by Diane Janes
‘And the story of the diamond,’ Fran prompted gently.
‘The diamond. Of course. Fred told me the story of the diamond years ago, when his girls were still quite small. It seems that when he was travelling about, making his fortune, he fell in with a French fellow, by the name of George. He and this George became good friends, and I think they got into some scrapes together, one way and another. George had been involved in the Kimberley diamond rush, and he’d done pretty well, but that kind of thing always attracts scallywags and ne’er-do-wells and Kimberley was no exception. George was a fool when it came to gambling, Fred said. Couldn’t resist a card game and had lost a great deal of his money through it. By the time he decided to return to his wife, he’d got himself into a lot of trouble with professional gamblers and card sharps and he was afraid they would find out that he was still in possession of not only quite a lot of cash, but also his one remaining diamond, so he asked Fred to take care of it for him.’
‘Gosh,’ said Eddie. ‘He must have really trusted Grandfather to do a thing like that.’
‘Indeed.’ Mrs Headingham inclined her head in agreement. ‘I understood that Fred and George were great friends. However, they travelled back to Europe separately, with George going on a few months ahead of Fred. When Fred returned to London, he wrote to the address which George had given him but he received no reply. He wrote again, but still nothing came. He wrote a third time and still there was nothing. He even asked the French Consulate to see if they could trace George, but they were unable to help. So he held on to the diamond, thinking that sooner or later, George would track him down and ask for it back.’
‘But he never did?’
‘No.’
‘I wonder why not,’ mused Eddie. ‘And why Grandfather never told us that the diamond was sort of held in trust, for someone else. I mean to say … we all just assumed that it belonged to the family.’
‘Eventually,’ said Mrs Headingham, ‘I think your grandfather operated a sort of finders-keepers policy. I sincerely believe that he made an initial attempt to track his friend down, but later on, I think a combination of factors encouraged him to – well, let us say – forget, that the diamond didn’t really belong to him.’
‘What factors were those?’ asked Fran.
‘To be candid, Fred did not like the French. His friendship with George, was, he always said, the exception which proved the rule. I believe there had been some problem, or rivalry, with a Frenchman, out in Africa, and there had always been a certain degree of suspicion about the French, among Englishmen … a sense that they would do an Englishman down, given half a chance … and of course he blamed France for dragging us into the Great War. Not that it was really France’s fault at all. The final straw were the French mutinies in 1917, when our brave boys were fighting on French soil and the French just threw in the towel and gave up, so to speak.’
‘But George had been his friend,’ Eddie protested.
‘I suppose the memory of that friendship had faded as time passed and other silly prejudices took its place.’ Mrs Headingham sighed. In a different tone altogether, she said, ‘I must ring for tea. It’s angel cake today. I’m sure you will enjoy it. Elsie has a very light hand.’
‘Tell me, Mrs Headingham,’ said Fran, anxious not to become overly distracted by the refreshments. ‘Can you recall George’s other name?’
‘Ah, now there you have me. Fred mentioned it a few times, I suppose, in the course of talking about their times together, but I have to admit that my memory is not what it was. Now when it comes to poetry I can still bring plenty of that to mind, particularly Lord Tennyson and good old Longfellow, and of course one never loses the multiplication tables … but names! Now let me see … It was a name that put you in mind of something else … a French name, of course … Poison … no, but something very like it, I think … Poussin?’
‘Poussin? Wasn’t he a composer?’ asked Eddie.
‘A painter,’ corrected Fran, as Mrs Headingham hesitated, doubt etched across her expression.
‘Yes,’ the old lady said at last. ‘I think I must have been thinking of Poussin.’
‘Well, well,’ said Eddie, when they were driving back along the road towards Exeter. ‘There we were, thinking that we were hunting for a missing family treasure and it turns out not to have been our family treasure at all.’
‘The question of actual ownership probably wouldn’t have bothered the thief – if there was one,’ said Fran. ‘But of course, the existence of this George – or more likely Georges – Poussin throws up another possibility.’
‘Does it?’ Eddie sounded surprised.
‘According to Mrs Headingham, your grandfather held on to this man’s diamond, when he’d promised to give it back.’
‘But only by default. I mean, he intended to give it back in the first place, surely?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Fran. ‘But suppose you were Georges Poussin and you didn’t get the diamond back. Suppose your grandfather wrote to the wrong address and didn’t get a reply, but all along Georges Poussin was still waiting for his old friend to get in touch with him at the right address to give him back the diamond, but he never heard a thing?’
‘Umm … yes, I see what you mean. Old Poussin would be pretty mad.’
‘Precisely. Maybe mad enough to take the diamond back and push his old friend over the cliff into the bargain.’
‘Good gracious, do you really think so?’
‘Oh!’ Fran gasped, as the car had to swerve to avoid a couple of geese that had wandered into the road. Recovering quickly, she said, ‘It’s a possibility. Though this Georges Poussin must be as old as your grandfather …’
‘Perhaps he had a brother? Or an avenging cousin?’
‘A son would be more likely. Let’s see, that would make it someone around the same age as your father and his siblings.’
‘Someone who’d married into our family – that’s what it would be in a detective yarn,’ said Eddie. ‘Except there’s no one who’s French. They’ve all got impeccably Anglo-Saxon heritage apart from Aunt Dolly, who’s lineage is probably Anglo-Saxon, but definitely not impeccable. East Peckham, more likely. What a shame Mother doesn’t employ a French lady’s maid. A French maid would be the obvious suspect. She could be called Hortense.’ He began to sing, ‘Hortense, you’re not so frightfully dense, the police just won’t see sense, though we all know you’re gu-i-i-lty …’
When Eddie had subsided again, Fran said, ‘I think that my enquiries here are pretty much exhausted. After the weekend, I will have to go home.’
‘Oh, but you don’t have to go home at all,’ Eddie protested. ‘Everyone loves having you here, and besides which it’s the Vyvian-Smythes’ party next weekend, and I was relying on you for a partner. Do say you will at least stay for the party? It’s always tremendous fun.’
‘I have really trespassed on your family’s hospitality quite long enough – and besides which, I have to go and see my mother and,’ Fran added, rather desperately, ‘my cat.’
‘Do you have a cat? I’ll bet your cat would enjoy life in Devon. I’m very fond of cats – you’ve never mentioned that before.’
‘There are lots of things I’ve never mentioned,’ Fran said. ‘That’s the point, you see – we hardly know anything about each other at all, and …’
‘All the more reason for you to stay on and give us time to get to know each other better. Dearest Fran, I’m trying not to pile on the pressure, but I’m absolutely mad about you. Please don’t go without giving me some hope. At least promise that you’re still thinking about things.’
‘Oh, I am … thinking about lots of things. But I simply can’t stay on here indefinitely. Being away from you – from here – doesn’t stop me from thinking. In fact, it will help, you know, a little bit of space and distance often puts things into perspective.’
‘And I can’t even persuade you to stay for the party?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I ough
t to leave on Monday.’ I will definitely not stay for the party, she thought. There must be no more lingering kisses and moonlight drives, because one’s judgement could so easily get clouded …
TWENTY-ONE
When Fran announced her imminent departure at dinner that evening, it was greeted with universal disappointment. Lady Louisa bemoaned the fact that she had still not found time to guide Fran through the hothouse and show her the orchids, Roly claimed that life would be much duller without her and Eddie fixed her with such a mournful look that she had to escape by focusing resolutely on the contents of her soup plate.
‘But you haven’t finished your investigation,’ Mellie protested.
‘No, but I believe I’ve spoken with everyone I need to speak to here. I still have to get in touch with Miss Roche and I would also like to have a chat with your uncle Charles and his wife, if that’s possible.’
‘And then will you know?’ asked Mellie. ‘What happened to the diamond, I mean?’
‘Perhaps.’ Fran hesitated. ‘You see, after we’ve – I mean I’ve – spoken with everyone, I usually, sort of … think about things until everything falls into place. Only, of course,’ she hurried on, ‘as I said right at the start, I can’t guarantee that I will manage to find out anything at all.’
‘But Fran has found out heaps of things already,’ Eddie said. ‘Including – wait for it – the diamond doesn’t belong to the Edgertons at all!’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Mellie’s astonishment was echoed all around the table.
‘Eddie and I went to Sidmouth today,’ Fran said. ‘And according to Mrs Headingham, who is an old friend of your husband’s grandfather, he told her years ago that the diamond belonged to a friend of his, a Frenchman called Georges Poussin.’ She watched their faces for any flicker of recognition, but all that greeted her was astonishment and doubt, part of which, she thought, was probably due to her casually mentioning Mrs Headingham’s name over dinner as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
‘If it belonged to this friend, what was Grandfather doing with it?’ asked Henrietta.
‘He was supposed to have transported it back to Europe on behalf of this Georges Poussin, but when he returned to England and wrote to Monsieur Poussin, he received no reply and in fact he never heard from him again.’
‘But that must have been a good fifty or sixty years ago,’ said Roly. ‘This other fellow’s probably long since dead.’
‘I don’t believe anyone could come and claim something so long afterwards,’ mused Mellie.
‘Do you think there was ever anything in writing?’ asked Roly.
‘Perhaps,’ said Fran. ‘Who knows?’
‘Well, well,’ said Roly. ‘That’s a flanker and no mistake. I wonder why Grandfather never mentioned it to any of us.’
‘Probably taking the same line as you, old man,’ said his brother. ‘Assumed this Poussin chap had long since snuffed it.’
‘Really, Eddie!’ protested his mother.
‘Oh, come on, Mater, it isn’t as if any of us knew the chap. And everyone at this table – with the exception of Fran – is sitting here, thinking what a dashed nuisance it would be, if the chap turned up now and claimed what we’ve all assumed to be a valuable family heirloom.’
‘Pretty worthless at the moment, as we don’t know where it is,’ Roly pointed out.
‘Do let’s talk about something else,’ said Mellie. ‘Did you see in the paper that Harry Durley rode three winners at the point-to-point last week? He’s having a frightfully good season.’
Dinner passed off without any further reference to the ownership of the diamond and as the party moved into the drawing room for coffee as usual, Henrietta linked her arm through Fran’s and drawing her casually to one side, so that they were well to the rear of the group, said, ‘We’re all so sorry that you’re leaving. It’s been such fun having you here, you feel like one of the family already.’ She squeezed Fran’s arm gently, before relinquishing it.
‘I don’t know what Eddie has told you—’ Fran began, in a low, hurried voice, but Henrietta cut her off.
‘I assure you, darling, that Eddie hasn’t said a thing. He doesn’t have to. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I just wanted to let you know that I’m sure we’d all be very happy for you. Mother would soon get over your being divorced, if she thought it guaranteed that Eddie would give up any silly notions about becoming an entertainer.’
‘Really, Henrietta, I …’
‘Hush,’ the other woman put a finger to her lips. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Not another word will be said.’
The others were already in the drawing room, where Mellie was proposing a card game, while Eddie had already lifted the piano lid and was improvising a tinkling melody. Fran caught herself noticing how handsome he looked in profile before she firmly turned her attention to Mellie’s query about the rules of Rummy. There was always something to do, here at Sunnyside House, she thought, as she put the prospect of lonely evenings at Beehive Cottage firmly to the back of her mind.
The family retired early that evening, as they all planned to attend morning service at the parish church the next day. Sitting up in bed, swathed in the gentle glow of the bedside lamps, Fran tried to assemble her thoughts. Nothing had been said, one way or the other, about the suitability of her going to interview Charles and Dolly Edgerton. A potentially delicate undertaking, given what she knew about the way Charles Edgerton had spent the afternoon in question. There was also old Mr Edgerton’s nurse, who might have something useful to tell her, in spite of having been away from the house at the critical time. It was funny, she thought, that in all the hours she had spent talking with the household here, hardly anyone seemed to have seen or heard anything useful at all, apart from Imogen’s hearing a pair of unidentified feet, walking along the path which ran between the terrace and the edge of the cliffs. That it should be Imogen, of all people, who might hold a genuine clue!
Tomorrow, Fran decided, she would attempt to speak with Imogen again, in the hope that something more might emerge.
Her opportunity arose unexpectedly, for she found herself standing next to Miss Billington and Imogen after church and Miss Billington remarked that it was looking like a nice afternoon for a walk. ‘Imogen and I always have a walk on a Sunday afternoon,’ she explained, for Fran’s benefit.
‘Always,’ repeated Imogen gloomily. It was evident that she considered the weekly walk an imposition.
‘Instead of going with Miss Billington,’ Fran suggested, ‘would you like to go for a little walk with me? You could show me the grotto and the places where you’ve found hidden treasure. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
‘Much more fun,’ said Imogen decidedly.
Over lunch, Fran had to dissuade Eddie from accompanying her and then reassure Mellie that a half hour of the child’s company would not be some kind of dreadful torment. Even when the time came for handing Imogen over in the front hall, Miss Billington asked whether Fran was ‘absolutely’ sure that she did not want her to go along, almost as if Imogen was some slightly dangerous creature, from whom Fran might need protection.
Imogen herself, clad in a green tweed coat and matching hood, which fastened under her chin, looked distinctly grumpy as they set out, but brightened up at once when Fran said, ‘Why don’t we turn our walk into a sort of game? Let’s play at being detectives, shall we?’
‘Yes, please! Will we be Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson?’
‘Oh no,’ said Fran. ‘I think we should be Sherlock Black and Dr Imogen, don’t you?’
‘What are we going to detect? Has there been a horrible murder like in the stories?’
‘I think we should go on the trail of a real mystery. The mystery of the mysterious footsteps.’
‘Ooh.’ Imogen sounded impressed. ‘But is that a real mystery?’
‘Yes, it is. Because you heard them yourself, do you remember, up in the woods, on the same day that your grandfather d
ied?’
‘Oh, those footsteps.’ Imogen sounded deflated. ‘They were just ordinary footsteps. That isn’t a mystery.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ persisted Fran. ‘It’s a proper mystery, because you don’t know whose footsteps they were and because … because later on you found some treasure, and I suspect that the person who made the footsteps might have been on the trail of the treasure too.’
‘But they didn’t get it, because I found it first!’
‘Precisely, Dr Imogen. You foiled the villain who was trying to steal your treasure. Now the first thing we have to do, is return to the scene of the crime, so I need you to take me to the place where you heard the footsteps and show me where you were hidden at the time. Can you do that?’
‘Of course,’ the child said, immediately picking up her pace as they headed past the drawing room windows and on to the terrace. ‘Should I fetch my magnifying glass so we can look for clues?’
‘Not just now,’ said Fran. ‘Speed is of the essence, Dr Imogen, for the game is afoot, and we don’t know who else might be on the trail.’
She was relieved to see that Imogen accepted this readily and continued to lead the way along the path which took them through the edge of the east woods and towards the cliff edge where old Mr Edgerton had fallen to his death, all the while keeping up an enthusiastic commentary about bloodhounds and footmarks and a variety of other potential clues. ‘Wouldn’t it be useful if we found a scrap of the villain’s clothing, stuck on a bramble?’
‘Yes, it would, but let’s not waste time looking for that just yet. Oh, where are we going now?’
‘We turn off here.’ Imogen paused to look over her shoulder. ‘This takes us up towards the grotto.’
‘And is this where you heard the villain pass by?’ asked Fran, who had envisaged the encounter taking place on the path which ran directly from the terrace.
