The Missing Diamond Murder

by Diane Janes

  ‘We have to keep Mabel out of it,’ said Fran. ‘Eddie will have to take her back to her car as soon as possible. If he doesn’t get back in time, then we’ll have to go without him. That still leaves three of us.’

  ‘Oh, I say! I’m not at all happy about that.’

  ‘Hush, don’t shout, Eddie, she’s probably on her way back. You have to do as Fran says. We can’t afford to have someone blundering about after we ought to be in position. If you were seen that would completely put paid to the plan.’

  The discussion was brought to a close by the return of Mabel, who settled herself back into an armchair and announced, ‘There now, no one is in the least worried and I can stay out as long as I like.’

  Poor Mabel, Fran thought, as the young woman made her farewells less than half an hour later, while Eddie held open the drawing room door for her and Jamieson impassively helped her into her outdoor clothes. It could not possibly have escaped her notice that her hosts were in a hurry to see the back of her.

  In the end it was a close-run thing. Fran, Henrietta and Roly were gathered at the door which led out on to the terrace, and on the point of departure when they heard the roar of Eddie’s returning Riley and in no more than a minute he had raced through the house to join them.

  ‘Make sure that top button is fastened,’ his sister chided him. ‘You don’t want to leave a great swathe of pale shirt showing.’

  ‘Listen to my sister, a veteran of undercover operations,’ Eddie laughed, but there was a nervous edge to his voice and he did up the button as instructed.

  ‘Now remember,’ said Roly, with his hand on the doorknob, ‘although there’s still almost an hour to go, we don’t do any talking and we don’t put on our torches unless we absolutely have to.’

  ‘Just be careful on these paths,’ hissed his sister, already dropping her voice to a whisper, though there was as yet no need. ‘We don’t want anyone to end up missing the edge of the path and breaking an ankle.’

  ‘Teach your grandmother,’ retorted Roly. ‘I know these paths like the back of my hand.’

  The conduct of their mission had been planned in detail. Firstly Eddie (who was nearest the switch) turned out the light to avoid their exit being easily observed in the unlikely event that anyone was watching the house from the garden. Then, after a few seconds standing in the dark passageway, Roly opened the door and the others followed him on to the terrace, sticking to the previously agreed order: Roly, Henrietta then Fran, with Eddie bringing up the rear.

  Roly led them along the terrace and round the side of the house, where lights still shone from behind the curtains of the servants hall. The path which skirted the rockery benefitted from some of this light, but the steep steps beyond it were in darkness and Fran was glad to grasp Henrietta’s outstretched hand and to hear her whispered count of, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six and that’s the top.’

  As Roly began to lead them along the narrow path in single file, Fran realized that she would have to put her trust in him and walk blindly, for there was no chance of seeing where she was going. Gradually, however, as they left the artificial brightness of the house behind them and she followed the tall, slim shape of Henrietta, which moved steadily no more than half a yard ahead of her, Fran began to make out the shapes of trees and bushes. She had grown up in the countryside and knew that it was never truly dark – or quiet – though it seemed eerily so tonight, with the sound of their feet as audible as if they had been deliberately stomping, rather than attempting to remain unheard.

  The route to the grotto seemed twice as long as it had been when they’d visited it that morning to finalize their plans, but just when Fran thought they must have taken a wrong turn, she realized that they had arrived on the edge of the little clearing at last. Henrietta turned and gestured silently in the direction of the dark mound which represented the grotto, and Fran responded with a series of exaggerated nods. She stood for a moment to get her bearings as the others melted away into their predetermined hiding places among the surrounding trees. It was, she estimated, at least half an hour before the rendezvous was due. They had done well, arriving in plenty of time in spite of the unscheduled interruption from Mabel Trenchard, and during their cautious approach they had done nothing to betray their presence. All that remained was for her to take up her own position in the grotto and wait.

  She stepped forward with an arm outstretched until her fingertips came into contact with the rough stones from which the little folly was built. Feeling her way along, she sidestepped around the outside of the building until her fingers encountered the rough wooden post which framed the left-hand side of the door. The grotto was inky black inside and she wondered whether she dared risk her torch for a second, just to get her bearings, but decided against. Even the smallest light escaping from the opening at the front might be visible for a long way into the woods. Instead she raised her hands again, in order to avoid walking into anything, took another exploratory step forward and in so doing, collided with a solid object.

  The hands came at her so fast that there was no time to cry out. One clamped across her face, almost immediately finding and silencing her mouth, while the other brought something hard and startlingly cold against her neck. The voice in her ear was so low that she could scarcely make out the words. ‘I have a knife. If you struggle or make one sound, I’ll use it to cut your throat.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Move.’ The voice in her ear was accompanied by a shove which took her whole body in the direction of the doorway.

  Only too keen to cooperate, Fran stumbled forward, kept upright by the force of the body pressed against hers, her direction of movement mostly determined by the arm clamped around her head and mouth. The voice in her ear was unrecognizable, so low that it could have belonged to a person of either sex, but she knew that her captor must be Monica Roche, the woman she had lured here with her anonymous note. A dangerous woman she had thought to outwit. What a stupid, stupid thing to do!

  What, if anything, she wondered, could the others see as she and Miss Roche emerged from the grotto and into the clearing? A light breeze had begun to rustle through the trees, masking the sound of their feet. Would any of the others even be watching the entrance to the grotto at that particular moment and, if they were, how much would they be able to make out of the two dark figures against an even darker background?

  They were out in the open now, moving unsteadily across the clearing, with not a sign that any of her companions in tomfoolery had noticed them. But perhaps that was a good thing? One shout or sudden move from anyone and Monica could make good her threat, without greatly delaying her subsequent escape into the woods.

  Though she had only passed that way a handful of times, Fran recognized the gentle downward incline of the track they were taking. Soon they would reach the wider path which ran between the terrace and the clifftop shelter. The path along which Monica had pushed old Mr Edgerton to his death. With a sickening sense of certainty, she understood what her captor intended. Miss Roche must have assumed, just as she had intended, that the blackmail note had come from Miss Billington. She had made her way to the rendezvous early – had perhaps been waiting there for hours – ready to seize the governess the instant she walked in. And she still thinks that I’m Miss Billington, thought Fran. It’s too dark for her to see, otherwise and she never gave me a chance to say anything, which would have given the game away at once. She thinks that getting rid of Miss Billington will put her in the clear. Imogen may know something but no one ever takes any notice of Imogen. Miss Roche thinks that if Miss Billington has an accident – just like old Mr Edgerton – and there are no witnesses and no apparent suspicious circumstances, then she will still be in the clear.

  The plan to trap Monica Roche had seemed so clever and the Edgertons had fostered her vanity in it, all of them convinced that she had some sort of genius for solving mysteries and therefore willingly embracing her ideas for providing the evidence that was needed. (The
very fact that Monica Roche had answered the anonymous summons was compromising, but Fran had also hoped to involve her in an incriminating conversation in the hearing of her hidden witnesses.) Only now, when it was far too late, did Fran appreciate the degree to which the whole enterprise had been fraught with personal risk. Hadn’t Tom and Mo both warned her repeatedly about getting herself into dangerous situations? Well, in a very few minutes, she would be literally poised between the devil and the deep blue sea, and she couldn’t see any possible way out. As the sound of the breakers at the foot of the cliff grew louder she vainly strained her ears for any sign of the rest of the party, who were presumably still staking out the grotto, in the mistaken belief that she was safely waiting inside.

  If only she could get Miss Roche talking, she might be able to persuade her of the pointlessness of shoving another individual off the edge of the cliff by explaining that as the individual in question was but one of half a dozen people who now knew the truth, it would be far better to spare herself the trouble of a second murder and focus instead on making good an escape; but her captor’s hand still silenced her and she was afraid that any attempt to struggle would lead to Miss Roche fulfilling her threat. Cutting her intended victim’s throat on the path would be messy, and the discovery of a murdered governess would lead to a great many more questions than another death from a fall, but even so Miss Roche had no way of knowing that she would be suspected. So far as she was concerned, the meeting in the grotto was a secret known to herself and Miss Billington alone.

  Fran’s eyes had long since grown accustomed to the dark, so she was aware that they had joined the main path from the terrace. To her right she could make out the shapes of the trees which grew in the garden below, and ahead of her she became aware of the pale nothingness where the land ended in a drop of perhaps eighty to a hundred feet. The sound of the water washing over the unforgiving rocks at the foot of the cliffs was growing louder. She knew she had to do something before they reached the edge, for Monica Roche was a tall, strongly built woman. In a pushing and shoving contest, which relied on physical strength, the smaller woman would inevitably come off second best.

  Fran began to inch her hand towards her coat pocket. Her small torch was a puny sort of weapon, but perhaps it was better than nothing.

  ‘Stop! Who’s there?’

  A figure seemed to rear up out of nowhere on the path ahead of them. Fran was so startled that she let out a muffled squeak of shock. Monica Roche seemed equally at a loss, jerking to a halt and in the next moment shoving Fran forward so hard that she cannoned into Henrietta Edgerton and sent them both flailing to the ground. Miss Roche took the opportunity to turn tail and race headlong back the way she had come, but within seconds the sound of her progress came to an abrupt halt and was replaced by muffled cries and the sounds of a struggle.

  ‘Look out!’ Fran cried. ‘She’s got a knife.’

  ‘Never fear.’ Hen’s voice was remarkably calm under the circumstances. ‘She’ll be no match for Eddie and Roly. Come on, let me help you up. Are you all right? You know,’ she added as she reached out a hand and hauled Fran to her feet, ‘it sounds like quite a scrap. I think we might be needed after all.’

  Henrietta set off at a sprint to cover the twenty yards or so which separated them from her brothers, while Fran – who had never run towards ‘a scrap’ in her life – hastened after her. They arrived to find a dark jumble of figures scuffled on the ground and it did indeed require the effort of all of them to subdue Nurse Roche, who had already been forcibly disarmed, though not before she had managed to strike a couple of blows at Roly, which were fortunately mitigated by his tweed jacket and thick Aran knit jersey. Matters were eventually brought to a halt when, having been comprehensively pinned down, the woman on the ground simply stopped struggling.

  ‘Now then,’ said Roly, ‘you may as well come back willingly with us and wait at the house for the police. Otherwise we’ll just have to keep you out here in the cold until reinforcements arrive.’

  ‘Very well. Kindly stop shining that torch in my face and I’ll do as you say and come quietly.’ Fran was astonished to note that Miss Roche spoke in the same dispassionate tone she had employed in the teashop. Apart from being a little out of breath, no one could have guessed that she had just been involved in a life-and-death struggle.

  Henrietta, who had switched on her torch, obediently swung the beam away from their captive and in doing so, saw a red stain on Roly’s sleeve. ‘You’re bleeding,’ she said.

  ‘It’s only a scratch,’ said Roly. ‘But someone had better go on ahead to telephone for Dr Deacon, as well as the police. You never know, it might need stitching.’

  ‘To the charge sheet of murder and attempted arson, we’d better add malicious wounding,’ commented Eddie, as he and Roly cautiously relinquished their holds enough to allow Monica Roche to get to her feet.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Fran said, turning to Henrietta, ‘is how you managed to get ahead of me on the path?’

  ‘Oh, that was easy. As soon as I spotted you coming out of the grotto, I knew that something must have gone wrong. Then I realized that it wasn’t one person, but two, very close together, and I guessed that whoever had hold of you might be armed, so I signalled to the boys to follow at a distance. Once I saw that you were definitely headed for the edge of the cliffs, I knew I had to risk intervening. Don’t forget that we grew up in these woods, stalking and tracking one another. We often played here after dark. I know all the short cuts.’

  ‘In addition to which,’ Eddie put in, ‘Hen won the cup for the hundred-yard sprint at her school three years in a row, so she can easily outflank anyone if she puts her mind to it.’

  The brothers had positioned themselves one to either side of Miss Roche, taking her arms in readiness to frogmarch her back to the house.

  ‘One moment,’ Miss Roche said. ‘I think my shoe has half come off. Let me straighten it.’

  She moved with surprising agility for such a large woman, twisting away from her captors as soon as they relaxed their restraint on her and dashing back the way they had come. The benefit of surprise had given her a yard or two on them, but not for nothing had Henrietta won that silver cup. She drew level with Miss Roche within a few strides and attempted to arrest her progress, while the other woman forged on towards the cliff edge, dragging Henrietta with her like a terrier clinging to a rag.

  ‘Hen, be careful!’ Roly’s warning rang out in the same moment as Monica Roche shrieked and disappeared, leaving a single slim figure silhouetted against the sky.

  Fran was the first to reach the place. She put out a hand and realized that Henrietta was shaking.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Henrietta whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to push her over.’

  ‘That isn’t what happened,’ Fran said firmly. ‘If you hadn’t let go and pushed her away, you would have gone over too. She meant to take you with her.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘There is no but. I believe that she fully intended to jump. She knew the other alternative was the hangman’s rope. When you caught up with her, she thought she would take one more Edgerton with her – a final act of revenge.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘I bet it all took some explaining to the police.’

  Fran had taken advantage of the weather to set up a couple of deckchairs in the garden of Beehive Cottage and Mo was reclining in one of them, using her bump to balance a cup and saucer in a singularly unladylike manner.

  ‘It took hours. Shall I make some more tea? Or would you rather have some lemonade? Ada has just made her first batch of the year and it’s jolly nice. Gosh, but it’s good to have you home.’

  ‘It’s good to be home. The voyage back wasn’t half so much fun as going out. I couldn’t even enjoy a few cocktails. Do you know, it’s the strangest thing, but I just cannot abide the taste of alcohol, since I’ve been preggers. I do hope the effect isn’t permanent.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t b
e. Once you’ve had the baby, the local wines and spirits merchants will be able to breathe more easily again.’

  ‘Well, I sincerely hope so. In the meantime, I will try some of Ada’s most excellent lemonade and just have to imagine that there’s some gin in it.’

  While Fran disappeared into the kitchen, Mo idly watched a butterfly negotiate the canes which had been erected in readiness for runner beans to climb them. By the time Fran emerged, bearing a tray containing a jug full of misty yellow liquid and two tumblers, the butterfly had finished its investigation of a couple of stray stinging nettles which were growing against the dry stone wall and fluttered away out of sight.

  ‘So I can see how you lured her back to Sunnyside House,’ Mo said, seamlessly continuing an earlier conversation. ‘What I don’t understand is how you worked out that the murderer was Monica Roche.’

  ‘I was on the train when I finally realized the truth. There’s nothing to beat a long train journey for thinking things out, always providing you don’t have to share a compartment with …’ Fran reigned back what could have been a tactless remark and continued, ‘… with anyone kicking up a row. As you know, I had gradually convinced myself that the culprit was Dolly Edgerton. She had a motive and she didn’t have an alibi for part of the afternoon. She had also been staying at Sunnyside House when a fire had started in old Mr Edgerton’s room and I could see how easy it would have been for any member of the household to slip downstairs and use the poker to drag a log out of the fireplace and on to the hearthrug, then head back up to bed.’

  ‘That’s a pretty risk strategy, surely? I mean the whole house might have burned down. How close is the nearest fire engine?’

  ‘It is risky,’ Fran agreed. ‘But I assumed that the culprit would lie in bed long enough for the old man’s room to fill up with smoke and then pretend that something had woken them up just in time to give the alarm, which would ensure that everyone else got out safely and the fire could be contained.’