by Joan Smith
After some more charges from the constable and protestations from my father, it was settled the bill at the inn would be paid on the way out.
"I'll have to arrange for the return of the hired carriage to London,” Papa said, his voice loud. I took the notion he spoke this for my benefit. I was to return to London in the carriage, to see Mr. Kirby.
"Are you alone?” the constable asked, just before they left.
"Do you see anyone with me?” Papa asked, in an ironic vein, for even in this he could not bring himself to speak a lie, so incurably honest was he.
"Beaudel didn't mention anyone else,” the constable said, and contented himself with that bit of confirmation.
There was a strained cessation of speech while I heard the suitcase being pulled from the top of the clothespress, the rattle of a hanger as the coat was removed to put in it. After a few minutes the constable said, “We haven't got all day. Hurry up."
"I am ready. Naturally I'll want a solicitor to represent me."
"You can arrange that from the jail."
Then the door was opened, they left, and closed it after them.
Immediately, I nipped into his room to look for—I hardly knew what. A message, a clue, a something to tell me what in the world was going on. I found a handkerchief bearing a well-embroidered (by me) D in the corner, and beneath it, carefully concealed for me, a portion of Mr. Kirby's letter. It was the bottom half, with his address. The top part of the message had been torn off. “In case of any trouble, I can be reached at the Clarendon Hotel. Leave a message.” It was signed J. V. Kirby. I read it twice.
What trouble could be expected to arise in the simple examination of some jewelry and stones? My father had made hundreds of such examinations during his life, without once running into trouble. Why had it been expected this time? I wished the rest of the letter were there. My father had expected some trouble, which hinted he knew more than he or the bit of letter told me. And if he expected trouble, why had he taken the job? Upon consideration, it seemed ten pounds was excessive for examining the jewels too. Oh, but it was not enough to repay for this day's work!
I hurried back to my room, stuffed the address and the handkerchief into my case, threw my clothing in after them, and went downstairs to catch our carriage, before it left without me. I expected to feel the arm of the law grab me as I went, but no constable was waiting. I got the carriage in plenty of time, and settled in for some hard thinking during the trip to London. It was imperative to be in touch with Mr. Kirby as soon as possible. The trip would take several hours. It would be dark before I reached the metropolis. Then, before we left Chelmsford, my heart nearly broke with grief.
As the carriage swept through the middle of town, I saw my father being led into the jail by the constable. His head was bent. The jail had bars. He did not glance up to see who was in the carriage that bowled past. He looked defeated, and I was never so furious in my life. I was anxious to confront Mr. Kirby, who had brought this disgrace and misfortune down upon our innocent heads.
A jewel merchant's reputation is the most precious thing he owns. A single whiff of scandal would ruin us.
Chapter Two
I went directly to the Clarendon Hotel when the carriage arrived in London. Disappointment welled up inside me when the clerk told me Mr. Kirby was out, and he had no idea when he would return. To wait for him alone at a public hotel late at night was impossible, but presumably he would be back to sleep. I left a note, couched in terms of the greatest urgency, telling him my father was in jail in Chelmsford, and desired his immediate help. He knew my home address, but to prevent any possibility of a muddle, I gave it to him again, and requested that he see me before leaving for Chelmsford. My intention was to cadge a ride back with him.
Then I went home to our apartment to wait. I told our housekeeper, Mrs. Farell, all about the situation, and requested her to tell Beeton, in case my father was gone for a few days. Going to bed did not so much as occur to me. I wasn't the least bit tired, in spite of the exertions of the day, and the lateness of the hour. I freshened my toilette, repacked my little bag with fresh linens, and sat at the window, looking down on the street below for the approach of Mr. Kirby's carriage. For the first hour, I waited fairly patiently, but as midnight came and went, I became not only impatient, but worried.
What sort of a man was this Kirby, that he stayed out roistering till past midnight? Had he not got my note? I most particularly asked the clerk to see he got it. Paid him a shilling to do it. The interval between twelve and one seemed to last an eternity. There is nothing like expecting a thing to happen every second to make the hours drag by. The time between one and two went equally slowly. Between two and six, the hours passed more quickly. I slipped into a light, troubled doze, to awaken as the fingers of dawn lightened the sky. My neck had a nagging crick in it; and both my legs and feet were sound asleep. A million needles pricked them when I tried to stand. The street below was still empty. Not so much as a linkboy or milk cart was in evidence.
As the pangs of hunger made themselves felt, I remembered I had missed my dinner the night before. Mrs. Farell was bustling about by that time, and brought me some breakfast. It was seven by the time I finished. In the emergency that prevailed, seven did not seem too early an hour to have Mr. Kirby roused from his bed, no matter at what hour he had gotten into it. By seven-thirty I was back at the Clarendon in a hired cab, my packed bag with me, to be told by a different clerk that Mr. Kirby was not in. He had checked out the night before.
"That's impossible! He was still registered last night when I was here."
"You'd be the young lady who left off a note? He got it, Miss. I gave it to him myself."
"When did he receive it?"
"As soon as he came in."
"Did he leave me no word, no forwarding address, nothing?"
"He didn't, Miss, but he said he'd be back in a few days. He got the message, so there's no need to worry your head."
He was looking at me so suspiciously by this time that I blushed for what the man was thinking. I believe he thought Kirby was a beau who was trying to give me the slip. I left, as there was nothing more to be gained from him. I went home and cudgeled my brains as to my next step.
I must be an optimist. What else could account for my taking the idea Kirby had immediately dashed off to my father's rescue? I was not only an optimist, but a spendthrift as well. I went to Papa's shop (or consulting office), rifled the strongbox to get the required funds in hand, hired the cheapest rig I could hire, and dashed off posthaste back to Chelmsford. With some little apprehension I would be recognized at the Stag and Hounds, I went to the other fairly decent hostelry in town, the Shipwalk, which is not as absurd a name as you would think on first glance. Ship is a corruption of sheep. The place was perhaps built on or near a former sheep walk. To conceal my identity, I took the name of Miss Stacey.
There was never the least doubt in my mind all along that I did the proper thing. My father was in trouble, and I must be there to help him. But of what possible help was a Miss Stacey, who did not even reveal her relationship to Mr. van Deusen? Yet to reveal who I was would have the effect of throwing me into jail with my father. I would do him no good there. I hired a cheap room, not knowing how long I must stay, but knowing very well how few guineas I had to spare.
I picked up the local newspaper from force of habit, as my father always did when he was registered at a hotel, and went to my little cubbyhole to think. The only thing that occurred to me, and it was but a thread of hope, was to discover whether Mr. Kirby had already come to town. He was not at the Shipwalk, they told me, and after sending a boy over to the Stag and Hounds, I soon discovered he was not there either.
Afternoon was drawing to a close by this time. Weary, dispirited, frightened and ravenously hungry, I had my meal sent up to me on a tray. The Shipwalk was not the sort of establishment where an unaccompanied lady dared to expose herself belowstairs with dark coming on. To reward myself for my
total failure, I had half a bottle of wine sent up with the meal. With nothing to be done all evening but sit alone in my room, I dawdled over my food, scanning the Chelmsford paper as I did so. It was largely a waste of time. They carried the week's local news, with a few scraps of national doings.
Although it was a weekly, it bore that day's date, which led me to search for the story of the diamonds missing from Glanbury Park. There on page two, I saw my father's name staring out at me, for the world to read. “Suspected in the affair is Mr. Josef van Deusen, a gem consultant” (that at least would please him!) “from London, who was at Glanbury Park at the time. Mr. van Deusen is known in London and internationally by the name ‘Diamond Dutch'.” There was no mention that he had originally been accompanied to Chelmsford by his daughter, Mieke. For small mercies, let us be thankful. But if the constable had slipped up on that detail, it was entirely probable the proprietor of the Stag and Hounds would inform him, after reading this story.
It was a long article, the whole of it of great interest to me. I read it through twice, to acquaint myself with the details of the family at Glanbury Park. The gentleman Papa had visited was a Mr. Charles Beaudel, uncle and guardian of the owner of the place, Sir Algernon Beaudel, who was a student at Cambridge University. The jewelry, however, did not belong to Algernon. It was the inheritance of the younger son, Lucien, six years of age. The father of the two boys was the late Sir Giles Beaudel, former governor of the province of Madras, in India. He and his wife had both died during an outbreak of some plague in India. It was rather a romantic tale. When the plague broke out, the two boys had been put on a ship home, but the governor was already ill at the time, and his wife elected to stay behind and treat him. She too contracted the fever. They were buried together in India.
The boys were left under the guardianship of the governor's brother, Charles Beaudel. The collection of jewels was only mentioned. Sir Giles had been a small collector before his appointment to India. Some medieval and Renaissance pieces from Europe were the beginning of it. The lack of emphasis on the jewelry did not surprise me. Collectors will often shun publicity, fearing to attract the attention of thieves.
There was a paragraph on Lady Beaudel, the governor's wife. She was the daughter of a noble family who traced its roots back to the Plantagenets. Lord Sacheverel was the present patriarch of the family. He appeared to be an elderly gentleman, with several sons holding high positions in the Foreign Office and the Army. One was in India.
After two readings, I was more familiar with the background, but no farther ahead as to what my next step should be. When the servant came to take away my tray, she glanced at the paper. “I see you're reading about our famous robbery, miss,” she said, smiling pleasantly. She was a young, red-cheeked wench, open and friendly.
"A shocking thing,” I said, wondering if she might have any information to add to my knowledge.
"It is, but mind it comes as no surprise to us here in town. No more than was to be expected, says I."
"What do you mean?” I asked, my ears stretching.
"Between the bold young hussy old Mr. Beaudel has married and her carrying on with the lads behind his back and the jewels being hardly locked up at all, it's no surprise at all they're gone. What amazes me is that it's a London gent that took them. I made sure she'd make off with them herself. I'll tell you this, miss, I've seen Mrs. Beaudel in public with diamonds on her neck that don't belong to her in the least."
She had picked up the tray and was heading for the door.
"Wait! Why don't you sit down a minute and rest, my dear? You look fagged to death."
"My legs are a mite tired,” she admitted, but she did not take a seat. She rested one end of the tray on the edge of the dresser and sighed.
"Have the police looked into the possibility of Mrs. Beaudel's having taken the diamonds?” I asked, making it a casual, conversational question.
"She couldn't have done, could she? They found them on the old gent. Diamond Dutch, he's called. Though they do say he got rid of some of them before they picked him up. More are missing than he had rattling in his pocket is what I heard said."
I waited with bated breath to hear the police were looking for Diamond Dutch's daughter, his accomplice. Miraculously, no mention was made of it. “That's true,” I murmured.
"Still, I think there's a lot more to it than meets the eye. What about Miss Little, for instance?” she asked, with a sage nod of her head.
"Who is Miss Little?"
"The governess up at the Park."
"What had she to do with it? Her name wasn't in the paper."
"They wouldn't have known when it was written. She didn't disappear till today."
"Disappear? What do you mean?"
"She's gone. Vanished. Left without a word to anyone, and from what I ever heard, she's not the sort would do a thing like that. Very attached she was to the little lad."
"Did you know her?"
"Not personally, but the whole town's buzzing with the story. She's been gone since noon today, miss. There's some as say she was seen talking to a gentleman at the edge of town, got right into the carriage with him, a stranger, this morning. She might have been talked into running off with him, for they say she took her clothes and all that with her from the Park. Then there's others as say she was killed, and her things done away with to cover it up. I haven't heard it said yet she was in on the job with the old gentleman, Diamond Dutch, but it will be said before long. His daughter did come to Chelmsford with him, but it seems she left before he got back from the Park, so unless he tossed the diamonds out the window of his carriage to her, she can't have anything to do with it. Then he would have tossed them all while he was about it, wouldn't he?"
"This is the first I've heard of a daughter,” I said, turning aside to hide my nervousness.
"It's what Billie McKee from the Stag and Hounds told me, but two lies leave his mouth for every word of truth. They'll be in a fine pickle up at the Park, with the jewels missing, and no one to mind the wee lad."
"They'll have to hire another governess,” I said automatically, but even as the words were said, I felt a giddy stirring in my insides. I was suddenly eager to be rid of the servant. I had some serious thinking to do.
"They'll be advertising right away, I fancy. The hussy that runs the house won't want the bother of a kid. He'll cramp her style too much. Well, I'd best be off. Is there anything you need, while I'm here, miss?"
"Nothing, thank you."
I opened the door for her. She smiled over her shoulder and hastened off with her tray. I was too excited to sit down. I paced the short distance from window to door, scheming how I could get Miss Little's job. There was a deal of scheming to be done. They would not hire Diamond Dutch's daughter. Indeed, they would want references from a Miss Stacey, which she would be hard-pressed to produce.
There were a few letters to be written to arrange the matter. My first was to our housekeeper, Mrs. Farell, to inform her I had minded her three children for the past two years, and given her complete satisfaction. She was to confirm this if the Beaudels should enquire.
The newspaper account was cut out and enclosed to help explain this bizarre request. Next I wrote a prim and proper note to Mr. Beaudel, for I had taken a great aversion to his wife. The note explained that I was on my way home to my father's place in Norfolk, making him a doctor so that I would sound respectable. I told a sad tale of Mrs. Farell's children having been sent away to school, and my job being terminated. I had learned at the inn of his difficulty, and wished to have the opportunity of discussing the position of governess with him.
Lastly, I tried to think of some way of letting my father know what I was doing. To inform him by letter was too dangerous. A prisoner's mail might be read before it was delivered. Sending a verbal message with an inn boy was equally treacherous. I was still pondering this problem when I went to bed.
Chapter Three
Mr. Beaudel must have been extremely eager to
hire a new governess. He was at the Shipwalk to interview me before noon the next day, bringing Lucien with him. I had spent a worried morning walking past the jail, looking at the barred windows, hoping for a sight of my father, without any luck.
I had no preconceived idea of how Mr. Beaudel would appear. He was a tall, gentle man, in his middle years, his brown hair receding in twin arcs from his forehead. He was rather pale, and obviously worried. He did not look at all the sort to have been interested in such a dasher as his wife.
The boy was a surprise. He didn't look like a boy at all. There was some gravity in him that made him seem a miniature old man. He was small for his age, daintily formed, with silken black hair that any maiden would envy for its soft waves. His lashes were long and sooty black, his eyes blue, his face pale, and his expression very serious. He held onto his uncle's hand, but his attention was all for me. His eyes wandered over me in that frank, disconcerting way children have, missing nothing.
Beaudel had no sooner introduced himself than Lucien spoke up. “My governess ran away,” he said. He had a clear, deep voice, with some unique sound to it. Not a lisp, but a peculiar way of holding his tongue that approached a lisp. “Maybe we will hire you, if we like you."
"And if Miss Stacey likes us,” Beaudel told him, with a tolerant smile to me, to excuse this outspokenness.
The upshot, before many minutes, was that we all three liked each other very much indeed. This may have been egged along by Beaudel's desperate need of a governess and my determination to be the one selected. He did not even jot down Mrs. Farell's address. He was a pretty good judge of character, he said. I held every facial muscle firm at this absurd statement. I told only such lies as were necessary, and regretted the need of telling any.
Beaudel was not at all what I expected. I had hoped I might dislike him thoroughly. My job was to prove him either a fool or a scoundrel. If he had not engineered the deception of concealing diamonds in my father's pockets, he had been hoodwinked by someone who had done so. I had already lit on his wife as the culprit, and was extremely curious to meet her.
