The Attenbury Emeralds

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Well, can’t you get the insurance company to pay up?’ asked Peter.

  ‘They won’t pay up for a year,’ said Abcock, ‘if it’s a question of theft. To leave time for the police to try to recover the goods. It’s some sort of restriction on the policy in exchange for a reduction in the premium, which my mother signed up to a couple of years back. She was having an economy drive, and she thought the thing was as safe as it could be in a respectable bank. She says she asked me and I agreed, but I can’t remember. The truth is I never gave this a moment’s thought while my father was alive. And after his death I just left it all to Grandfather. What a fool I am!’

  ‘Just rather young to grasp the ins and outs of things,’ said Peter. ‘Don’t be hard on yourself. I can tell you how far we have got.’ And he proceeded to outline the quest so far. At the thought that a murder or even maybe two had been committed and were lying on police files unsolved, Edward went very pale. Peter spared him the gruesome details about 8th March at the Café de Paris, but he was looking even sicker by the time the narrative got that far.

  ‘So the thing is,’ Peter said, ‘there were apparently two emeralds at that unfortunate gathering. And I know of three that would look very similar: one belonging to an Indian potentate, which we have no reason to believe is not in India; one belonging to you; and a paste copy that your grandmother used to keep in her everyday jewel box to save getting the real one out of the bank except exceptionally. And so naturally we wonder what happened to the paste copy. Could it possibly be the one that was being worn, not by your sister, but by the other woman, whoever she was? Miss Smith, apparently. Do you think you could find out if anyone in your family has any knowledge about the whereabouts of that paste copy?’

  ‘I can give it my best shot!’ said Edward.

  ‘If you can find it,’ Peter added, ‘it might be useful if we could borrow it.’

  ‘What for?’ Edward enquired. He was now actually sipping his port, instead of endlessly swirling it around in his glass.

  ‘It might jog somebody’s memory,’ said Peter.

  ‘That was a neat piece of occupational therapy,’ said Harriet when he had gone.

  ‘People like to think they can help,’ said Peter complacently.

  ‘What would help now?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘Read me a poem, and I’ll play you some Bach before bed,’ said Peter.

  Harriet took a moment or two to reach down the Nonesuch Donne, and find the place, since she was not starting at a first line to be found easily in the index, but midway.

  On a huge hill,

  Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will

  Reach her, about must and about must go,

  And what the hill’s suddenness resists, win so.

  ‘Go on,’ said Peter quietly when she paused.

  Yet strive so that before age, death’s twilight,

  Thy soul rest, for none can work in that night.

  To will implies delay, therefore now do;

  Hard deeds, the body’s pains; hard knowledge too

  The mind’s endeavours reach, and mysteries

  Are like the sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes.’

  Peter was already sitting at his piano, and had lifted the lid. But when she stopped reading he went on, quoting softly by heart:

  Keep the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand

  In so ill case, that God hath with his hand

  Sign’d kings’ blank charters to kill whom they hate;

  Nor are we vicars, but hangmen to fate.

  Harriet, with the book open on her knees, noticed a tiny misquotation on Peter’s lips.

  ‘It doesn’t say “nor are we vicars”,’ she pointed out. ‘It says “nor are they vicars”, It’s only kings who are being called hangmen to fate, not all of us.’

  ‘A hangman to fate is what I have often been,’ said Peter, ‘and if all goes well I am like to be such again.’ And with that he bent his head slightly, and began to play to her.

  Well, thought Harriet without resentment, he is supposed to be playing to me, but actually he isn’t, he is playing to the soul of Bach.

  ‘Keeping the truth you have found?’ she said, when he finished the piece.

  ‘Any truth I have found includes you, Harriet,’ he said.

  ‘I do wonder,’ said Harriet to Peter over breakfast the following day, ‘what that necklace was like.’

  ‘I thought it had been described to you in tedious and elaborate detail,’ Peter said.

  ‘Not the eponymous Attenbury emeralds,’ said Harriet. ‘The original one. What sort of fit-up would look good with two large stones in it?’

  ‘One hanging below the other?’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Harriet. ‘Possible.’

  ‘Come to that,’ said Peter, ‘do we know that the gems were originally a necklace? Perhaps even before the maharajas they graced the foreheads of godheads in a temple; perhaps they were in the hilt of a ceremonial sword, perhaps one each side of a golden goblet, who knows? Something to ask Miss Pevenor when we see her today.’

  ‘And she is?’

  ‘The scholar writing about historic jewels for whose sake the Attenbury king-stone was taken out of the bank on the most recent of those three occasions.’

  Miss Pevenor lived in a large mock-Tudor semi-detached house just a step from Woodside Park, on the Northern Line. Peter and Harriet therefore set out to visit her by Tube, starting deep underground and emerging into sunlit suburbia several stops before their destination. Harriet’s attention was distracted from the task in hand during the journey, because a young woman sitting opposite her was reading one of her books, The Fountain Pen Mystery. This woman, being rather short-sighted, was holding the book very upright and close to her face, giving Harriet a good view of the cover – she had always disliked that particular cover – and no way of seeing from the thickness of the pages left and right of the opening how far the reader had got. Harriet had to be content with seeing how rapidly she was turning the pages. At Camden Town she looked up and jumped up and squeezed between the closing doors only just in time, having obviously nearly missed her stop.

  ‘That’s a nice compliment to you,’ Peter observed.

  He sounds as pleased as I feel, thought Harriet.

  Miss Pevenor had a large study with a bay window overlooking the garden. A smart up-to-date Olivetti typewriter stood on a table facing the window, and another table in the centre of the room was covered with documents and photographs. There were two office chairs and an armchair. The three of them sat down. But before she sat, Harriet took a step or two across the room to look at the typewriter, a model which her secretary was asking her to invest in.

  ‘Do you type your own work, Lady Peter?’ Miss Pevenor asked.

  ‘I don’t these days,’ said Harriet apologetically. ‘I used to have to; now I have a secretary.’

  ‘Lucky you. I have to type up my stuff myself, and I do find the footnotes so tricky!’ Miss Pevenor said. She was a rounded, rosy-cheeked woman wearing a lacy see-through pink sweater, not perhaps the best choice for her figure, but obviously hand-knitted. Harriet suspected a kindly mother or aunt. Although she was a student of jewellery she was herself wearing absolutely none – not a ring, brooch, earring or bracelet, not a necklace about her, not even a watch.

  Peter told her that they were interested in exactly what had happened to the Attenbury emerald when it had last been taken from the bank. He emphasised exactly.

  Miss Pevenor wrinkled her brow. And then she rose and fetched a large blue-bound ledger from a shelf. She turned pages. ‘Here we are!’ she said. ‘I fetched it from the bank with a letter of authority from Lady Sylvia Attenbury on 5th September, 1949. And I returned it on 8th October that year, and here is the receipt, signed by a Mr Snader. All in order.’

  ‘And while the jewel was in your possession, where was it kept?’ asked Peter.

  ‘In the safe every minute it was not on the desk in front of me,’ s
he said. ‘I pride myself on my security measures, Lord Peter. My insurance premiums are quite modest, considering the value of what is insured. I see you looking round for the safe,’ she added. ‘Let me show you.’

  Miss Pevenor rose, and went to the bookcase that lined the wall behind her. She pulled out a book, and thrust her hand into the void it left. Silently a section of the bookcase slid sideways to reveal a small, but very professional wall safe.

  Peter nodded. ‘As long as not too many people know about this,’ he said.

  ‘The book that covers the buttons is changed every month,’ she told him proudly. ‘This month it is Urn Burial. Last month it was Religio Medici. And not many people, Lord Peter, would come looking for untold wealth hidden in Woodside Park. It is not as if I lived in Mayfair, or Westminster.’

  Warming to her, Harriet asked, ‘Can you tell us what the book you are working on is about, Miss Pevenor?’

  ‘It is called The Great Jewels of England,’ she was answered.

  ‘A kind of catalogue?’

  ‘With histories, and provenances, and descriptions, and numerous illustrations – some in colour! It will follow the passing of these numinous objects down the generations. A great deal can be learned, you see, about the fortunes of our proudest families, from seeing when they acquired their treasures, and when, alas, sometimes they had to part with them.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Peter politely. ‘Who is to publish it?’

  ‘A firm called Hummerby,’ said Miss Pevenor, visibly proud, ‘who publish a lot of fine books and monographs for various establishments, including the Duke of Norfolk, and the Victoria and Albert Museum.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Peter. ‘I have seen some of their productions, and they make a very good job of things. We shall put our name down at Hatchard’s, to receive a copy as soon as it is published.’

  ‘How kind,’ said Miss Pevenor.

  ‘You borrowed the jewel,’ Peter said, ‘and kept it in your safe. May I ask you why you needed to borrow it? Was it to have it photographed?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. There are photographs of it in a volume called Historic Jewels, Clocks and Watches published in 1890, but of course those are black and white. I wanted an illustration in colour. Kodachrome 25 gives excellent results. Nothing ever equals the splendour of the jewels themselves, of course.’

  ‘It would not have taken very long to get a single stone photographed,’ said Peter. ‘But you kept the stone for just over a month, I think.’

  ‘I needed to measure and weigh it. I needed to describe it minutely and accurately. I needed to transcribe the inscription on the back. I returned it the moment I had done the work.’

  ‘You transcribed the inscription? Do you read Persian?’

  ‘Alas, no. But in the hope that I might be able to find someone who did I copied the lettering very carefully with the aid of a magnifying glass.’

  ‘I must ask you whether there is any chance at all that while the jewel was in your possession it got exchanged for another. Did you have any second carved emerald in your safe or on your desk?’

  ‘Another such emerald? Good lord, no. It is surely unique.’

  ‘There is another such. Long ago I myself saw two side by side. I have to ask you if there is any possibility that someone – a fellow expert perhaps – visited you and effected an exchange of one jewel for another.’

  ‘What an extraordinary idea!’ Miss Pevenor exclaimed. ‘Of course not. Nobody visited me while I worked on the Attenbury emerald, and I showed it only to the photographer.’

  ‘Were you present the whole time the photographer was working?’

  ‘Yes. No – I was absent long enough to make her a cup of tea.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Mrs Vanderby. She was sent by the agency I use for such work. It is a respected agency used by the Victoria and Albert. They always do very good work. I can give you their card.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peter, pocketing the proffered card. ‘I wonder if I might also ask you to lend me the copy you made of the inscription on the jewel. I will find someone to translate it for us, and return it to you with the translation.’

  ‘Could you really? That would be most kind. Now that I no longer have access to the jewel, I would be reluctant to part with the transcription, but by good luck I made a carbon copy, and you are welcome to that.’

  ‘Do you ever find obstacles in the course of your work?’ asked Harriet. ‘I mean, do the owners ever refuse to let you see their treasures? Or object to publication of photographs and descriptions?’

  ‘Very seldom. Usually they think that it will redound to their glory to have their property recorded in such work as I produce. They often think that their titles and aristocratic status lend lustre to their jewels, and they regard my work as though it were another volume of Debrett’s. But I myself think the jewels lend lustre to the family names. It is certainly a great loss to their reputation when they are obliged to sell their heirlooms.’

  ‘You don’t wear any jewellery yourself,’ remarked Harriet, and was astonished to see Miss Pevenor immediately blush deeply.

  ‘My work has given me tastes that I cannot afford,’ she said.

  ‘Are you ever tempted, in private, to try on the glories you have been lent?’ asked Harriet.

  Miss Pevenor’s blush deepened. She hardly needed to answer. ‘The Attenbury emerald is unmounted,’ she said. ‘It is not in a condition to be worn. A jeweller would have to remake the golden clip that once accompanied it.’

  ‘I wonder how you became interested in your subject,’ said Harriet. She was really finding Miss Pevenor rather strange – an exotic bird in plain plumage.

  ‘My aunt took me to see the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London when I was eleven or so,’ Miss Pevenor told her. ‘I have never got over it.’

  ‘Just one thing more,’ Peter said, ‘and then we will leave you in peace. Was the jewel when you borrowed it damaged in any way?’

  ‘There was a very tiny chip off the point of one of the carved leaves in the lower right-hand corner of the jewel. That is all. One would not notice it, I think, without a loupe. Considering that it had been through the Blitz, the damage was astonishingly slight.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Peter, rising to go.

  ‘I would be glad to include that ruby ring you are wearing in my volume,’ said Miss Pevenor to Harriet. ‘It is certainly fine enough to warrant inclusion.’

  Harriet felt a shuddering reluctance – the very thought of her ring sliding slyly on to Miss Pevenor’s slender finger appalled her.

  Peter sprang at once to her defence. ‘It is an engagement ring,’ he said. ‘Never to be parted with.’

  ‘People don’t always wear their engagement rings once they have a wedding ring to supersede it,’ Miss Pevenor said.

  ‘I do,’ said Harriet firmly.

  ‘No offence, I hope. It was only a thought,’ Miss Pevenor said. ‘I am not short of material for my volume. I’m afraid people are pressing me to include their treasures because they want to put them up for sale. Times are not good at the moment for the better sort of people.’

  ‘Nothing as certain as death and taxes?’ said Peter.

  ‘Do you mean,’ asked Harriet, ‘that inclusion in your work will enhance the saleability of jewels?’

  ‘Very much so, Lady Peter. Everyone likes a good provenance.’

  As they trundled back on the Tube to Green Park, Peter said, ‘Oxford next, I think. We have Bunter’s photograph, and Miss Pevenor’s transcription. Someone will surely be able to read it for us.’

  ‘Any excuse will do,’ said Harriet, ‘for the towery city.’

  ‘I expect there is someone in Cambridge, if you would prefer,’ said Peter.

  ‘Cambridge is very beautiful,’ said Harriet, ‘but it is not ours.’

  ‘Oxford, then,’ said Peter. ‘Tomorrow.’

  Chapter 18

  But as it happened, Bunter shot their excuse from
under them. He was brimming with satisfaction as he took their coats and hats in the hall.

  ‘I am delighted to tell you, my lord, my lady,’ he said, the moment they were disrobed, ‘that I have secured a translation of the words on the suspect emerald.’

  ‘The devil you have!’ said Peter. ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant. And how, may I ask, did you do it?’

  ‘As you know, m’lord, m’lady,’ said Bunter, almost smiling as he spoke, ‘I teach a WEA course in photography on Wednesday afternoons in Fulham.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Harriet. ‘Beyond knowing that Wednesday was your afternoon off, I have never enquired.’

  ‘Your ladyship is very considerate of my privacy,’ said Bunter. ‘But having had such satisfaction over many years in practising photography, and having been so often useful to his lordship in that way, I have been giving some time to helping others to the same satisfaction as I have had myself. I am completely self-taught, my lady, but of course Hope has been able to assist me in any matter in which I find myself at a loss.’

  Harriet was distracted by the thought of Bunter at a loss, but Peter cut straight to the chase. ‘How has this helped you to decipher Persian, Bunter?’ he asked.

  ‘A young lady in my class is an Iranian by birth,’ Bunter answered, ‘and it occurred to me to show her the photograph I took in Mr Snader’s office, and to ask for her comments. She was puzzled at first, and told me that she did not read Arabic. But then on looking more closely she realised that the words were in Persian. She told me that having come to England as a young child she was not fully fluent in her native tongue, but she managed even so to tell me . . .’ Bunter was talking on his feet as they mounted the stair together, and as they reached the library door, he opened it triumphantly, and added, ‘What the words said.’