Blood From a Stone

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Jack gazed at the notes in utter astonishment. ‘Holy Moses, Bill! How much is there?’

  Bill counted up the notes in a dazed sort of way. ‘Fifty quid.’ He ruffled his thumb over the edge of the notes. ‘Fifty quid in fivers, just stuck in his pocket.’

  ‘He must have pinched it,’ said Jack. ‘I bet Belle’s absolutely right about him being a thief. Imagine wandering around with fifty quid in fivers and a string of sapphires! What else was he carrying? At this rate, we’ll find the Crown jewels tucked into his socks.’

  Bill delved into the pocket again and froze. ‘Crown jewels, eh?’ He pulled out two sapphire earrings. ‘You’re not so far off.’

  ‘Strewth,’ breathed Jack, seeing the blue glint on Bill’s outstretched hand.

  Bill swallowed. ‘It’s a good job we’re honest men,’ he said in a regretful sort of way. He looked at the sapphires for a few moments then, with a sigh, opened his briefcase and put them away. ‘Let’s see what else he’s got on him.’

  The results of the rest of their investigation were nothing like as spectacular. They amounted to seven shillings and fourpence, an open packet of Woodbines, a box of Swan matches, a much-used pipe, a cheap leather tobacco pouch with strong Ship’s tobacco, a smoker’s penknife, a used London bus ticket for the day before yesterday, a stub of pencil and five francs, four centimes in coins.

  Bill jingled the francs in his hand. ‘As you said, there’s a very definite Continental whiff to this,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘He didn’t use French matches,’ commented Jack, looking at the box of Swan. ‘Mind you, I don’t blame him. They’re foul. He hasn’t any keys on him.’ He stepped away from the body. ‘Shall we have a look inside the train? I think we’ve found out more or less all we can here for the time being.’

  They walked out of the office and across the platform to the compartment. Carefully avoiding touching the coachwork, they mounted the steps into the compartment.

  Isabelle had told Jack there was little trace of the murder inside the compartment, and she was right.

  The blue-upholstered seats faced each other between pale yellow wooden-clad walls under the white roof. A Smoking sign was etched into the glass of the window. Beneath the mesh of the luggage rack, the walls were decorated with neat frames containing brightly coloured advertisements for seaside holidays at Eastbourne and Brighton, an advert for Johnnie Walker Red Label whisky and a map of England from London to the coast with the railway lines prominently marked.

  Jack looked at the seaside advertisements with an unexpected lump in his throat. The mind that found pleasure in the images of bright sunshine and children playing on an idealised beach seemed so very far away from the sort of mind that rammed a knife between a man’s ribs and bundled him out of the window.

  ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything had happened.’

  He knelt down and peered beneath the seat.

  ‘Looking for something in particular?’ asked Bill.

  ‘Just looking,’ replied Jack in a muffled voice. ‘A string of emeralds to go with the sapphires, perhaps? Hello! There is something here!’ He popped his head back out like an inquisitive tortoise. ‘Pass me my stick, will you?’

  With his stick in hand, Jack looked at the floor and grimaced. ‘Ah well, my suit’s seen better days,’ he said with an air of resigned martyrdom. He lay flat on his stomach and reached under the seat. ‘Got it!’

  Propelled by the stick, a dull metal something shot out from under the seat and onto the floor of the compartment.

  ‘It’s the sheath of the knife!’ said Bill.

  ‘There’s something else, too,’ came the voice from under the seat. ‘Here it is.’ He handed out a highly polished flat wooden jewel-case. It was lined with white velvet and clearly

  showed the indentations where the necklace had been. ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ called Jack.

  He batted first one, then the other, of a pair of fawn-coloured fine leather gloves into the compartment, then wriggled out from under the seat and levered himself to his knees.

  ‘Well done,’ said Bill.

  Jack brushed himself down. ‘I’ll send the cleaner’s bill to Scotland Yard.’ His eyes were bright with excitement. ‘There’s bloodstains on one of the gloves, Bill. Look, you can see where the end of the index finger has snagged slightly.’

  Bill picked up the gloves. ‘By jingo, they’re French,’ he said, looking at the label. ‘Look. Marcoux et Cie, Paris.’

  ‘More French stuff,’ said Jack. ‘That’s quite a haul. ‘So we’ve got a pair of French gloves paired with a French dagger. Ergo we’re looking for a Frenchman?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Bill. ‘But anyone can buy a pair of gloves in Paris and there’s thousands of trench knives, French and otherwise, kicking about. It’s suggestive though, isn’t it? I wonder if Parsons had any dealings in France? That’s something we can find out.’

  ‘They’re nice gloves, aren’t they? Kid, I’d say. A murderer in kid gloves.’ He raised his eyebrows expressively. ‘That’d make a snappy title for a magazine story. Which one’s bloodstained? The right? So we’re looking for a right-handed murderer with a taste in good gloves.’

  Rackham rubbed a piece of the material between his fingers. ‘They’re very flexible. Perfect for this sort of work.’

  ‘Ghoul,’ commented Jack with a smile.

  Rackham opened his briefcase, wrapped up the gloves, the jewel-case and the knife-sheath and put them away. ‘I’ll have them fingerprinted back at the Yard.’

  He stopped and looked out of the open door of the compartment as footsteps sounded along the platform. A police constable hurried up to them, telegram in hand.

  ‘This has just arrived, sir,’ he said to Bill.

  Rackham took the envelope. ‘Thank you, Marston.’ He slit the envelope and read the contents with a broad grin.

  ‘This is from Mr Francis Leigh in reply to the telegram I sent him. Thanks to Isabelle, Mr Leigh now thinks Scotland Yard is composed of miracle workers. Listen to this. Just discovered robbery. Jewels and money missing from safe. Well, I can get in touch with Mr Leigh and tell him his property’s safe. Is there anything else you want to look at, Jack?’

  ‘Not really. I think I’ll shoot off. I know you’re going to be busy.’

  ‘All right. I’ll look in on the Stantons this evening, though. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely I will,’ said Jack, climbing down from the train. ‘See you there.’

  FIVE

  Later that evening Jack arrived at Isabelle and Arthur’s flat in Lydstep Mews.

  ‘We’ve got a visitor, Jack,’ said Isabelle, as she hung his coat and hat in the hall wardrobe. ‘It’s all right, Lizzie,’ she called to the maid who had appeared at the end of the hall. ‘I’ll see to Major Haldean. Jack, I’d better warn you. Celia Leigh’s here.’

  Jack grinned at his cousin’s expression. ‘Is she?’ He laughed. ‘Stop looking as if you’re standing by the sickbed of a dying pal, Belle. It all fizzled out with Celia ages ago. She thinks I’m essentially frivolous so that was that, really. Mind you, we weren’t on Tristan and Isolde terms, just supper and a spot of dancing. I never stood under her window, serenading her with a mandolin.’

  Isabelle giggled. ‘I can’t think she’d have appreciated it if you had done. I don’t know why,’ she added, looking puzzled, ‘she and Ted haven’t announced their engagement yet. I hope they haven’t had a row.’

  ‘So do I,’ Jack agreed. ‘Why’s she here?’

  ‘To see me, of course. I’m hoping,’ she said with repressed excitement, ‘that she’ll tell us all about the sapphires. There’s something odd about the sapphires,’ said Isabelle, lowering her voice as they approached the sitting room door. ‘Celia’s being very cagey about them.’

  Celia Leigh, a tall, good-looking girl with fair hair and an earnest expression was sitting on the green sofa under the window.

  ‘Jack
, darling! Isabelle said you’d be calling. It’s so nice to see you again.’

  ‘And you,’ he said, taking her hand with a warm smile. ‘Tell me, are congratulations in order? For you and Ted Marchant, I mean?’

  Celia’s mouth contracted into a straight line. ‘No, they aren’t. If Ted doesn’t come to his senses, I’m not sure congratulations ever will be in order. He’s got this idiotic idea of going off to Singapore, of all places.’

  ‘Just for fun or because he promised his mother?’

  Celia looked at him suspiciously. ‘His mother’s been dead for years. Why on earth should he have promised her he’d go to Singapore?’ Her suspicion increased. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just a little badinage, don’t you know?’

  Celia sighed. ‘I see you haven’t improved, Jack. Ted’s been offered a job with a mining company. He says we can’t afford to live in England.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Jack with genuine sympathy. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Celia. ‘He’s not like you, Jack. He wants to be settled. He likes security. I want him to buy some land and have a farm. He grew up on a farm. I know that’s what he really wants to do.’

  ‘He couldn’t do anything better,’ agreed Arthur enthusiastically.

  Jack grinned to himself. A month ago, Arthur, tremulous with excitement, announced that his dearest wish had come true and he had at last persuaded his Aunt Catherine to let him manage her estate at Croxton Ferriers.

  It wasn’t, in Jack’s opinion, a job for the faint hearted. The estate had been neglected for years and it would take an enormous amount of work to get the place on its feet again.

  Arthur, who dreamt of living in the country, cheerfully embraced the idea of hard work. What made it better, in his opinion, was that the job came with a house he described as a little Jacobean gem. Isabelle had taken one look at the gem and flatly refused to go anywhere near it until it was in a rather better state of repair.

  ‘Can’t Marchant find anywhere?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘It’s not so much can’t as won’t. Money, you know. Ted thinks he’d need at least two thousand pounds or so to get anywhere suitable and that’s beyond him, unfortunately. I think we could manage with somewhere a lot smaller, but Ted doesn’t agree. He says in Singapore I can have the sort of life I deserve, but that’s nonsense. Ted will insist I want all sorts of things that I simply don’t need. As a matter of fact, there’s very little I do need. It would be inspiring, don’t you think, to live close to the earth in a really simple way. It would be so much easier to be in touch with the essential verities, to concentrate on what’s truly important, without all the needless trappings of modern life.’

  ‘Electric light and running water are always handy,’ murmured Jack.

  ‘You sound just like Ted,’ said Celia, shocked. ‘I don’t propose to live in a slum. It’ll be perfectly simple to install a generator for electricity and I have no intention of living without modern plumbing. Absolutely not. Ted’s just being stubborn. I loathe the idea of living in Singapore.’

  Jack, Isabelle and Arthur swapped glances. ‘What about the sapphires?’ asked Jack. Despite having just been reminded why he and Celia could never have been counted as twin souls, he had a lot of sympathy for her. Ted Marchant was a sound enough bloke but a bit of a he-man. He could well imagine him thinking he knew better than the little woman. What’s more, he could well imagine him saying it. ‘Couldn’t the sapphires be – er – cashed in?’

  ‘I wish,’ said Celia ruefully. ‘I know they’ve been in the family for generations, but I could put the money to much better use. There’s so much that needs doing on the estate that I think Dad could be persuaded, but there’s no chance of

  that happening.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked Arthur, refilling her cocktail.

  ‘The sapphires don’t belong to us, that’s why not,’ she said, sitting down once more. ‘They belong to Evie, and don’t we all know it! She absolutely adores them. She even had a photograph taken of them for the press.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Jack. He didn’t think Celia would appreciate knowing where he’d seen it.

  ‘Have you? Well, you can imagine that we simply couldn’t credit Isabelle finding them on the train. Evie didn’t know they’d gone until the telegram from the police arrived and then all hell broke loose. She nearly had a fit when she thought how close she’d been to losing them.’ She smiled cynically. ‘It was the most emotion I’ve ever seen her show. Anyway, when I heard it was Isabelle who’d found them, I simply had to come and get the story from the horse’s mouth.’

  Isabelle laughed. ‘You could find a more flattering way of putting it. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t me who found them, it was a Mr Duggleby. You’ll have to tell Arthur who Evie is, though, Celia. I can see he hasn’t a clue.’

  ‘Sorry, Arthur,’ said Celia, sipping her cocktail. ‘Evie’s my stepmother, although that sounds too like Cinderella for words. She and Dad got married last year.’

  ‘She came to our wedding, Arthur,’ said Isabelle. ‘She had the most mouth-watering green linen dress with a long cream-and-gold stole. I think,’ she continued knowledgeably, ‘it was by Drécoll.’

  ‘Crikey,’ put in Arthur. ‘I could hardly tell you who was there, let alone what they were wearing. I only,’ he added with a grin, ‘had eyes for you.’

  Isabelle smiled. ‘That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t believe a word of it. Men never look at clothes properly. Was it a Drécoll?’ she demanded of Celia.

  ‘It probably was,’ said Celia. ‘Evie always looks wonderful,’ she said significantly. ‘A real lily of the field, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not in touch with the essential verities?’ suggested Jack, wickedly. ‘Addicted to electric light and running water and needless trappings, perhaps?’

  ‘You may laugh, Jack,’ said Celia, ‘but Evie is a perfect example of, to my mind, all that is truly wrong with our modern life. All she really seems to care about is what she wears and being seen with the right people in the right places, you know? Dad says it’s only natural because she used to be very hard-up, apparently, and it’s only to be expected she should want to enjoy life now she can.’

  ‘That’s very generous of him,’ commented Isabelle.

  ‘Oh, Dad’s completely unreasonable about Evie. Nothing but the best, whether it’s clothes, holidays, parties – or sapphires. Even the sapphires weren’t good enough as they were. Evie said they looked old fashioned, so Dad’s having them re-set.’

  ‘How did she come to own them?’ asked Jack. He looked at Celia and chose his words carefully. ‘Look. I don’t want to trample on your finer feelings, but the sapphires are the ones Mrs Paxton owned, aren’t they? I’m sorry if it’s a delicate subject. Isabelle told me she was a relative of yours.’

  ‘Mrs Paxton was my great-aunt but she quarrelled with Dad ages ago. I never actually met her. Yes, the sapphires belonged to her, poor woman.’

  ‘Gosh,’ muttered Arthur. ‘When the papers rumble the connection with Terence Napier they’ll love it.’

  Celia shuddered. ‘That’s all we need. Dad’s been up in arms about Uncle Terry and this’ll just about put the tin lid on it. Dad believes he’s totally innocent, but he can’t be, can he? He whizzed Aunt Constance off to Paris and obviously did everything he could to get into her good books. The only reason he’d do that is because she was rich. Anyone else can see the truth of the matter a mile off, but not Dad. Dad isn’t awfully good with people.’

  ‘Your father?’ said Isabelle, shocked. ‘I like your father. He’s always been very sweet to me.’

  ‘Oh, he’s a dear,’ agreed Celia, ‘but he’s not very good at seeing what someone’s actually like, you know? He always thinks the best of everyone. If he doesn’t like something about them, he’ll ignore it and carry on pretending everything in the garden’s lovely. I’ll say this for Evie, as soon as Dad let her know what hap
pened to Aunt Constance, she cut short her holiday and came home and she’s actually been very good about sparing his feelings. I mean, I know she thinks that Terence Napier simply has to be guilty, because there’s nothing else she can think, but she hasn’t said as much to Dad.’

  ‘What’s Terence Napier like?’ asked Jack. ‘As a person, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Celia, shaking her head. ‘I can hardly remember him. His parents died when he was very young and he lived with us, but I couldn’t tell you what he’s like now. He studied art, and was up in London at the Slade most of the year. He lived in Paris for a time and then there was the war, so I honestly can’t remember him. It’s different for Dad. Uncle Terry was like a younger brother to him.’

  ‘Haven’t you seen him since the war?’ asked Arthur.

  Celia shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t. As soon as the war was over, he headed for the South Seas. I’ve always pictured him like someone out of Somerset Maugham, living under a palm tree and cracking open coconuts and so on. Dad never really kept in touch – you know what men are like – but even now he believes Uncle Terry is the same boy he grew up with. I think the truth of the matter is that Uncle Terry had a nervous breakdown after the war and that changes people, doesn’t it? I mean, going off to the South Seas is all very romantic, but it’s a bit out of the ordinary, isn’t it?’

  ‘So what actually happened?’ asked Arthur, putting more ice in the cocktail shaker. ‘I read about it in the newspapers but I can’t remember the details.’

  Celia frowned. ‘I’d better explain how Aunt Constance came to have the sapphires. They were part of the Breagan Stump Bounty. It was discovered in seventeen something or other. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Yes, of course. It’s in the British Museum, isn’t it?’

  ‘Parts of it are, yes. I can’t say I’ve ever taken much interest, but the coins and some Roman jewellery went to the Museum years ago. However, the sapphires were always kept in the family. They were uncut when they were found but they were made into a necklace. They’ve always gone to the eldest girl in the family when she got married. When Aunt Constance married they went to her and,’ she said, taking a cigarette from the box and putting it in a holder, ‘they should have come to me. Or should have done when I got married, at any rate.’