by Laura Briggs
Reaching across, I took his hand, closing my fingers around his trembling ones. I had never done this before, the act of touching Dean, and I thought as sharp and angry as he usually was, he would resist me. But he didn't. Instead, his trembling hand relaxed slightly as my own held it, comfortingly; then returned my touch with a faint pressure that almost belied the uselessness of his full body.
The look in my eyes had the same sadness as his own. I think that's the reason why.
***
"Stay close to me," said Detective Anson. "Say nothing during the interrogation period."
"What do the police know that they didn't before?" I walked behind him as we approached the police station. "What's changed?"
"I don't know," said the detective. "The evidence is in the possession of the local authorities, and they feel it's useful to their case. Scotland Yard will be present, and I have been courteously allowed as per my employer's agreement with the authorities. But you, if you wish to be privy to this, must be extremely discreet about coming along with me. I only have a certain degree of leeway, and I'm not entirely sure it will allow even me to be present for Scotland Yard's interrogation, even in a small village capable of being flexible on matters of the law. You may very well be stopped in the foyer by one of the local authorities."
"Why let me come?" I stopped short as he reached for the door's latch.
"Because I might be wrong." He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. "Remember my advice," he whispered softly, as he stepped in behind me.
The interrogation room at the Port Hewer police station was a tiny room in which only Constable Jones, Inspector Gale and Sidney fit around the table. In the hall outside, on the other side of the interrogation door left carelessly ajar thanks to a quick maneuver by Detective Anson's pocket pen, Detective Anson and I listened to the interrogation session going on inside.
I had hoped that Sidney had sent for legal counsel by now, but he was alone.
"I understand that you don't have an alibi for the night of the robbery, Mr. Daniels." Inspector Gale opened the file folder before him. "You said you were home all that night, beginning at five in the evening."
"Only Mrs. Graves can vouch for that part," answered Sidney. "And only my dogs can swear by me afterwards."
"You were at the hotel Penmarrow earlier that day?"
"I gave someone a ride from the beach," he said.
"You didn't return there afterwards. No strolling by the beach ... no late-night drive?" said the inspector. "Had you been there after hours, of course, no one on the grounds would have noticed."
"My dog would have followed me," said Sidney. A little joking attitude for this answer, although he didn't smile.
"You were there on several occasions prior to the robbery," said Inspector Gale. "Including at the exhibit itself."
From the folder, Sergeant MacEntire took photographs, spreading them across the table before Sidney. From my vantage point, I could see they were pictures taken in a crowd, in a museum. It was the exhibit in the ballroom: the person circled in the photos must look a great deal like Sidney, but all I saw was a human figure standing near the case of diamonds, then near one of the Hollywood memorabilia displays.
"Is that you, Mr. Daniels?" asked the inspector.
"It is," answered Sidney.
"So you were at the exhibit at least once while it was open."
"The whole village was there," said Sidney, with a protesting laugh. "It hardly makes me guilty of a crime that I came to look at some antiques and a necklace behind bulletproof glass."
"Very true," said Inspector Gale. "But the time and date stamp on these photo files shows you visited the exhibit twice. We have photos from two different sources proving you were there, for up to an hour each time."
They must have asked the hotel's visitors to the exhibit to allow them to access their photo files. They had seven pictures in all, showing Sidney in the background in some manner.
"Do you have any compelling reason to be spending time at the hotel besides that of studying the auction's showcase?" asked the inspector.
Sidney hesitated. "I know people who work at the hotel, yes," he said. "I go there often. Ask anyone who works there, and they'll tell you it's perfectly ordinary for me to stop by and say hello to a friend."
"Your friend. That would be the maid who discovered the robbery, wouldn't it?" asked the inspector. "Which in itself is a bit curious — the fact that the person to whom you are closest on the grounds of the hotel should be the first person on the scene. And that you should be the first person held for questioning in this investigation."
"It's a coincidence," said Sidney. "Maisie has nothing to do with it, I assure you. I always work alone when I'm stealing valuable jewels."
A most unfunny joke in my opinion, and the look on my face must have said so. I started to speak aloud in protest, and stopped myself after one syllable escaped, for I felt Detective Anson's hand on my arm, warning me to keep silent.
Sidney, stop this. Please, ask them for a solicitor. Don't keep answering questions that can only get you deeper into trouble.
"Sorry." Sidney had sobered in the pause which followed, as if realizing himself that he had gone too far. "I only mean to say that all of this is coincidence. Yes, I was at the exhibit a couple of times — I drove tourists there from the village and from the beach, and stayed until they were ready to go back. Yes, I visited the hotel on the days leading to the robbery, but not to 'case the joint' but to visit a friend who works there. You don't have to believe me, but there's nothing more I can tell you. I can't tell you anything about the stolen jewelry or where it is now, because I had nothing to do with its disappearance, and neither did she."
The inspector readjusted the stack of photos, leaving on top the one of Sidney standing near the diamonds' case, seemingly examining its contents — or its construction. His gaze met Sidney's with a look of steely focus, then closed the folder.
"I would suggest you consider sharing something more helpful for our next conversation," he said. "A sentence for burglary would shave a great many years off a life as young as yours." He rose, taking the photos with him. He and Sergeant MacEntire stepped out of the room.
"I can corroborate his story about visiting the hotel," I whispered to the detective. "So can half the staff."
"That isn't the problem," said Detective Anson. "Wait here." He drew me aside in the hall, out of sight, then joined the Scotland Yard inspector and sergeant. From here, I could still overhear their conversation. I held my breath and kept quiet.
"Even with the forensic evidence against him for the tools, there's enough in favor of his guilt that we simply have no choice," said the inspector. "Either we charge him or we let him go — and if he's guilty, we'll be essentially conceding this case by setting him free."
"If it was a crime of opportunity, even — if he was strolling by and assumed what happened when he saw the thief flee ... then snatched something from one of the cases?" Sergeant MacEntire proposed. "It would fit the profile better, given that Daniels has never been a particularly troublesome sort about the village."
"I'll speak to London. We may place official charges against him in the morning," said the inspector.
"May I speak with him?" asked Anson. "If you believe he's possibly guilty in part, I would like one more chance to try to divulge the location of the stolen items. Remember, my employers would prefer not to pay millions in damages for this crime."
"Feel free," said the Scotland Yard inspector. "However, I doubt you'll learn anything more. Don't press him too persistently — once his solicitor arrives, we'll have a difficult time examining his story any further."
I crept closer once the inspector and sergeant passed by. Anson had entered the room with Sidney, who had been sitting in thoughtful silence since the inspector's departure. The detective sat down at the table. I drew as close to the cracked-open door as I dared.
"Is there a particular reason you have no apparent zea
l for defending yourself, Mr. Daniels?" he asked.
Sidney studied his hands. "I'm not guilty," he said. "I don't think they can charge me with anything more than possession of stolen goods." He glanced up. "Can they?"
"They would like to try," answered the detective. "So I ask you something new. Will they find anything in your past which will convince them you are a thief?"
The time between his question and its reply seemed long, though it was only a few seconds. Sidney lifted his gaze, a calm, clear look in his eyes. "No," he answered, solemnly.
Anson received this reply gravely. "You can remember nothing of the people you saw at the exhibit," he said. "If there were any who took unusual photos? Perhaps that seemed of nothing interesting or worthwhile? Camera phones make it difficult to tell, but anything you remember might help."
"I didn't notice anybody. I looked at the items, I took photos for a few people who wanted to pose with the cardboard figure from the movie. The second time, I mostly looked at the cases of cinema memorabilia." He looked as if he was trying to remember something more helpful, but clearly nothing was coming to mind.
"Do you remember anyone who took photos that you now realize might include you?"
An interesting question. The photos belonged to guests at the Penmarrow, I was certain, but most had attended the exhibition, and probably all of them had taken photos. But the police had asked to see everyone's photos nearly three days ago. So why did they only now have these particular ones with Sidney? Had someone waited until now to send them, when the investigation was reaching a crisis point regarding its suspect?
"Everyone was taking photographs," said Sidney. "The only person I remember was a man who blocked the view of one of the cases — he was taking several photographs of the jade combs and the ruby pin, and he didn't move no matter how the crowd crushed against him."
"Do you remember his face?"
"No. He had his back to me. There was a reflection in the glass of the case ... I think he was wearing eyeglasses or eyeshades."
Anson's pencil made a few light notes on a page in his book. He closed it and sighed. "Never is the piece big enough to be worth the picture," he said, although more to himself than anybody listening. He glanced at the constable. "Would you fetch me a cup of tea, please?" he asked. "Two sugars, a touch of milk. A biscuit, if you have one — and a cup of tea for Mr. Daniels also." He smiled at Sidney.
"Of course, sir." Constable Jones bobbed his head and stepped out of the room as I moved out of sight again. As soon as the constable disappeared, the detective rose from the table and beckoned for me to approach. I moved hastily to meet him in the hall, where he held the door ajar as he stood halfway outside the interrogation room.
"Five minutes," he said to me. "No more. Remember that there is someone listening also." He tapped his ear, smiled, then stepped outside the room, its latch clicking behind me. I thought I heard the sound of voices in the hall, but perhaps it was coming from the room on the other side of this one. Either way, my heart was pounding a little in my chest.
I turned to Sidney, feeling my palms damp, and my knees uncertain. The last few minutes, with the revelation about the police's plan left me feeling more helpless than ever about his situation. Sidney had risen from the table, moving to my side of it, his smile of greeting only fading because I didn't offer one in response. I couldn't, even after hearing him defend me from suspicion, and assert his own innocence as best he could under these circumstances.
"You have to do something," I said. "They're going to charge you with this crime tomorrow if they can. You have to ask Dean for that solicitor's number and call it, Sidney, so someone can put a stop to them treating you like a criminal."
He sighed, then shook his head. "Asking someone to help will cost me something I can't afford to pay, Maisie."
"Is that all? So what if the solicitor will charge a few hundred pounds? We can help you — your friends — if you don't have the money." Dean would probably offer to do it alone, but I wouldn't let him. "It would be worth it to keep them from questioning you like this, and twisting your words into an admission of guilt."
"It's more than just money," said Sidney. He broke away from my gaze, his hands now tucked in his pockets. "It isn't fair. I am innocent. I want them to see it without my having to do something drastic to prove it. I want to be set free by them as Sidney Daniels, honest citizen ... not 'sprung' by some solicitor's wheedling influence in the case." He was bitter for these last words, as if whatever method the lawyer had to employ to change their minds thoroughly disgusted him.
"But it's only your word to prove that the silver dragon was planted," I said. "Sidney, you can see why they won't believe it. You don't have any choice but to challenge that story as circumstantial."
"The dodgy local vagabond slipping away on the grace of a legal loophole," he added, in a sadder, graver tone than before. He sighed again. "I'd have to be a completely different person to make that situation seem palatable for them. I don't want it to be the only choice I have."
"Mrs. Graves is worried sick about you — and Dean feels the same way. They're afraid for you, Sidney. They're afraid of losing you." I swallowed hard. "I'm afraid, too. Please, Sidney. Please don't let that happen."
I didn't realize that I was shaking in the same manner as my own voice until I felt Sidney's gentle hands on both my arms, his touch one of concern. I sank against him, and knew my eyes were filled with tears. My vision blurred as I leaned against his shoulder, feeling his arms closing around me.
"Maisie," he said. His voice soft when he spoke my name, and when he spoke it again a moment later. I had never been comforted this way by Sidney before — even in that first meeting when he cradled me on the beach. It was soothing as nothing else could be, even though it was nothing more than his arms holding me.
I tried not to sniffle in the manner of Mrs. Graves this morning. "I didn't mean to cry." My voice was slightly foggy.
One hand lightly stroked my hair in response, tucking it back from my face. "I don't blame you," he said. "Maybe I would cry myself, except it wouldn't help things." Serious in his joking again — but without the sharp edge for the inspector's questions.
"Don't go to prison," I said, quietly.
"I won't." He made it sound like a sincere promise.
What I feel for you ... it's not like anything I've ever felt for another person. I thought of saying it to him, though the words were only vague and paltry compared to the truth. My hands rested against his shirt, my ear just above the steady beat of Sidney's heart, reassuring in itself.
He drew back, enough so that we were face to face, our eyes meeting. Looking into his own, I could still see the fear and grim determination, although some of Sidney's usual self was there, too. But only a little of the version of Sidney who didn't take the world too seriously, now that his future was at stake.
The door opened fully behind me. I turned, and the detective on the other side cleared his throat. "Miss Kinnan," he said, quietly. "Quickly, if you please."
I glanced back at Sidney. He reached for my hand before I could leave, but Detective Anson ushered me out quickly, closing the door before anyone could see that I had been left alone in the interrogation room. Constable Jones reappeared from the adjoining door leading to the jail cells, holding two paper cups of tea on a tray.
"If you please, the inspector wants to see you at the hotel when you arrive," said the constable. "For the time being, we'll hold Mr. Daniels unless we're told otherwise." He glanced at me, a quick look of sympathy despite his business-like demeanor. And maybe a smidge of curiosity for what I was doing here, too.
"I have nothing further to ask the suspect," answered Anson. "My interview is at an end." He lifted his cup from the tray as the constable opened the door to the interrogation room and entered it again. I followed Anson to the police station's front entrance, feeling as if Constable Jones's eyes had surely glanced back and were fixed on me suspiciously, as if aware I had been up to som
ething while his back was turned.
In my head was the constant thought of Sidney's predicament. And if they charged him with grand theft tomorrow, and the prosecution somehow built a strong case against him ...
Rumors, mistakes, devil-may-care philosophies and all, there was no mistaking those feelings I had for Sidney, because I cared for him deeply. It was impossible for me not to do it, whether I had fallen for him completely or it was only just beginning. But nothing about life here would ever be quite the same again after this week, not for either of us.
For me, no more daydreaming illusions about literary adventures and future artistic greatness under the tutelage of an imaginary writer. For Sidney, there would surely be more bitterness rooted deep inside in knowing that several villagers believed him guilty and would go on believing it despite his general goodwill. Even if he was set free at this very moment, the future would somehow be different from those idyllic, lazy afternoons without seriousness, filled with air castles and friendship-or-something-more under the Cornish sun between Sidney and me. Real life had reached into our innocence with its dark tentacles.
I waited tables at dinner without enthusiasm, and without a sincere smile. All I could think about was the decision that was coming tomorrow from London's advisors. I felt Brigette's disapproving eye on me as I listlessly tidied the dining room afterwards, but I pretended not to notice.
Her breathing grew shallow; it was drifting slowly on the tide, drawn out to sea with each receding wave. They gathered closer to her bed as the pink dawn lifted itself faintly on the other side of the bedroom shutters....
I couldn't finish typing the descriptive passage connecting the serene vision of Annabel the Second's near-death state to her vivid dream of sailing in a boat towards a beautiful horizon. Words about pearly clouds and soft mists seemed pointless to craft on the page, anyway.
