The Worth of Rubies, - a Victorian Short Mystery
with bonus chapter of PASSIONATE
By Anthea Lawson
Noble ladies are falling victim to a string of brazen public jewelry robberies, but the inquisitive Miss Isabelle Strathmore suspects more is afoot than mere theft…
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
THE WORTH OF RUBIES
PASSIONATE bonus chapter
OTHER WORKS by Anthea Lawson
ABOUT the AUTHOR
Smashwords Edition Copyright 2013 Anthea Lawson
Cover photo by Serg Zastavkin, background by Nataliia Bezditna
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Anthea also writes Young Adult fantasy as Anthea Sharp – http://www.antheasharp.com
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The Worth of Rubies
A Regency Short Mystery
by
Anthea Lawson
London, 1848
It was an astonishingly warm night, for May. Isabelle Strathmore sat on the velvet-upholstered chair beside her mother and plied her fan, trying not to breathe too deeply of the perfume-rank air in Lady Frampton’s salon. At least the windows were open, letting in the occasional waft of breeze.
The heat and closeness of the room did not seem to trouble her brother, Richard, the star performer of the evening’s musicale. He played the piano confidently, the bittersweet strains of Chopin’s Farewell Waltz curling around the two-dozen or so listeners. The ones who were awake, at any rate.
A pity so many of the gentry could not appreciate good music. The gaslight sconces had been extinguished, leaving only a candelabra beside the piano. The dimness, combined with the warmth, had proved too much for some of the gathering’s less-enthusiastic listeners. Isabelle had counted three distinct snores within ten minutes of the program’s commencement.
Richard would play Beethoven next, and roust the sleepers. She smiled at the thought.
Another bit of breeze managed to slip in through the Palladian windows, and Isabelle took a deep breath. There was a heavy coolness now in the wind, mixed with the usual taste of London soot, something that hinted of ferocious rain. Perhaps the unseasonable heat was about to break.
Beethoven and a thunderstorm—wouldn’t that be lovely?
The candles flickered, the light gleaming over her brother’s fair hair. He seemed oblivious, his fingers striding along the keys. Then another flurry of wind came, lifting the pages of music and swirling them to the floor like refugee birds. Richard paid them no mind—he played on, the notes secure in his memory.
One of the nearby snorers awoke with a snort. Servants moved quietly to the windows, ready to close them if a storm descended.
Richard played the final run of notes, descending to a mournful chord. As if on cue, a sudden gust of wind stormed through the open windows. The candles blew out at once, cloaking the room in twilight. There was a smattering of bemused applause, broken by a babble of voices. Around Isabelle, several people had taken to their feet in alarm. Her mother set one hand on her arm.
“One moment,” a voice called—their hostess, Lady Frampton. “Please, remain calm. We shall have light in a moment.”
There was a scurry of barely-seen movement as the footmen scrambled to comply, then the flare and tang of phosphor as the first sconce was lit. Isabelle blinked at the brightness. The crowd was beginning to settle, when a piercing cry cut the air.
“My necklace!” A large woman in a red gown stood, hands at her neck, her expression wild. “Someone has stolen my rubies!”
An immediate hubbub broke out. Lady Frampton’s calls for calm went unheeded. The shrill queries of the other ladies overlaid masculine tones of gruff consternation. From the corner of her eye, Isabelle caught movement—a tall figure slipping out into the hallway. Had there been someone standing there, beside the door?
Yes, she recalled him now—a frowning, black-haired man who had put her in mind of one of the most disagreeable fellows of her acquaintance. His abrupt departure was beyond suspicious, but she had no idea who he was. When she rose in an attempt to follow, her mother took her elbow.
“Stay close, Isabelle,” Lady Strathmore said.
“But—”
“The musicale is over. Come, Richard looks a bit bewildered. You may explain to him why stolen rubies take precedence over Beethoven.”
Isabelle sighed and cast a glance over her shoulder. The empty hallway held no answers.
~*~*~*~*~
The next morning, sunshine streamed through the east-facing windows of the breakfast room, making the yellow-striped wallpaper almost too bright to bear. Isabelle squinted, her mind still fuzzy with sleep, and let out an invisible sigh. London was too hot, and she longed to return to their country estate. Which they would—as soon as Papa had finished his presentations for the Royal Botanical Society. She slipped into her seat and accepted a cup of tea from her mother.
“It would appear Richard’s performance last night was an eventful one,” Papa said, shaking his copy of the Times. “It has even displaced the headlines decrying the opening of Queen’s College for Women. I’m sorry I missed the spectacle. Stolen rubies? Who knew that such dreadful and base criminals were lurking among the upper gentry?”
Isabelle added a lump of sugar to her tea. The silver sugar-tongs clacked loudly when she set them back down.
“Do the police have any suspects?” Isabelle’s mother inquired, calmly buttering her toast.
“Not a one. They are hard at work, of course.”
“Of course,” Richard said, around a mouthful of eggs. “I wish I could have at least finished the performance.”
“Do not speak with a full mouth, dear,” their mother said. “I’m afraid a crime overshadows a musicale in every case.”
“People have no sense of priority.” Papa set the newspaper beside his now-empty plate. “I’m certain my lecture at Kew Gardens today will be sadly eclipsed by gossip and speculation. If not about the theft, then about the college. No-one wants to hear of hybrid orchids.”
“Pensley will,” his wife said. “You know he’s been following your work. We will all go, at any rate.”
“Must we?” Isabelle asked, while Richard let out a groan.
“Yes. We shall depart promptly at two-o-clock.”
~*~*~*~*~
The lecture hall at Kew Gardens was filled, the soaring space echoing with conversation. Uncomfortable chairs were set on the black and white marble floor—most of them occupied. Despite his humbleness, Isabelle’s father, Sir Edward Strathmore, was quite popular. Their botanical expedition to Tunisia last year, and triumphant return with an undiscovered flower, had fired London’s imagination. Of course, the addition of bandits and exotic trappings had only served to inflame Society’s interest.
No matter the subject, Sir Strathmore’s lectures were not to be missed. Even if most of the attendees were consumed with discussing the events at last night’s musicale. Isabelle caught snippets of theories raised, then dismissed. The air was
rich with speculation: secret pickpockets, desperate men disguised as upstanding members of the gentry, quick-fingered maids. There seemed plenty of villains to choose from.
Isabelle, Richard, and their mother sat—as usual—in the front row. Isabelle idly pleated the folds of her blue muslin skirt and scanned the crowd, searching for a dour expression under black brows. If she were trapped in London, she might as well entertain herself with trying to search out the suspect she had glimpsed last night.
She spotted several black-haired young gentlemen, some of them looking to have just risen from their beds, but none were the man she recalled seeing at the musicale. She had nearly given up, when a figure beside the door caught her eye. Was that him?
“Excuse me, mother,” Isabelle said, jumping to her feet. “I must visit the powder room.”
“Do not tarry too long,” Lady Strathmore replied. “Your father will be taking the podium soon.”
Isabelle nodded and hurried toward the back of the hall. Sadly, by the time she pushed through the crowd and reached the place she’d spotted her suspect, he was gone. She couldn’t spend more time searching. Perhaps after the lecture, she could coerce Richard into helping her look for the fellow. Brothers had to be good for something, after all.
She returned to her chair just as her father emerged from the back with his stack of notes. He brushed past the potted palms lining the wall, mounted the steps, and took his place at the mahogany podium. The crowd hushed in anticipation.
The lecture went splendidly—Sir Edward had a flair for storytelling and the ability to make his listeners feel immediately at ease. The applause afterward was long and genuine. Once it died down, the audience made a general surge toward the stage. Isabelle turned and beckoned to her brother, a surreptitious flip of her hand.
“We’ll meet you at the back of the hall,” she said to her mother.
Lady Strathmore nodded, continuing her conversation with a nearby friend.
“What?” Richard said when they were out of earshot.
“I saw someone, last night at the musicale,” Isabelle said. “A tall man with black hair, a long nose, and a rather grim expression. He disappeared right after the ruby necklace was stolen.”
“A suspect?” Richard grinned and raised his brows. “Marvelous. Shall we split up? I’ll take the left side of the room.”
“You wouldn’t recognize him.”
“At least I can find all the grim-looking black-haired men in that direction. Youngish, you say?”
“A bit older than us, but nothing like father’s age. And I think he had a dark blue coat.” She frowned, trying to coax more details from her memory.
“All right. Let’s meet back here to compare notes in five minutes.”
Isabelle glanced down at the silver watch pinned to her bodice, and nodded.
It was only three minutes later when a panicked cry rang through the hall. Isabelle hastened over to the knot of people in one corner, her boot heels clacking over the marble floor. A brown-haired young woman stood there, her face pale, surrounded by concerned onlookers. An older woman, her mother or chaperone, held her hand.
“It was my best bracelet,” the young lady wailed. “Oh, I never should have worn it—but I did so want to show it off! The sapphires were lovely. And now it’s gone forever. Stolen.” She bit back a sob.
Another jewelry theft?
Isabelle glanced wildly around, but there was no sign of the black-haired man—if indeed it had been him she’d seen earlier. Across the rows of empty chairs, Richard met her eyes and shrugged.
Drat. It was hard to solve a mystery when the suspect proved so unobliging.
~*~*~*~*~
The next afternoon, Isabelle coerced her brother into accompanying her on a bonnet-shopping expedition. At the fashionable heart of London, Bond Street was bustling with shoppers: a pair of ladies in striped silk walking dresses, their overburdened footmen scurrying behind with packages, a gentleman in a shockingly bright green coat and top hat, a pinch-faced governess escorting a flouncing miss. The noise of iron-bound carriage wheels over the cobbles vibrated through Isabelle, and the smell of fresh manure vied with the ever-present London soot.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” Richard asked as she paused outside a milliner’s shop. “You’ve purchased two bonnets and a hundred ribbons already.”
“Eight ribbons,” she replied, distracted by the front window display.
Were there actual hats underneath all those feathers and faux fruits? Cherries tumbled like a red waterfall over the brim of what would otherwise have been a quite fetching headpiece, and there was another hat so bedecked with vines and songbirds it would no doubt be attacked by falcons the moment the wearer stepped outside.
“We should buy Mother the one decorated with narcissus and chrysanthemum,” her brother said. “Wouldn’t that outrage Papa—spring and fall flowers mixed together? Ridiculous!”
“Papa thinks most hats are ridiculous. Still…” Isabelle smiled and turned toward the door of the shop.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a shock of black hair beneath an elegant top-hat. Pausing, she took a second look. The man tilted his head, and recognition shivered through her. That long nose was unmistakable.
“Richard,” she said, grabbing her brother’s arm. “Up ahead. That’s the man.”
His brows shot up. “Hurry—we must keep him in sight.”
Richard started off in pursuit. Isabelle hung on to his elbow, and he gave her an exasperated glance.
“Don’t look like you’re hurrying, for goodness sake,” he said.
“Your legs are longer than mine, so I have to take quicker steps.”
Still, Isabelle tried to lengthen her stride. They were keeping their quarry in sight, though they trailed him by half a block. The man moved with purpose, overtaking the more idle shoppers in his way. At the next corner, he made a sudden turn. By the time Isabelle and Richard reached the spot, he was gone.
“Damnation,” Richard said, glancing to either side.
“Don’t let Mother hear you swear.” Isabelle scanned the street. “Look—there’s a jeweler’s shop near the end. Do you think he went in there?”
“It can’t be that easy,” Richard said. Nonetheless, he linked his arm with hers and tugged her down the cobbled street.
Isabelle gave her brother a quelling look. “Do attempt subtlety, Richard. I am shopping for a ring. No, perhaps a locket.”
“One covered with diamonds?” His eyes lit. “An excellent plan. You be the bait. I’ll lurk nearby and when the thief attempts to snatch the locket from your neck, I’ll leap out and apprehend the fellow.”
“Hm.” She considered for a moment. “I’m afraid, even if we pool our money, we won’t be able to afford anything nearly tempting enough. Did you see the size of those rubies that were stolen?”
Her brother let out a sigh. “Well, come along. At least we can see if the fellow’s inside.”
The jeweler’s shop, despite being located just off the fashionable district, had a slightly ramshackle air. Richard opened the door for her, and Isabelle, heart knocking in her chest, stepped into the shop.
It smelled of silver polish and musty velvet. Ahead, a glass-fronted case held an array of snuff boxes, while a long counter to their left displayed jewelry: a few necklaces and bracelets, a lonely ring.
And there, leaning over the counter in deep conversation with the white-haired proprietor, was their suspect. She elbowed Richard in the ribs, then edged closer, trying to overhear.
“… on Saturday. It’s of crucial importance—” The black-haired man broke off.
He sent her a glare, but there was something furtive about his eyes. His gloved hands balled into fists.
Isabelle dropped her gaze and attempted to appear innocent.
“Of course, my lord,” the proprietor said. “It will not be a problem.”
“Excellent. Then I bid you good day.” Their suspect gave a sharp nod, then pivoted and bru
shed past them. The door closed firmly behind him.
It would be too obvious if they followed—especially since he’d gotten a good look at her.
“May I help you, Miss?” the jeweler asked, peering at her through thick-lensed glasses that made his pale eyes appear small and watery.
“Have you any plain lockets?” she asked—though in truth, she wanted to demand if he had a necklace dripping with bright red rubies, or perhaps a sapphire bracelet.
Still, that would be a matter for the constabulary, provided she and Richard could give them more than guesses and speculation. She sighed and ran her finger along the edge of the case. A smudge of dirt marred the tip of her glove.
They were no closer to solving the mystery—and now she would have to buy an inferior bit of silver into the bargain.
~*~*~*~*~
Two days later, Isabelle sipped her over-sweet punch at the edge of Lady Roanoke’s ballroom as the brightly-dressed crowd swirled past. A small orchestra played at one end of the floor, striving to be heard above the laughter and conversation, and the smell of various perfumes layered the air. She had danced all but two sets, and her dance card was filled for the rest of the evening. Luckily, Richard had agreed to waltz with her. She had no interest in being swanned about the floor by some sweaty-handed gentleman who fancied himself in love with her.
Love. She wanted nothing to do with the notion.
Wrinkling her nose, she set her punch aside and went to find the ladies’ retiring room. So far, nothing exciting had happened at the ball. Still, the evening was not too far advanced. There could easily be another jewel theft—and this time she had no doubt she would recognize the black-haired man.
Imagine if she, Isabelle Strathmore, were able to identify the culprit! The constabulary would be so grateful. In fact, the queen herself might make a special mention of it. Smiling, Isabelle slipped out of the ballroom. It was cooler in the hallway, and quiet. The thick Persian runner cushioned her footsteps, and the intermittent sconces shed a calmer light than the brilliance in the ballroom.
Worth of Rubies: A Victorian Short Mystery Page 1
