The Attenbury Emeralds

by Jill Paton Walsh

‘It’s Mr Bird you want,’ the girl said. ‘It’s Mr Bird he wants, Beryl.’

  ‘Retired?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Doesn’t like it,’ the second girl said. ‘Comes in to the office several times a month. He’s been retired five years, and he still calls it “tidying his desk”! And,’ she added triumphantly, ‘he’s here now!’

  ‘Would you be kind enough to ask him if he could spare the time to see us?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I’ll take up your card,’ the second girl said, manoeuvring round Beryl’s desk with some agility, and disappearing up the stairs.

  Peter and Harriet waited sitting on a hard bench in the hallway, but luckily did not have long to wait.

  Mr Bird occupied a large elegant room on the first floor, with a view over the churchyard outside, and a skyline enhanced by the heavy elegance of a Hawksmoor church spire. Peter deduced immediately that Mr Bird, retired or not, still had a controlling interest in the firm. He was a very small man, who had obviously once been taller, exquisitely tailored, with a shock of unruly white hair. He was beaming at his visitors.

  ‘The Duke of Denver!’ he exclaimed.’ And the Duchess! How exciting! Whatever can this be about, I ask myself; my firm has never, I think, had the pleasure of insuring the Wimsey family. Although perhaps, if in your present trouble you are dissatisfied with your current insurers…That would be Messrs Balstrom, would it? Do sit down.’

  Mr Bird’s leather armchairs were worn, deep and comfortable. Harriet settled down in one of them, and listened, and looked, watching Peter at work.

  ‘This is not about my own family, Mr Bird,’ Peter said. ‘I am here to ask you about a certain emerald that you have insured for Lord Attenbury.’

  ‘We do have the Attenbury family’s property covered,’ said Mr Bird. ‘May I take it that you have their permission to discuss it with me?’

  Peter reached for his wallet, and produced the letter of authority that had introduced him to Mr Snader.

  Mr Bird nodded, and said, ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Would you tell us what exactly you insure the famous emerald against?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Loss, damage, or, with reservations, theft,’ said Mr Bird.

  ‘And you are informed when the stone is taken out of the bank?’

  ‘Always. Otherwise the insurance policy would not hold it covered.’

  ‘So when it is returned to the bank…’

  ‘We are told. There is a maximum number of days out which the policy covers. It has never been out for anything like that number of days during my time here.’

  ‘When you are told that the stone has been returned to the bank, do you take measures to satisfy yourself that it is the stone itself, and not, for example, a paste copy, that has been returned? And that it has not been damaged during its excursion?’

  ‘Naturally we do, Your Grace! We are not a very large firm, as insurance firms go, and the sum assured is immense. The Attenbury emerald is by far the most valuable single object on our books.’

  ‘Who inspects the stone for you?’ Peter asked.

  ‘It always used to be Mr Van der Helm; now it is a colleague of his in Hatton Garden. But, Lord Peter, this conversation is taking a turn that I find chilling indeed. Is there a problem with the emerald?’

  ‘I’m afraid there is,’ said Peter.

  ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’ said Mr Bird, as he rose and left the room.

  He returned visibly agitated. ‘Attenbury has indeed raised the question of an insurance claim on that jewel,’ he said. ‘Mr Buxton did not see fit to tell me about it. In case it troubled my mind during my retirement, indeed! This could ruin us; but of course there are the reservations, and Mr Buxton thinks we should be able to see off the claim by citing the family’s duty of care. I am upset, Lord Peter, upset.’

  ‘What are the reservations, Mr Bird?’

  ‘They are what we sometimes write into the policy in the case of theft of an item of value. That is that we will pay out after a year, to allow a police enquiry to bear fruit.’

  ‘So Attenbury has to wait for his money?’

  ‘Yes. But I am very afraid for my firm…’

  ‘Help us then, Mr Bird. Let us see the reports on the jewel that have been rendered by Mr Van der Helm, or his colleague.’

  Mr Bird picked up the phone on his desk and asked Beryl to bring the Attenbury file to him.

  It was a thick file. But it was orderly. Mr Bird extracted a report on the state of the stone for each of the occasions when it had been returned to the bank. They were careful documents: one sheet of paper headed with the company letterhead, and the qualifications of their valuers. They all said simply that the stone had been inspected. The troy weight was given. It was recorded that there was no damage, except that when the stone was returned in 1941 a slight scratch was noticed on the back, below the inscription. This scratch was recorded again when Miss Pevenor returned the stone. The flaw in the stone was described each time: small inclusion with moss-like jardinière towards right-hand edge, at about two o’clock on the circumference…

  ‘How far back do those go?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘To the foundation of the firm, in 1890,’ said Mr Bird proudly.

  ‘Can we see some earlier ones?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘You’ll find they are all in perfect order,’ said Mr Bird.

  ‘That one looks longer,’ said Harriet, picking it up from the desk. It was of two pages clipped together. It was dated 1921, and signed ‘Van der Helm’. It recorded the flaw in the stone. But it added that Mr Van der Helm had not seen the stone before. He was unable to precisely match the description of the flaw made by the previous valuer with his own observation, although there were strong similarities.

  Mr Bird picked up this document and regarded it fondly. ‘Van der Helm was a devil for detail,’ he said, ‘when he first joined us. We were newcomers here together. He showed me, I seem to remember, and I couldn’t at all see what he meant. No two people see things just the same way, don’t you think? And the emerald was unique. Not as people say nowadays rather unique, or very unique. Unique is an absolute, Your Grace, isn’t it?’

  But his two guests were looking at him in consternation.

  They couldn’t wait to thank him and make their escape and think out the implications.

  However the two secretaries were waiting for them below. Beryl and her companion shot out of the reception room when they heard steps on the stairs, and blocked their way. ‘Oh please, Lady Peter,’ said Beryl. ‘My friend here thinks you are the same person as Harriet Vane; could we have your autograph? Please? We just adore your books!’

  Mr Bird, who had walked down to see them out, tutted audibly behind Harriet, but she put on her professional smile, produced her fountain pen and inscribed the two autograph books she was offered.

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of that?’ asked Peter as they walked away.

  ‘It is silly, isn’t it?’ said Harriet. ‘But so long as I haven’t got tired of being read…’

  ‘We’ll call on Freddy on the way home,’ said Peter. Freddy’s office was in Chancery Lane and they took a cab there.

  ‘What ho!’ said Freddy. ‘Jolly nice to see you both. Haven’t a biscuit to offer you – Rachel has forbidden them. I’m getting tight in my suits.’

  ‘You are indeed looking well,’ said Peter. ‘Never mind biscuits, it’s information we’re after.’

  ‘At your disposal, old chap,’ said Freddy, leaning back in his chair and looking fondly at his old friends.

  ‘Freddy, do you remember telling me, and quite a few other people, that an emerald could always be identified again by someone knowledgeable who had seen it once? By the flaws?’

  ‘When did I tell you that?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘At that party when Charlotte Attenbury got engaged to Northerby.’

  ‘That’s going back a bit,’ said Freddy. ‘Can’t remember a thing I said so long ago. Well, I can remember proposing to Rachel, but what you’re
asking about is even further back than that. Bit much to expect of me.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t asking you to remember your long-ago words, I was just wanting you to verify the information you gave.’

  ‘About telling emeralds apart?’

  ‘Yes. Is it true that someone who had seen a stone before could reliably identify it again?’

  ‘Well, you know how young men assert themselves, Wimsey. It would depend on how distinctive the flaws were…but usually, yes, I’ll stand by what I said.’

  ‘Righty-ho. Now what about it if the person who had seen the stone before has retired, and someone else takes over, relying on the description left by his predecessor?’

  ‘Well, obviously it would be a bit more difficult. But it should be all right. Look, Wimsey, this happens quite a lot. People do retire, or die or run off to South America. And someone else takes over. Doesn’t usually raise any waves. Did this retired chap leave a good description?’

  ‘Yes. So the second chap records that he cannot precisely match the flaws in the stone he is looking at with the first chap’s description.’

  ‘Are you asking me if there would be anything fishy about that?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, describing flaws is not an exact science. Bit subjective. But it doesn’t usually come to that. Stones are normally identified by weight, colour, cut, provenance – the flaws aren’t the only thing. If everything else was right, your second chappie probably thought that he was simply taking a different view from his predecessor.’

  ‘He was troubled enough to record his difficulty.’

  ‘Who was he, may I ask?’

  ‘Van der Helm.’

  ‘Mmm. Van der Helm was the best in the business. Are you going to tell me what all this is about?’

  Peter launched into the tale of the decoy jewel.

  Freddy whistled. ‘Well, in that position, ladies and gentlemen, the discrepancy in the flaws being all you have to go on…I would say that the wrong stone came back to the bank just before Van der Helm took over. But look here, Wimsey, it isn’t fair to blame him. Unless you knew that there was more than one of those socking great carved emeralds you’d think you were seeing things if it didn’t seem to be the same. Have a heart.’

  ‘It is very far from our minds to blame the valuer,’ said Wimsey. ‘We shall leave Van der Helm at peace wherever he may be, growing tulips or fixing windmills. But thank you, Freddy. That makes the matter clear enough.’

  ‘Peter, you were cheating!’ said Harriet in mock indignation, once they got home. ‘You led me to believe that the swap of the stones must have happened after the events of 1921. That you were certain the right stone had been collected from the pawnbroker, and by you in person.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to cheat,’ he said. ‘I believed what I was saying. But it doesn’t look like it now, does it?’

  ‘One of only two possibilities now,’ said Harriet. ‘A mix-up at the pawnbroker’s, or a mix-up at Charlotte’s engagement party.’

  ‘One of the two stones at the pawnbroker’s was the Maharaja’s,’ said Peter. ‘And since he could read the inscription we can trust him to have redeemed the right stone.’

  ‘But, Peter, didn’t you tell me he had the Attenbury stone taken out of its mount, so that he could read that inscription? If there was something wrong with the Attenbury one at the pawnbroker’s, surely he would have known. He would have realised he was looking at the third stone.’

  ‘Yes, of course he would. If Handley let him handle and turn over the Attenbury stone. We must ask him.’

  The Maharaja had left the Savoy, and was steaming homewards on a liner via the Suez Canal. The complications of a phone call to a ship at sea were deputed to Bunter. It was going to take some time.

  ‘Aren’t you sick of all this, Harriet?’ Peter asked her.

  ‘Of a fuss about a jewel? I am somewhat. Aren’t you?’

  Peter considered. ‘I can’t help myself as to what I worry about,’ he said. ‘I suppose I could sleep at night knowing that someone had pulled off a clever fraud against Attenbury, and was likely to get away with it…’

  ‘They will be apprehended when they show up again to collect their own jewel,’ said Harriet.

  ‘But they might not show up. Not the least of the puzzles is why they haven’t shown up already. As I was saying, I might be able to live with an unsolved fraud; but an unsolved murder? Two murders? Perhaps as many as four if we rule out all coincidence? To get sick of it all and potter off leaving that unresolved would be a dereliction of duty.’

  ‘A duty to whom, Peter?’ she asked. ‘To the dead?’

  ‘To the dead we owe only the truth,’ he said, ‘but I was not thinking of them. I was thinking of the next prospective victim. Murder is addictive; each one seems easier than the last.’

  It was nearly midnight before Bunter appeared and called Peter to the phone. The Maharaja’s voice was distant, and accompanied by bursts of static crackle. But Peter could understand him well enough. He had not been allowed to handle the stone other than his own at the pawnbroker. He had not had sight of the inscription on the back of it. As far as he knew it could have been either the Attenbury emerald, or – a thought that had not crossed his mind at the time – the other stone that his family had not heard tell of for the best part of a century.

  24

  ‘We are back to the beginning,’ said Peter the next morning. ‘Back to the time when my wits were awry, and I was in Bunter’s custodianship. Bunter had better sit in on this arm of the discussion.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, when they were settled together, as usual at the library table. ‘To rethink. Osmanthus, so-called, turned up at Fennybrook Hall before lunch, with his own jewel in his pocket. He had to wait for Mr Whitehead to come from the bank in London with the Attenbury jewel. Since up to that time the jewel had been verified for a generation by Mr Van der Helms’s predecessor, I think we may take it that it was the right stone that he brought. There has to be solid ground somewhere. Mr Whitehead arrived at about three o’clock.’

  ‘Later, Your Grace,’ said Bunter.

  ‘Bunter, do you think you could possibly simply address me as you used to when I was just Lord Peter, while and when we are playing the old familiar game, and detecting? I would feel more comfortable with a pen-name in my professional life. Let the dukedom be a private sorrow. Unless, that is, you might be ready to call me simply Peter.’

  Bunter looked down at his hands while he considered this request.

  ‘Mr Whitehead came at four, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘All right, at four. Then there was a little power struggle in the library, and eventually we had to call on Lady Attenbury, and the comparison of the stones was made. Fifteen? Twenty minutes maximum. Then Osmanthus pockets his stone and departs. Mr Whitehead departs with him. Osmanthus gets to hear of the uproar in the house he has left, and pawns his stone for safety. Meanwhile, the other stone is taken to Lady Attenbury’s bedroom, and put in her safe until five, when Jeannette comes for it, for them, because we are still talking about the complete set of jewels. Am I on track so far, Bunter?’

  ‘Perfectly, as far as I know, my lord.’

  ‘Jeannette puts out the set of jewels on the stand in Lady Charlotte’s room. Little Ottalie and her friend ‘borrow’ them from there, and take them back to the nursery. A few minutes later they also take the paste set from the open drawer in Lady Attenbury’s room. Jeannette finds them fooling about with a king’s ransom, and hurriedly puts the kit back as it should be, and returns it to Charlotte’s room. They muddle things; what goes on to the stand in Charlotte’s room the second time is the paste rivière and the real king-stone. Pity it wasn’t the other way around, really.’

  ‘Not such a good story,’ remarked Harriet.

  ‘We are coming up to six o’clock,’ Peter continued. ‘Charlotte comes up to dress, with Northerby with her. They step just inside her room for an embrace. Northerby pockets the king-stone. By the
time Charlotte looks round it is gone, and she summons Jeannette and the panic starts. All clear so far?’

  ‘Both clear and puzzling,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Murky, isn’t it?’ said Peter. ‘Let’s keep following through. That evening Charlotte is wearing the real necklace, that she thinks is her mother’s paste copy; the paste copy is abandoned in Charlotte’s room, the paste king-stone is hanging on the lovely rivière round Charlotte’s neck in the dining room, and the real king-stone is in Northerby’s pocket. How did he get it out of the house when all the bedrooms and all the luggage were searched?’

  ‘I have wondered that, my lord,’ said Bunter. ‘And I have come to the conclusion that it must have been concealed in Mr Northerby’s bag of golf clubs. I remember his man having that bag in the hall when Sugg declared his curfew.’

  ‘But it would have been harder to hide a golf bag than it would have been to hide a jewel,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Perhaps not, my lady, if everyone is looking for a jewel and nobody is looking for a golf bag. I have asked myself where one would hide a golf bag, and I have supposed that one would hide it among other such. I think it must have been put in the hall lobby alongside Lord Attenbury’s own.’

  ‘Excellent, Bunter,’ said Peter. ‘So Northerby departs when allowed to with the loot in the bottom of his golf bag, and he pawns it at once in his desperate need for the money. And then by and by I go and get it back. Since when it has been the wrong stone. Somehow Northerby pawned the wrong stone.’

  ‘Are we imagining that all three stones were actually present in the house on that day?’ said Harriet. ‘That’s rather far-fetched, Peter.’

  ‘But we don’t know anything about the wrong stone. We don’t know who had it or when or why or how. We can’t tell how far-fetched this train of reasoning may be.’

  ‘I think,’ said Harriet, ‘that there is something we ought to know, that neither of you have mentioned in your accounts. Were those two children playing about alone, or was there somebody with them?’

  ‘Ottalie,’ said Peter. ‘We had better go and find Ottalie.’