The Cornish Secret of Summer's Promise

by Laura Briggs

  ***

  The gentleman dressed in the impeccable gray suit that rivaled Mr. Trelawney's was the insurance company's detective. He presented his card for those of us assembled in Mr. Trelawney's office, then draped his overcoat across the back of a nearby chair, topping it with his hat.

  Detective Anson. Private investigator, representing the Tennyson and Son Insurance Company. He was older than me, but still a decade from modern middle age. A trim, firm build, sleek hair and a pencil moustache in coal black — he was almost the perfect picture of an old-fashioned detective of a noir movie, or a Raymond Chandler novel. Lord Peter Whimsy himself couldn't have looked more stylish in that suit and tie, or in the fedora now topping his overcoat.

  "It's in the best interests of everyone that we resolve this case as quickly as possible," the detective said. "It's almost certain that the stolen jewels have not been removed far, unless the thief remained on foot for his escape. Due to quick action, this area has been locked down against escape, but we have only a narrow window of time, perhaps, before the thief finds his opportunity."

  "If it's someone in this hotel, they won't get away," said Mr. Tiller. "Search this place top to bottom and you'll find them. Mark my words, it was an inside job."

  "Perhaps." The detective sat down on the edge of Mr. Trelawney's desk. "Or the work of an experienced professional."

  A slight gasp escaped Brigette's lips as she sat between me and Riley on the sofa — she flushed red with embarrassment and tried to look sedate and businesslike again.

  "You're surely not suggesting it's him?" Mr. Tiller lowered his voice. "I saw the damage to the locks leading to both doors — it was hardly the work of a professional of his caliber, was it?"

  "Haste makes waste, Mr. Tiller." The detective consulted his phone's screen. "In Paris, he had no time once he deactivated the silent alarm's signal. He was careless then — maybe he was careless this time."

  "I hope not," groaned the auction house's director. "We haven't a prayer of recovering anything if it's him."

  "Might we ask to whom this conversation refers?" asked Mr. Trelawney, dryly. "If it will not inconvenience either of you to answer. This hotel is my responsibility, as are the lives beneath its roof, currently; if you're suggesting that a thief is among them, I would prefer to be aware of the fact."

  "A master thief of international infamy," answered the detective. "I have seen his work many times in my field. He's a criminal for whom a relatively simple security system guarding an estimated three hundred and forty thousand dollars in gems would be an extremely tempting proposition. And a simple job."

  "Relatively simple?" Mr. Tiller's face reddened with anger. "I take offense at the suggestion that an auction house with the prestige of Vancy's —"

  "I had seen the security proposal, and it was against my advice that the company insured you," the detective continued. "A simple electronic interference could impede the signal of both your silent alarm for the lock and the laser motion alarm for nearly five minutes, and our thief made the same assessment."

  "That's what was responsible?" I spoke up for the first time, at the moment the detective laid an object in an evidence bag on the desk, resembling an old transistor radio.

  "A radio modified as a static scrambler," said the detective. "Quite simple and clumsy in manufacture, but good enough to delay the signals from the alarms for the time necessary to steal something of value."

  He removed a notebook and pencil from his pocket. "You have completed your inventory of stolen property?" he asked Mr. Tiller.

  "We've made a thorough check. The diamonds, of course. The two rare jade combs, the empress's hairpin, the miniature of the Chinese dragon. One of the actress's personal effects from her memorabilia case. None of the Limoges were stolen, although an attempt was made. The thief only succeeded in breaking three of the most valuable in the attempt." He pulled a list from his pocket. "This is the official list for my claim," he said. "The only blessing is that they didn't take the dragon sculpture. How would I ever explain to our Hong Kong contact that it was stolen?"

  The detective perused the list, then tucked it in his coat pocket for future reference. He flipped his notebook to another page. "Were all guests registered in the hotel present at the time you arrived?" he asked the sergeant.

  "To the best of our knowledge, sir. No one was seen sneaking about ... except for Miss Kinnan here."

  I tried not to squirm in my seat. Everyone was looking at me again, as if I was wearing a quarter of a million pounds' worth of diamonds beneath my gown.

  Detective Anson flipped his notebook to a new page. "I will need to speak to every member of your staff," he said to Mr. Trelawney. "Particularly to the maid who discovered the robbery —" he glanced at me, "— and also to whomever prepared the coffee, and the porter who delivered it." He flipped closed his notebook. "All of your guests will be questioned once more to confirm that their initial statements remain truthful."

  "How long do you think this will take before you have some suspect? Some news?" asked Mr. Tiller, anxiously. "Every hour lost is an hour in which potential bidders are left anxious regarding the auction's future."

  "Thorough investigations take time," said the detective, continuing to peruse his notes.

  "My guests do not wish to spend their holiday in Cornwall being questioned," added Mr. Trelawney, with a tiny bit of steel beneath his languid tone. "I would suggest that you work quickly to ensure that they do not spend the rest of today trapped in the dining room."

  "I make no promises, but the police and I will do all that we can," said Anson. "Time is precious ... and there is none to waste in the first hours after a thief's crime has been discovered."

  Questioning the guests lasted until lunchtime and afterwards. The first to be freed was the European collector's representative, Mr. Thornton, who emerged unruffled, polishing his little pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses as he strolled towards the front doors. The next one was the young blond woman I had waited on at dinner — the famous actress, whose identity was confirmed by the way Katy sucked in her breath as the young woman made her escape in dark sunglasses and a low-brimmed floppy hat.

  "That was Genevieve Fifer!" she whispered. "I can't believe they questioned her about a robbery. She must make loads of money from her films."

  "Maybe she makes her real fortune from stealing diamonds," I kidded. Right now, the parade of guests which emerged was funny enough — a brash American collector was freed next, followed by the lady in white from days earlier — but it was far less funny when the last inquisition for Mr. Tiller's staff ended, and it was the turn for the hotel staff.

  "Explain again, Miss Kinnan, how you came to discover the robbery."

  The detective sat across from me, tapping his pencil against his notebook. It was tea time now, and instead of serving Ligeia's fresh-baked quiches or steak tartar with caramelized pearl onions to the early dinner crowd I was sitting in the music room or the 'forest green parlor' as I nicknamed it, surrounded by its forest motif on tapestry and decorations as I perched on an uncomfortable embroidered antique wing chair sporting a stag hunting scene in brocade.

  I repeated my story again, from the time I came downstairs to go for a walk to the sound of a crash I heard coming from the direction of the hall. The detective made notes on my statement, but not as many as the sergeant had, as if he found my statement less important, except for the part where I explained that I hadn't actually glimpsed the thief fleeing the hotel.

  "You saw only the motion of the door?" he clarified, at the end.

  "That's right," I said.

  "And your initial reason for entering the hall was — you believed that someone had broken a vase?"

  "I thought maybe one of the security guards had bumped into a table or something," I said. "I don't know why, really. It was well-lit ... I suppose that was just the impression in my mind when I heard the noise."

  "And you heard nothing else — no sounds of metal, no scuffling?"
<
br />   "Nothing," I said.

  He added this to his notes, and I thought he underlined something. I wanted to know what it was, but there was too much distance between us, and he quite carefully kept the cover of his notebook raised to hide his writing.

  I tried not to be anxious. "Is there anything else you need to know?" My glance lay on the papers at the detective's elbow, which contained the names of everyone who had ever worked for the hotel, along with their last known addresses. Those who were in the village or close by were highlighted in pink — clearly Brigette's contribution.

  He checked his notes. "I see that your name is Miss Clark in reality."

  "I preferred to be known by a different name," I said. "It's not an alter ego or an alias or anything. It's more like a ... pseudonym. I'm a novelist. Aspiring novelist," I corrected.

  "I see." Anson smiled faintly. "I didn't think you were a jewel thief using a false name." He motioned for me to go, and I rose from my chair. "That will be all ... for the present, Miss Kinnan."

  "Why does he want to see me?" Riley sounded mystified. "All I did was carry a coffee tray. Swear it on me grandmother's grave, that was all." He looked restless as he waited his turn by the desk — even a beautiful tourist perusing the foyer's brochures hadn't brightened his countenance the slightest bit.

  "He's only questioning you because he has to, Riley," scoffed Brigette. "He's questioning all of us, even people who weren't here last night. Katy was questioned. So was Gomez, and he has an alibi in Newquay for the whole evening."

  "They think they can pin the crime on me, don't they?" Riley said. "Because I said I could stuff a few jewels in me pockets and live the high life on the Riviera instead of slogging about with people's suitcases? I protest this treatment." He fiddled with a cigarette from his pocket. "It's the same always — pick the first innocent bloke who stumbles into their midst. If they think I'm their patsy —"

  "For heaven's sake, Riley, stop making such a fuss! I made the coffee for those two security guards, and I don't feel persecuted by a few questions from the detective. Mr. Trelawney simply wants his staff cleared of all possible involvement. Look at Maisie — she's the first person on the scene, and you know what they say about the first witness being the guilty party."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "No, no, I'm not saying you're guilty," Brigette leaped to explain herself. "I only mean that something that looks suspicious is usually quite harmless."

  "He wants to speak with you, Riley," I said. The porter groaned.

  "Why didn't I take that ruddy position in France last summer?" he asked — himself, presumably, and not either of us, as he dragged himself off in the direction of the detective's post.

  The questioning sessions with the detective continued throughout the dinner hour, and didn't end until nightfall. By then, Anson took a cup of tea and a sandwich in his room, one lately vacated by the visitor who had complained about the large crowds, and would have undoubtedly objected to spending a morning being interrogated by the local police. He was finished with his inquiries for the time being, he informed the unhappy auction house rep and Mr. Trelawney also. Tomorrow morning he would have a list of people whose stories needed further explanation ... and I was afraid to imagine that my name would be included.

  By morning, the forensics team had offered rushed reports on the fingerprints discovered on the device used to jam the security signals — inconclusive ones, it appeared — and Detective Anson had requested to speak with the Hollywood representative Blane again, as well as Riley.

  "Why me? Why am I always the one persecuted?" Riley asked. "'Work in a hotel is safe,' everyone told me. 'It'll keep you out of trouble, young Riley, and on the narrow path o' life.' What do they have to say now — me reputation being sold down the river by a cup of coffee?"

  "You have no reputation to salvage, Riley," said Brigette. Her highlighter was making marks across a sheet of names — more work for the detective, which had brought a cheerier smile to Brigette's face than we had seen in weeks.

  "Except that of being a lazy git," volunteered Katy, as she blew on a fresh coat of paint applied to her nails. One look from Brigette had her putting the bottle discreetly out of sight again, though not with the same guilt as before, when the concierge had been mostly in charge. Influence lost — Brigette's attitude wilted slightly in response.

  Riley didn't take a step in the direction of the parlor, because a PC entered the hotel quickly. "Where's Anson, the detective from the insurance company?" he asked.

  "Through the right passageway, third door to your right in the hall," instructed Brigette.

  "Thanks." He hurried on without saying anything else. We stared after him, feeling curious.

  "What do you suppose he wants?" Katy asked.

  "Maybe to arrest one of us," speculated Riley, gloomily. "You and I, Maisie. Marked as troublemakers first, now as criminals."

  "Stop being so dramatic," said Brigette.

  The PC emerged a few minutes later and left. The detective followed shortly, putting on his hat and coat as he entered the foyer. "I won't be troubling you this afternoon, Mr. Bloom," he said. "Something's come up regarding the case, so you may make yourself free and easy for the time being."

  "What would that be?" Katy asked, before Brigette could shush her.

  "An arrest," he said. "The local constabulary followed a lead and apprehended a suspect in possession of evidence connected to the case. I'm off to confirm for myself that it is indeed linked to the Vancy Auction House robbery. I'm afraid that's all I can tell you at this time. No more than the press will be informed shortly." He buttoned his overcoat and strolled towards the hotel's main doors.

  "They caught the thief already?" Brigette's hushed voice held a note of amazement. "Imagine. It's only been a little more than twenty-four hours since the robbery."

  "Any thief careless enough to leave a fortune in jewels lying around their cottage or flat deserves to be caught," said Katy, scornfully. "Anyone with a bit of sense would've buried them on the beach first."

  We were in the clear, then, and I needn't worry that Detective Anson would come back to my statement for further evidence that I had sneaked away one of the precious jade combs or come clap Riley in irons for drugging two security guards. What sort of evidence tripped up the would-be thief, I wondered. A boxful of diamonds? A stolen boat for sailing away with his or her ill-gotten fortune?

  Katy and Riley dispersed to their duties with relief, leaving me and Brigette alone in the foyer. I lifted the Fuller Brush broom and returned to my own work, which involved sweeping up the dirt and grass tracked across the foyer's polished floors by the PCs who had been searching the gardens around the terrace for evidence of the thief's escape.

  Gomez appeared from behind the ferns, beckoning me. "Maisie," he said, keeping his voice quiet, glancing at the same time to make sure that Brigette didn't notice him lurking there.

  "Something the matter?" I asked him, drawing nearer. Like Riley, Gomez's primary occupation when not carrying people's cases was smoking, loafing about, and sneaking tidbits from the kitchen, especially by coercing an unlucky staff member who had been temporarily assigned there to be their supply agent. "If this is a request for me to sneak you a cup of tea or a cake in the garden, you're out of luck this time. The sous chef almost caught me last time I fetched you a sandwich between hours. There are limits to loyalty for part-time members of the kitchen staff."

  "This problem's all yours, love." He dropped his accent, and his voice still lower. "The suspect they just arrested is Sidney Daniels."

  Sidney? Caretaker for the vicarage and church grounds, rescuer of stray dogs? Good Samaritan to the village's helpless and shut ins? The same Sidney who had been holding my hand on a blanket yesterday afternoon, challenging me to think of new goals for myself?

  There was a mistake. Wrong name, wrong person — either way, it couldn't possibly be the same person I knew. I shook my head. "There must be some mistake," I said aloud. "It cou
ldn't be Sidney. It couldn't." This was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. Sidney a thief, for heaven's sake?

  "No mistake." Gomez's tone of voice was serious. "They arrested him this morning. He's at the station. I'll give you a ride there, if you like."

  His kindness in offering this had flown completely over my head, because I was reeling from toes to head with shock. It had left me numb and speechless. Sidney in jail, evidence on Sidney's person linking him to a crime. How could it be true?

  ***

  Gomez shut off the motor of the hotel's car. "Are you all right?" he asked me, with a mild concern that was more serious than anything I'd ever before heard from either of the hotel's wisecracking porters.

  I nodded. "I'm fine." I opened the car's passenger door and climbed out. This was only my second visit to the local police station, but I walked through its doors with considerably more urgency than the first time. PC Pringle was seated reading a copy of a novel that had a cover stylistically similar to that of the Lady Marverly novel at the hotel. One he slid discreetly beneath a newspaper page as I approached.

  "I'm here to see Sidney Daniels," I said.

  "No visitors." He sounded incredulous at the thought. "Who're you?"

  "I'm a friend of his and I need to see him," I said. "There's been some mistake —"

  "You're that maid from the hotel," he said, recognizing me. "I remember you. What are you doing here?"

  "I told you, I'm here to see Sidney — you're holding him here, aren't you?" Was there such a thing as a bail bondsman in a Cornish village, I wondered? Was Sidney being processed for release, or awaiting a formal arraignment of some kind? "This has been some kind of terrible mistake on your part."

  "The mistake is you thinking —" he began in reply, and I could see he wasn't going to let me talk to Sidney. But the adjoining door led to the holding cell area I remembered from before, and was partly ajar at the moment — I pushed it open and marched through.