by Laura Briggs
"Are you sure it doesn't simply make me and Sidney look more guilty?" I asked. "I work here. I could have gotten access to these cutters and given them to Sidney." I could easily see PC Pringle making a case of this fact.
"And tossed them from the window of a guest's room?" said Anson. "An exceptionally stupid means of framing someone — extremely circumstantial. No, you are thinking about things wrongly this time, Miss Kinnan. The police would never believe you and your friend concocted a plan of such minute evidence to frame a hotel guest."
He consulted his watch. "The next bus leaves in twenty minutes, the next train from Newquay to London in an hour. I believe I need to speak with your hotel's manager about which guest may have committed the gross indiscretion of robbing his hotel's exhibition."
"What should I do?" I asked. "Take these bolt cutters to the police station?"
"In good time, Miss Kinnan," he said. "For now, bring them to the office of your employer in a quarter of an hour. I may need them shortly to demonstrate my point to interested parties."
Without further explanation, he passed through the gate leading to the hotel's service entrance, presumably to find Mr. Trelawney. I tucked the cutters under my arm and turned to Norm, who gazed after the detective as if a lunatic had just accosted him.
"Who was that infernal toff?" he demanded. "And what does he want with my blasted cutters?"
"It's a long story."
"Never mind it, then. But make sure he gives 'em back." Norm locked his shed again, and shuffled towards the rose garden, lifting a rake from a row of long-handled tools leaning against its outside walls. "I don't want to be financially responsible for 'em next paycheck."
***
Behind his desk, Mr. Trelawney always looked his most imposing, as if he was Nero Wolfe staring down a client who had tried to lie to him. I was surprised that neither of the two possible suspects whom Anson had summoned for one final interrogation had confessed already beneath that iron gaze. Perhaps it was because the hotel manager's voice remained calm and even — borderline pleasant — despite the unpleasant circumstances behind this gathering.
"I wish to thank both of you for voluntarily meeting with the detective upon his request, and at such short notice," said Mr. Trelawney. "Of course, you understand that being here is merely a courtesy on your part, and you are neither being held nor accused by anyone in this hotel. But ... since you are both leaving us today, this was Detective Anson's last opportunity to clarify a few details that may well be of minor importance to his investigation."
Anson was sitting on the edge of the desk, facing both Blane and Thornton. The Hollywood rep looked slightly nervous, and somewhat bored as he fidgeted in his seat. As usual, the European collector's assistant — or, as we had learned, the collector himself — remained dignified and calm as he consulted his watch. The train was due to leave in a half hour, and both of these men had already called for drivers to take them to the station, apparently.
"Will this take long?" asked Blane, as if speaking aloud the thoughts in his fellow guest's mind.
"Not long," said Anson. "There are only one or two little matters that did not come to light until recently. Neither of you have heard the news, perhaps, but we have recovered the burglar's tools."
"So?" said Blane, at the same time that Thornton said, "How interesting."
"It was very interesting, recovering those tools," said Anson. "Not at all what one expects from a master thief. We would expect him to bring his own specialized tools, of course ... but, then again, we knew from the beginning that it was a relative amateur behind the crimes."
"Great," said Blane. "And you're keeping me here, because ...?"
"What do you do for a living, Mr. Blane? At your daily job, I mean," clarified the detective.
"I work in the administrative office of the Hollywood Hills Memorabilia Museum," he answered. "I answer phones, I do a little scouting for good buys for the museum. You know, extra pairs of Dorothy's ruby slippers, Robert Mitchum's monogrammed cigarette case from one of his leading ladies ... that kind of thing."
"You have hobbies? Rock climbing? Hiking? Rappelling down the faces of cliffs?" asked Anson. "Any activity that you might pursue while in Cornwall also?"
"No," scoffed Blane. "This is ridiculous. I don't have any hobbies, unless you count virtual reality, and I have an ordinary job. Why are you asking me these questions?"
"Because I have one more for you," he said. "I would like you to show me your hands."
The Hollywood rep rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, he held out his hands. The detective inspected them, as the young man looked nonplussed.
The detective stepped back from Blane, and faced Thornton. The European collector gazed at him, mildly. "Would you like to see mine also?" he asked.
"I would," said the detective.
Like the Hollywood representative's, the collector had the smooth hands of an office worker, and no visible calluses from rough hobbies. But the detective took hold of them suddenly, applying pressure to the palms. A trace of pain crossed the collector's face, like a brief wave's ripple on a pond, before composing itself again.
"Sore palms, Mr. Thornton — or Mr. Basil," the detective corrected himself. "Poor choice of tools for the job. You should have chosen a better pair of cutters — or learned to pick locks better." He released the suspect's hand. "I think if we examined you closely, we would find light bruising, some small cuts on your arms, possibly even glass in the wounds. You were clumsier smashing the cases compared to the last time."
"I broke a water bottle on the train to London," said Thornton — or Basil. "I fell when exiting the passenger car. It happens all the time. When you are just past middle age, the physical ease of one's body is not quite as reliable." He smiled.
Anson smiled back. "It is your word against mine," he said, softly. "Even if we extract the glass, it is only minor evidence. Blisters and bruises can be easily explained, as you said ... but I will do all in my power to connect it to the previous three incidents which occurred at auctions where you were bidding. I'll make the connection, though it takes much time."
"You are welcome to investigate my life, detective. But I can assure you that you will find nothing to connect me to this crime."
"Perhaps not," said Anson. "Nonetheless, it will be enough to hold you. And to search your room. You've realized that by now. Those jewels must be hidden there, somewhere close. You are expecting a cab within the hour to take you to the station, as we know."
Silence from Mr. Thornton. Anson leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I will take your room apart, if necessary. It will be someplace in plain sight, yet not very obvious. You can remove them with five minutes' notice ... perhaps you even created it yourself." He searched the collector's eyes as he spoke, but there was no reply. "You've lost, Mr. Basil. Be a gracious loser. Tell me where the jewels are hidden, and, quite possibly, you will receive some leniency from the court. "
Mr. Basil — or Thornton — removed his eyeglasses and cleaned them with his pocket square again. Carefully, he tucked it into place and returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose. "I think I would prefer to speak with my solicitor," he said.
Anson nodded, gravely. He looked at Mr. Trelawney. "I am going to telephone the inspector and request his presence. If you would, kindly phone the local police station and ask them to send two constables to assist. The jewels will be found, I suspect, when the police search the room. Mr. Basil will give consideration to the statements made to the police until then. Until the authorities arrive, I would prefer that he remain in your office — if he has no objection."
"None," said Mr. Basil.
"Miss Kinnan, you may wait here also," he said to me, before he slipped from the room. "I think the constabulary will have a good word for your friend when they arrive." He smiled at me and stepped out of the office.
"Can I go now?" Mr. Blane asked.
"Of course you may," said Anson, before he closed the door. With a sigh of relie
f, Blane collected his bag and left the office. Mr. Basil remained seated, gazing ahead of him, hands folded passively as he waited for the police to arrive and search his room — and, quite possibly, arrest him as a suspect in the jewel heist.
The first to arrive was Inspector Giles, who entered the office quickly. "Is this the suspect?" he demanded, looking at Basil/Thornton. "I thought we cleared this gentleman of any involvement already."
"Detective Anson believes the circumstantial evidence he has found will give you a new perspective on this matter, as he will shortly explain," said Mr. Trelawney. "He wishes the police to search this gentleman's room again. Miss Kinnan will take you upstairs to the detective's suite, and will unlock the doors to Mr. Thornton's room for you to search."
Constable Jones entered the office after rapping on the door. "We received a call about a possible suspect in the jewel heist?" he said, glancing around the room.
"Mr. Thornton here," said the inspector. "Show me upstairs, if you will," he said to me.
We climbed the steps to the detective's room and knocked on the door. There was no answer, though I knocked twice. "He stepped out, it would seem," said the inspector, with chagrin.
"Are you looking for the detective?" asked Katy. We both turned her direction. "He came out of the room at the other end of the hall a short time ago."
We both glanced that direction now — the one where the suspect's suite lay. "How long ago?" Something steely entered Inspector Giles's voice.
"I don't know — I was about to tidy the Rose Suite when he stepped out. A quarter of an hour, maybe a bit less?"
I slipped my key into the detective's lock, and opened the door to his room. Nobody was there ... moreover, no luggage was there, either. Nothing personal at all.
A door further down the hall opened. "What's this about a suspect?" Mr. Tiller scrambled into the hall, shrugging on his coat — clearly, he had been attempting to relax on the other side, the strains of classical music drifting. "You found the stolen jewels?"
"There may have been a misunderstanding, sir," began Giles.
"What misunderstanding? Someone from the station rang me to say that a second arrest had been made — that the suspect all but confessed to having the gems —"
"What's behind the other door?" Giles asked me. "Where the bloody hell is Anson?"
The door to the suspect's room opened to reveal his two suitcases waiting by the door, and nothing else notable — except for a ceramic bust of Julius Caesar, wearing a thin, dark fake moustache. Next to it, an envelope marked by a tiny little speckled yellow flower. It looked like an orchid in miniature. La Fleur always leaves one.
I heard the auction house's representative suck in his breath, sharply. "It's his signal," he said, voice dropping to a whisper "How can this be?"
"Who was this so-called Anson fellow?" demanded the inspector. "Did you verify his credentials with your insurer?"
"I thought you did," said Tiller.
The sculpture's little moustache was slightly crooked. Even in my shock, I wondered what Detective Anson looked like without it. Nondescript enough to glide unnoticed through a Cornish train station — as unassuming as Harold Basil in the guise of 'B. Thornton'?
Giles slipped on a pair of gloves and opened the envelope, carefully. He studied it, then showed it to me. "This is meant for you, I think," he said. "It doesn't mean anything to us."
I stepped closer and read its lines. 'This will be enough to save you friend, I trust. We are now even. I hope we will remain friends. Until we meet again. Regards, the Master Thief La Fleur.
"Have your constables up here, on the double," he barked to Sergeant MacEntire, who had just reached the top of the stairs. "We need this room searched from top to bottom."
***
At lunch, I could hardly concentrate on my assignment in the dining room. The nature of tidy cups and saucers, antipasto platters for guests wanting only a quick bite to eat, was nothing important when compared to the ransacking of the room above. Would they find anything? If they did, it would mean certain guilt for the former Mr. Thornton, and the two suspects in Port Hewer's station would finally be cleared.
I fetched a new jar of mustard for the buffet, and was on my way to replace it, when I felt someone's hand on my arm. It wasn't the guest who made the request, or a diner in need of a replacement fork or special salad dressing, for the cloud of perfume and clink of multiple wrist bangles announced Alistair's presence before I turned my head.
"Are you quite busy?" she asked.
"I have to serve a couple of tables that just arrived," I said. "Do you need something from the kitchen?"
"Only a word with you," she said. "Come to my table as soon as you are given the chance — I'll be the one by the window." She indicated a table for two, its top decorated with a bud vase containing two orange African daisies. "Bring a pot of tea, if you will."
"I'll be there in ten minutes," I promised. I placed the mustard beside the piccalilli and horseradish, and tidied the plate of water crackers with Ligeia's Caribbean-spiced chutney. Someone had crunched several crackers to dust — probably the incorrigible child from the bus tour, who screamed his demands throughout the dining room before his parents removed him.
I wondered if Alistair was going to tell me she was leaving today, since the auction was cancelled. I would miss her ... even though I had never pictured my meeting with the eminent author being anything like our conversation in the wee small hours. Reality had to return eventually, I knew. Jokes regarding every famous author who came, about the silliness of my story ... I should probably prepare for that sort of ribbing from Riley and Gomez, at least. It was the end of Maisie Kinnan. I might as well become Maisie Clark in earnest now.
I brought the requested pot of tea, but Alistair motioned for me to sit down in the chair across from her. I glanced around, but I didn't see Brigette or Mrs. Finny watching, so I sank down on its cushion.
Alistair laid her hand on a stack of papers beside her leather portfolio and notebook. "I read your book," she confided to me, in a low and thrilling voice.
"Already?" I said. I couldn't help feeling surprised. "You've only had it for a day."
"I know! But I couldn't put it down. And I'll tell you why, darling girl. This —" she patted the stack of pages, which belonged to my newly-printed manuscript, apparently, " — could well do for Edgar Allan Poe what Gregory Maguire did for L. Frank Baum."
I laughed. "You're not serious?" I said. This must be a little joke to break the tensions, one I would undoubtedly find far less funny when the serious critique began.
"Serious? Child, I simply must tell you that I am impressed. True, it's very rough, and you lose all sense of your dramatic timing in the European portion of the story, most glaringly with Annabel's supposed death ... and the historic element's a bit squiffy, I've no doubt ... but we are not talking about a piece written with the intent of education, but entertainment. And that is what you accomplished, darling. You entertained me."
My novel had entertained Alistair Davies. Author of fame and genius, whose novels had held my imagination captive from the first paragraph of A Dark and Glorious House nearly ten years ago, and every time I had opened its pages since. The dramatic emphasis on these final three words as uttered by her hit their mark like arrows to the bull's eye.
"Really?" I said, albeit unbelievingly. I would be breathless in a moment. "You're not saying that to be kind, are you?" Maybe the famous authoress couldn't bring herself to crush a budding novelist's dream after all.
"I was enthralled by the possibilities for your long-ago Annabel, and for William, and for the haunting gothic crypt by the sea and the horrible Raven Man's symbolism. And your poor lovely dreamer with her unrealized talent in post-colonial America," said Alistair, with a solemn expression in the face of my skepticism. "It was a sensational story, and with a bit of polishing, I think it could make its debut in the world of youthful epic tales admirably."
"Me?" I said.
> "Yes, you," laughed Alistair. "I think your novel could be especially popular with young readers, specifically the young female audience hungry for new adventures. Your Annabel is a heroine for their age. Both Annabels, that is."
"Thank you," I said. "Did ... did you make notes on it for me?" Notes from Alistair Davies would be extraordinary enough to posses in themselves, but I needed them on a practical level, now that I had heard this advice. I looked at the stack of papers which must surely contain something more than just my words.
Alistair removed her hand from the manuscript, and leaned forward to meet my eyes. "I would like very much to take you under my literary wing, as it were," she said. "Would you permit me to renew my offer to be your mentor — to guide you to the next stage of your novel's destiny?"
Breathlessness had come upon me now. I felt as if my heart itself stopped like the ticking of a clock, if only for the second these words reached me. My dream from last summer was dangling right before me, the one I had folded up and tucked away months ago. It was as if someone had turned the lock in that bureau drawer and lifted out its contents again.
"I realize the timing's a bit later than what you had in mind when you wrote me the letter. I hope it's not too late in your mind for this novel to have its chance," said Alistair. "Certainly you must know that in the world of literature, it's never too late."
She was offering me everything. The mentorship, the Ink and Inspiration prize — the chance of a lifetime, I had once believed — was mine at last. Sidney would never believe it in a million years. Neither would Wallace Scott, frankly.
"Of course," I said. "I'd be crazy not to say 'yes,' wouldn't I? I — I don't know what to say. I can't believe you wanted to read my book, much less help me publish it. It's ... beyond flattering." My words were poorly-chosen, but I couldn't find better ones. "Where do we start? With notes? With me revising chapters?"
"Never mind notes, I say. Practical conversation is always best. You'll realize it, of course, when we've had a chance to really chat. There will be plenty of time in the coming weeks, especially en route to Paris. You'll love it there — there's an exclusive little niche for artisans where all the best writers find inspiration. It would be an excellent place to dive into your story's little flaws."
