The Missing Diamond Murder

by Diane Janes

  ‘Hello, Mr Wheaton, Miss Snell. Hello, Tom,’ she said. ‘We missed you at the Christmas meeting.’

  ‘Competing commitments, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I nearly didn’t make it today, but I particularly wanted to hear this chap Draper.’

  ‘I’m afraid the weather may put some people off,’ Miss Snell put in, and this of course was a signal for everyone to comment on the way the temperatures had plummeted again and whether or not they could expect more snow.

  ‘Can people begin to take their seats, please?’ Ruth Winterton called fussily from the platform. Fran carefully managed not to be sitting immediately adjacent to Tom, instead sitting nearby and starting up a conversation with someone else. Tom, she noticed, had similarly engaged one of his immediate neighbours. How horrid it was that they could not even sit next to one another as they had done so often in the past. Even small pleasures were to be denied her, thanks to the nasty, suspicious minds of others.

  The professor was extremely interesting on the subject of recent trends in poetry, even if he had relatively little to add to their knowledge of Robert Barnaby himself, so there was a good deal to talk about when the luncheon interval arrived. Some members had brought sandwiches to consume in the hall, but quite a group were heading out to find sustenance at nearby tearooms and a local hotel and Fran managed to tag along with the group which included Tom. As they entered the Quality Tea Rooms she found herself momentarily right next to him. Seizing her opportunity, she stopped as if suddenly recalling something to mind and said, ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Here is that book which I promised to lend you ages ago. I popped it into my bag on the off-chance that you would be here.’ As she was speaking, she unclipped her handbag and produced a slender volume of Fitzgerald’s essays, which she had brought to read on the journey, and held it out in his direction.

  To her considerable relief Tom accepted the book without question, just as if he had been expecting it, saying, ‘How kind of you to have remembered. Thank you so much.’ He slipped the book into the capacious right-hand pocket of his jacket, without even glancing at the cover. Though they sat down together, their lunch of ham and tomato sandwiches was chaperoned by the quartet who shared their table and when it was time to return to the hall for the afternoon section of the programme, Tom excused himself on some pretext or another and instead of returning with the rest of the group hastened away in the opposite direction.

  Back at the hall, where Miss Winterton had press-ganged some of those who had remained for a picnic lunch into rearranging the chairs into groups, everyone was invited to participate in an elaborate parlour game, in which teams calling themselves by different character names from the Barnaby books competed with one another by performing mimes and answering questions about Barnaby’s works. Tom arrived back just in time to join the team calling itself Dr Gruffbluster, which was soon in hot competition with the Black Shadows, led by Richard and Julia Finney, and the Hugo Hegginbottoms, which included Fran. After an hour or so of lively rivalry and a not inconsiderable numbers of disputes about the accuracy or otherwise of one or two of the answers, the Black Shadows were declared the winners amid much laughter and cheering from the livelier element in the room. With the day’s programme completed, the meeting began to break up. Fran was in the act of donning her coat when Tom crossed the hall and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, produced what was obviously a book encased in a brown paper bag. ‘While we were eating lunch I remembered that I had the latest Christie in my car,’ he said. ‘I think you said at lunch that you haven’t read it yet, so I thought you might like to borrow it?’

  ‘Oh – thank you.’ Fran took the book and popped it into her handbag without looking at it. As she did so, she noticed Sarah Ingoldsby was watching them with a sour look on her face. There had been no love lost between themselves and Sarah Ingoldsby since the Magic Chair affair. Might she be the source of the anonymous communication to the court?

  Only when she was safely back on the train and had put several miles between herself and the nearest member of the society did she dare to investigate the package further. When she opened the bag – as gingerly as if it contained a bomb – her suspicions were immediately confirmed, for the paper bag did not contain a brand-new edition of The Seven Dials Mystery but instead her own, slightly worn, second-hand copy of Tales of the Jazz Age. She opened the book at the title page and found folded inside the same piece of paper that she had inserted earlier that morning. It had been a risk, but fortunately Tom had caught on immediately. He must have gone off by himself after lunch and read her brief note.

  Someone has sent a letter to the court suggesting that there is a close friendship between us. I felt you should know. Please forgive any apparent unfriendliness on my part, but I cannot afford to give rise to any rumours whatsoever. I am afraid the court probably has the power to question even fellow members of the society. For this reason I think it best if I do not attend any meetings in the foreseeable future.

  Tom had written his own message on the back of the same sheet.

  The Edgertons have been in touch again, asking for help with their family mystery. Why don’t you go down to Devon and have a go at solving it? It would be the ideal excuse for you to absent yourself from the next couple of Barnaby events. I will stay right out of it and turn up at Barnaby meetings as usual. Their telephone number is Frencombe 29.

  As she read the note, Fran went hot and cold at the thought of how easily they might have been caught out. Suppose that note had fallen out of the book and been discovered by someone else? On the other hand, she could not help smiling at the cheek of it. They hadn’t spent so much as a moment completely alone together, and yet they had still managed to engage in some private communication. She experienced a brief thrill of guilty pleasure, cut short when she imagined attempting to explain such apparently childish antics to Mr Long if they were ever found out. She must burn the note as soon as she got home. It would not do to leave it lying around where her daily help, Ada, might see it, for Ada would naturally have to answer honestly if she was ever faced with questions about her mistress’s private life.

  If push came to shove and she herself were to be questioned about any recent communications between herself and Tom Dod, she had already come up with a formula which would enable her not to break an oath – she would answer by saying that she had only spoken with Tom Dod at the Liverpool meeting and had neither telephoned him nor sent him any letters through the post. A court interrogator would surely not think to ask specifically about any notes handed over in a tearoom under the very noses of independent witnesses.

  In the meantime, what about the Edgertons and their ‘family mystery’? They had already approached Tom once, several months before, having heard via the chief constable of Nottinghamshire something of his and Fran’s success in resolving the case in Durley Dean. Tom had first written to her about it last year, but she had immediately rejected any suggestion of becoming involved. Confronted with the question afresh, she found herself hesitating. First of all, she could not deny that a ‘family mystery’ sounded intriguing, particularly to someone who was pretty desperate for any kind of interesting diversion, but secondly there was Tom’s point about having an excuse for missing Barnaby Society meetings. It would soon be time to commit to the annual Barnaby Society weekend gathering at Furnival Towers – an event that both she and Tom had always attended in the past. If she could arrange a trip to Devon to coincide with that weekend … Now she came to consider it, the Furnival Towers get-together was taking place earlier than usual this year to allow for Easter, so it would be easy to plead confusion over the dates … Did she really need an excuse for not being at a Barnaby Society event? On the other hand, said a voice in her head, did she really need an excuse to accept an invitation to spend a few days at a nice country house in Devon?

  THREE

  By the time Fran had changed trains four times, snagged a stocking on a stray packing case which some fool of a porter had left lying about on the p
latform at Birmingham New Street and almost missed the connection at Newton Abbot altogether, excitement at the prospect of a trip down to Devon had evaporated somewhat. For much of the journey, the carriage windows had been almost entirely obscured by drizzle, but as they left Newton Abbot station and steamed south-west, following the river valley away from the town, the train emerged from under the rainclouds and shafts of sunlight lit up the lush green countryside, which looked quite unlike the pale, wintry fields at home where spring had still scarcely arrived.

  Making arrangements for the visit had been simple, because she soon discovered that Tom had already been in touch with the Edgertons and paved the way for her. When she telephoned Frencombe 29, she had spoken with someone called Roland Edgerton, who seemed only too eager for her to travel down at her earliest convenience, promising, once a time and date had been agreed, that someone would be there to meet her at the station.

  She wished that she had felt able to speak with Tom directly, so that she could have asked him more about the Edgertons. Roland Edgerton sounded very well spoken on the telephone and his family were acquainted with a chief constable in another county, so it could be safely assumed that they had money and moved in good circles. She hoped that they were not frightfully grand. Their address gave nothing away. Sunnyside House, Frencombe, Devon, might turn out to be anything from a castle to a Victorian brick semi-detached. She would probably get a clue, she thought, from whoever turned up to meet her. Roland Edgerton had implied a third party – which might be because he didn’t drive, of course. Perhaps they had a chauffeur, or maybe it would be the village taxi service?

  Now that the sun had come out, the air was noticeably warmer as Fran stepped on to the platform and began to wend her way between a group of milk churns and a couple of flat-capped old men, who seemed to be in no apparent hurry to make their way on or off the train. As she passed them she heard the unfamiliar Devon burr, so very different from the accents she was accustomed to hearing at home.

  ‘Mrs Black?’ The tall, young man who stepped forward to address her was wearing a cap too, but it was one of the broad, fashionable ones and, in contrast to the two older men on the platform, his voice was suggestive of privilege and a private education.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Frances Black.’

  ‘Eddie Edgerton, at your service.’ He extended a hand, and on receiving hers in return pumped it up and down so enthusiastically that she was quite relieved when he let go.

  ‘I say,’ he said, ‘you’re not at all as I imagined. I’ve never met a lady detective before. I was expecting some sort of old boot or blue stocking.’

  ‘I’m not really a detective,’ Fran said hastily. ‘I’ve just been a bit lucky at solving a couple of puzzles, I suppose.’

  ‘Balderdash! Roly – I’m his younger brother, by the way – says that Claude Foxton told him you were fearfully clever over that business in Nottinghamshire. Saved a fellow from the gallows when the police had got it all wrong. And were frightfully modest and discreet about it all, too! Is this the only luggage you’ve brought? Travelling light, eh? Well, jolly good, hand it over and we’ll hop along to my motor.’

  Relieved of her suitcase, Fran found herself being swept along at a pace which did not much lend itself to talking. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to say. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know who Claude Foxton is.’

  ‘Claude Foxton? Involves himself a bit in motor racing these days, I believe. He also happens to be the nephew of Lieutenant Colonel Lemon, the chief constable of Nottinghamshire, and he was at school with Roly – Claude, that is, not old Lemon. The two of them were at some sort of old boys’ dinner back in the autumn and Claude was telling Roly all about that poisoning business … or, hang on, was it something to do with an old lady getting bonked on the head? Well, anyway, there was skulduggery involved somewhere along the line. We gathered that you’d had a hand in sorting it all out, and naturally that set Roly thinking about our own situation. Here we are … in you get.’

  He held open the passenger door of a bright red, highly polished Riley for her. ‘Hope you don’t mind driving with the roof down. In my opinion, it’s the only way to travel if it isn’t raining.’

  Once Fran had climbed in, Eddie Edgerton closed the door, placed her suitcase behind the front seats, walked around the back of the car and rather startled her by vaulting straight over the driver’s door without bothering to open it. ‘Hang on to your hat,’ he said cheerfully as he gunned the engine into life – an exhortation which would definitely have been necessary if she had not been foresighted enough to anchor it in advance with a couple of sturdy hatpins. The car took off from the station at high speed and within less than half a minute they had left all signs of habitation behind and were hurtling along narrow, winding lanes between high Devon banks covered with primroses. Fortunately they met no other vehicles on the road.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me something about the mystery which you want my help with,’ Fran ventured. ‘You see, my friend, Mr Dod, was able to tell me nothing except that it involved circumstances which had not been reported to the police and required the utmost discretion. When I spoke with your brother, Roland, he just concentrated on the arrangements for my getting here.’

  She saw Eddie Edgerton hesitate. ‘I know all about it, of course,’ he said. ‘But I rather feel that I should leave the explanations to my brother, Roly – him being the head of the family and all that.’

  ‘I see,’ said Fran – who of course did not. ‘Then perhaps you could at least tell me a little bit about your family? Unless you are the youngest by some considerable margin, then your brother, Roland, must be quite young to be the head of the family.’

  ‘Roly is thirty-two next month – which reminds me, I must get the old chap a present. You don’t happen to have any suggestions, do you? I’m a completely hopeless fellow when it comes to things of that kind. I have absolutely no imagination.’

  Though slightly taken aback to be asked for advice regarding a gift for someone she had never met, Fran could not help but like Eddie Edgerton, who had a winning smile and the kind of direct manner which appealed to her. She judged him to be somewhat younger than herself: in his middle twenties probably. His fair hair was rather longer than the fashionable norm and his face was tanned. He looked like someone who enjoyed plenty of fresh air and exercise in a warm climate.

  ‘You were telling me about your family,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, righty-ho. I suppose the family starts off with my grandfather – the one who died last year. He was Frederick Edgerton. My father was also Frederick, but everyone called him Frank, so as not to confuse him with my grandfather. Father has been dead for several years so Roly was Grandfather’s immediate heir. Roly is actually Frederick Roland, named after Father and Grandfather … well, not the Roland part. I think Mother just liked that name. Anyway, he’s always been called Roly.’

  ‘In order to distinguish him from your father and grandfather,’ Fran prompted.

  ‘That’s right. Roly is Mother and Father’s eldest.’

  ‘What about your mother? Is she dead too?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. She’s still very much with us; you’ll meet her this evening. You’ll like Mother. Everyone does. Where was I? Ah, yes. After Roly they had Henrietta, known to everyone as Hen. Then finally they had me – the runt of the litter.’

  ‘What happened to your father and your grandfather?’

  The question seemed to delight Eddie, who lifted his hands clear off the steering wheel and brought them down again with a slap which caused them to swerve briefly towards a solid-looking oak tree. ‘By George, you are a sharp one! You knew at once, didn’t you, that all this has something to do with Grandfather’s death?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Fran protested. ‘I was just trying to build up a picture of your family.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t fool me, Mrs Black. I could tell you were frightfully clever the first minute I saw you. I say, do you like jazz? You don’t happen
to play piano, do you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Fran was completely thrown off by the question. ‘The assignment isn’t musical in any way, is it?’

  Eddie laughed again. ‘Not at all. I just thought that if you played – well, anything really, a trumpet or a ukulele, we could have some jolly sessions together. In the evenings, you know. When you’re not sleuthing.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a great success on the piano. I never got much past five-finger exercises and the ‘Old Folks at Home’. I certainly never graduated to the trumpet or the ukulele.’

  ‘Ah, well, not to worry. Here we are – these are our gates.’

  Eddie swung the car expertly between a pair of tall metal gates which had been opened to their widest extent, simultaneously slowing the engine to a muted roar for their cruise down a drive which descended gently between trees, beyond which Fran caught occasional glimpses of the sea.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘You live right on the coast.’