did. But I didn’t contract to be admiring. That depends on the tale.’
‘I have been warned. It’s undoubtedly a problem with being married to a detective story writer that one runs the gauntlet of literary criticism when giving an account of oneself. And the most germane question is: is Bunter busy? Because I think explaining all this to you might entail considerable assistance from him.’
‘When is Bunter not busy? This morning he intends, I believe, to devote himself to dusting books.’
Lord Peter folded his copy of The Times, and laid it on the table. ‘A man may dust books while listening, or while talking. We shall join him in the library.’
‘Bunter, where do I start on all this?’ Peter asked, once the project was explained, he and Harriet were settled in deep armchairs either side of the fire, and Bunter was on the library steps, at a remove both horizontally and vertically, but within comfortable earshot.
‘You might need to explain, my lord, that the occasion in question was your first foray into polite society after the war.’
‘Oh, quite, Bunter. Not fair at all to expect you to describe my pitiful state to Harriet. Well, Harriet, you see . . .’
To Harriet’s amazement, Peter’s voice shifted register, and a sombre expression clouded his face.
‘Peter, if this distresses you, don’t. Skip the hard bit.’
Peter recovered himself and continued. ‘You know, of course, that I had a sort of nervous collapse after the war. I went home to Bredon Hall, and cowered in my bedroom and wouldn’t come out. Mother was distraught. Then Bunter showed up, and got me out of it. He drew the curtains, and carried in breakfast, and found the flat in Piccadilly, and got me down there to set me up as a man about town. Everything tickety-boo. I’m sure Mother will have told you all that long since, even if I haven’t. Only as you know all too well, it wasn’t entirely over. I have had relapses. Back then I couldn’t relapse exactly, because I hadn’t really recovered. I felt like a lot of broken glass in a parcel. Must’ve been hellish for Bunter.’
‘I seem to remember your mother telling me some story about Bunter overcome with emotion because you had sent away the damned eggs and demanded sausages. Rather incredible, really, but I always believe a dowager duchess.’
‘Expound, Bunter,’ said Peter.
‘The difficulty about breakfasts, my lady, was that it entailed giving orders. And his lordship in a nervous state associated giving orders with the immediate death of those who obeyed them. The real responsibility for the orders belonged to the generals who made the battle plans, and in the ranks we all knew that very well. But just the same it fell to the young men who were our immediate captains to give us the orders to our faces. And it was they who saw the consequences in blood and guts. All too often they shared the fate of their men. We didn’t blame them. But his lordship was among those who blamed themselves.’
‘That really must have made him difficult to work for,’ said Harriet.
‘It was a challenge, certainly, my lady,’ admitted Bunter, blowing gently on the top of the book in his hand to dislodge a miniature cloud of dust.
‘But by the time I knew him he had got over it,’ continued Harriet. ‘I don’t remember seeing him having any difficulty in giving you orders in recent years.’
Bunter replaced the book in the run, turned round and sat down atop the library steps. ‘But back in 1921 his lordship was very shaky, my lady. We had established a gentle routine for life in town – morning rides in Rotten Row, a few concerts, haunting the book auctions, that sort of thing. And at any moment when boredom or anxiety threatened we went suddenly abroad. Travel is very soothing to a nervous temperament. But his lordship had not resumed the sort of life in society that a man of his rank was expected to lead. He couldn’t stand even the rumble of the trains on the Underground Railway, because it evoked the sound of artillery, so we felt it would be better not to attend any shooting parties. I had been hoping for some time that a suitable house-party would occur, at which we could, so to speak, try the temperature of the water.’
‘What an extraordinary metaphor, Bunter!’ said Lord Peter. ‘The temperature of the water at a house-party is always lukewarm, by the time it has been carried upstairs by a hard-pressed servant and left outside the bedroom door in an enamel jug.’
‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but I always saw to your hot water myself, and I do not recall any complaints about it at the time.’
‘Heavens, Bunter, indeed not! I must be remembering occasions before you entered my service. That vanished world my brother and all seniors talk so fondly about. When wealth and empire were in unchallenged glory, and to save which my generation were sent to die wholesale in the mud of Flanders. I wasn’t the only one,’ he added, ‘to find the peace hard to get used to.’
‘That’s an odd way of putting it, Peter,’ said Harriet, contemplating her husband with a thoughtful expression. ‘I can see that horrible flashbacks
to the trenches might have undermined you. Might have haunted you. But the peace itself?’
‘The peace meant coming home,’ Peter said, ‘finding oneself mixing with those who had stayed at home all along. Listening to old gentlemen at the club, who had waved the flag as eagerly as anyone when their own prosperity was in danger, complaining once the danger was past about ex-servicemen who according to them thought far too much of themselves and what they had done. Reading in the press about unemployment and poverty facing returning soldiers, and employers grumbling about being asked to have a mere 5 per cent of their workforce recruited from ex-servicemen.’
Harriet said, ‘I remember a visit to London when there was a man on crutches selling matches in the street. My mother gave me a penny, and said, “Run across and give this to the soldier, Harry, but don’t take his matches.” I shook my head when he offered me the matches, and he smiled. My mother said when I went back to her side, “They’re not allowed to beg, but they are allowed to sell things.” I remember that very clearly, but I’m afraid most of it passed me by.’
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