Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
OTHER BOOKS IN THE MURDER, SHE WROTE SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
A Fatal Feast
Nashville Noir
OBSIDIAN
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Copyright © 2010 Universal City Studios Productions LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios.
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OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Bain, Donald, 1935-
The queen’s jewels: a Murder, she wrote mystery: a novel/by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain.
p. cm.
“Based on the Universal television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William
Link.”
eISBN : 978-1-101-46448-9
1. Fletcher, Jessica (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women novelists—Fiction. I. Murder, she
wrote (Television program) II. Title.
PS3552.A376Q44 2010
813’.54—dc22 2010020126
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://us.penguingroup.com
For P. D. James, whose novels set a standard that inspires every writer of crime fiction.
JESSICA FLETCHER
For Phyllis James, my apt pupil at the QE2’s craps table and a reluctant idol to all writers. Renée and I treasure her friendship, as we do that of Rosemary Goad, her astute editor and dear friend.
DONALD BAIN
And for Captain Nick Bates, master of the Queen Mary 2, whose delightful book, With a Pinch of Salt, serves as a reminder of the rich nautical lore that exists. Not only is Captain Bates a superb seaman; he’s a gifted storyteller.
Prologue
London
Slowly, methodically, he dialed in the numbers until the telltale click indicated that the proper combination had been inputted. He looked back at his guest, smiled, and pulled open the heavy lead door. He reached into the wall safe until his fingers touched the small box, which he removed.
“Ready?” he asked.
His guest nodded.
Walter Yang sat on the love seat next to his guest. He placed the box on a glass coffee table, pulled off the top, extricated the soft black leather pouch, and placed it alongside the box.
“This is exciting,” said his guest.
“Yes, it is very exciting,” Yang said as he untied the black cord that secured the pouch. He probed inside until he found what he sought, and allowed his fingers to play with it before taking it from the pouch. It came to life as it caught the room’s overhead light and sparkled as though on fire, reflecting and refracting from within, a diaphanous wonder of nature as it rested in the palm of his hand.
There was perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, like water beads on a recently waxed surface. He started to laugh. It began as a snigger but soon turned into a silly, childish giggle. “Want to hold it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He handed it to his guest.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s so perfect,” he said, “in every way, the clarity, the blue color. It’s like the sky just before sunrise, wouldn’t you say?”
“How poetic.”
“More than seven carats of poetry. Look. See its static sparkle, the way it continues to throw off reflected light even when it’s at rest? It’s perfe
ction. I’ve never seen a diamond with greater brilliance.” He looked up and smiled. “They say a curse will fall on whoever owns it. Such nonsense.”
He took the gem back from his guest and peered at it, as though able to penetrate its dazzling core, so engrossed in his appreciation of what he held that he didn’t hear the muffled sound coming from the hallway outside his study. The intruder had entered through a back door leading to the kitchen, dressed all in black, a ski mask obscuring the face. The door to the study drifted open without a sound, but allowed a soft breeze to ruffle the drapes.
Yang’s guest leaped from the love seat and moved behind a table. Startled, Yang turned. The intruder was on him in an instant.
“No,” he pleaded, “no, no.”
The intruder brought a fist to his face, breaking his nose, then spun him around and gripped him from behind in a violent choke hold. The diamond fell to the floor and rolled under the table. The arm around his neck squeezed tighter and tighter; a gurgling sound erupted from his mouth. His legs sagged. Still, the pressure on his neck intensified until it had compressed all life from him. The grip loosened; Walter Yang slid down his assailant’s body, collapsing into a limp heap, lifeless, blood from his nose and mouth dripping onto the white carpet, leaving a stain the color of cardinals.
“Where is it?”
“Under there.”
The diamond was scooped up and the attacker left the house, climbed into a Mercedes S400 hybrid vehicle, and rolled silently away.
Yang’s guest left, too, walking slowly, quietly, through the open back door and out to the dimly lighted mews that ran behind the elegant town house in Belgravia, disappearing into the soft fog of the night.
Chapter One
“Did you hear about the big diamond robbery in London?”
The question was asked by Maniram Chatterjee as we shared a table in Mara’s dockside luncheonette. Maniram and his wife, Hita, had recently moved to Cabot Cove from Detroit, where they’d owned and operated a successful jewelry store. A cousin who’d settled in Cabot Cove a few years earlier had persuaded them to experience the joys of small-town living. They’d sold their Detroit shop and opened one here, joining a small but growing Indian community.
“I certainly did,” I said. “You couldn’t miss it. It was on all the TV newscasts, and the front pages of the Boston Globe and New York Times.”
Maniram leaned forward. “That diamond was originally from my country. It is called the Heart of India. Only the most valuable stones are given a special name. This one was from the Kollur mine in the Golconda region. Many famous diamonds came from this mine.”
“So you knew about this one before it was stolen?”
He nodded. “I even saw it once,” he said. “In all the years that my family has been in the jewelry business, we’d never before seen a blue diamond of that color, quality, and size. It’s extremely rare.”
“Seven carats?” I said.
“Slightly more,” he said.
“I read that it’s worth ten million dollars,” I said.
“Yes, that was what it was appraised at before it disappeared.”
According to media reports, the heart-shaped diamond had been stolen from the home of a wealthy London businessman. Unfortunately he lost more than his precious gem. He also lost his life during the theft. The Globe article reported that not only was Scotland Yard involved in the investigation, but Interpol had also been brought into the picture, because it was suspected that the robbers, now also murderers, might be part of a network of globe-trotting jewel thieves that had been operating over the past six years with seeming abandon. And the Times story ended by pointing out that authorities had long suspected the slain businessman, Walter Soon Yang, of using a portion of his wealth to fund terrorist organizations around the world, although that charge had never been verified.
“Might make a nice ring, Maniram,” Mara said, holding up her coffeepot as Dr. Seth Hazlitt pulled out a chair and joined us.
“Decaf for me, please,” Seth said.
Maniram cocked his head and smiled wryly. “It would be quite a beautiful ring, Mara,” he said. “But this gem carries a curse. It is said its owners will have great happiness or great misery. But you will not learn which until it is in your possession.”
“Like the Hope diamond,” Seth put in. “That one was said to curse its owners, too.”
“Exactly,” Maniram said, “and for good reason. The Heart of India was cut from the same stone as the Hope diamond.”
“You mean there was an even bigger diamond?”
“Yes. Yes. When it was stolen from the mine in the seventeenth century, it was more than one hundred twelve carats. A French trader, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, was believed to have taken it, and it was known for many years as the Tavernier Blue.”
“Why was it cut down?” I asked.
Maniram shrugged. “Tavernier had sold it to the king of France and it was part of the crown jewels, but it disappeared during the French Revolution and was never found. Instead, we have the Hope diamond and the Heart of India, both the same blue, and with a similar curse. And there was a third, I believe, which was owned by the empress of Russia. I don’t know if it was given a name.”
“That must have been some rock,” Seth said. “How big is the Hope diamond?”
“It weighs forty-five carats.”
“Too big for my finger,” I said, smiling.
“That’s in the Smithsonian, isn’t it?” Seth asked.
“Yes. The Museum of Natural History,” Maniram replied, “but if it were on the market today, it could fetch more than three hundred million.”
“That’s too rich for my blood,” Mara said, returning with her decaf pot. She handed Seth a menu and said, “One of you can buy me the ten-million-dollar ring for my next birthday.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, sliding over my coffee cup for her to fill.
“Is your daughter feeling better?” Seth asked Maniram, referring to the eldest of his three children.
“Oh, much better,” Maniram said, “thanks to you, Doctor. The chicken soup was like a miracle drug.”
“Never fails,” said Seth, looking pleased. He closed his menu and handed it to Mara. “I’ll have the usual.”
Mara left to get Seth his usual breakfast of her legendary blueberry pancakes—legendary at least in Cabot Cove and its environs.
“We’re talking about that diamond robbery in London, the one where the owner was murdered,” I said.
“So I gathered. I’m sure you’ll pick up plenty of inside scuttlebutt while you’re there,” Seth said. “I imagine your friend Inspector Sutherland will fill you in.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said. “But you’re right. I’m sure he knows plenty.”
“When do you leave?” Seth asked.
“A week from today.”
“I heard you were going away,” Maniram said.
“Oh? Who told you?” I asked.
“My wife. Hita said you would be traveling on the Queen Mary Two. She heard it at the bakery last week.”
“No secrets in Cabot Cove,” Seth said playfully.
I shook my head. “Word does get around. It’s true. I’m flying to London, spending a few days there with friends, and then six days coming back across the Atlantic on the Queen Mary Two. I’m looking forward to it so.”
Over the years, I’d enjoyed plying the Atlantic on the Queen Elizabeth 2 when I’d been invited to lecture during crossings—the crew always reminds you to call it a “crossing,” not a cruise—and I’d been wanting to repeat the experience for a long time. Unfortunately the QE2 was retired, slated to be a floating hotel in some Middle Eastern country, putting an end to that plan.
But then the Queen Mary 2, the QM2, had been launched, and I’d received invitations to lecture again to fellow passengers about my books, the murder-mystery genre in general, and the future of publishing. I’d heard nothing but raves about the huge new ship, and although my writin
g commitments made it difficult to block out the time, I decided that it was too good an opportunity to pass up. It would give me a chance to catch up with friends in London before sailing back home from Southampton. With the help of my travel agent, Susan Shevlin, whose husband, Jim, is Cabot Cove’s mayor, I booked my flight to London and my hotel in that wonderful city, which ranks high on my list of favorite places in the world.
A sly grin crossed Seth’s lips as Mara delivered his breakfast.
“You look amused at something,” I said. “Is my mascara running?”
“No, nothing to do with your makeup. I was just thinking about you traveling alone for six days on that ship. Perfect atmosphere for a shipboard romance.”
“Oh, Seth, don’t be silly. You know that isn’t even a possibility.”
“Well, just a thought.”
“Ignore him,” I said to Maniram. “He’s being foolish.”
Maniram grinned. “I have learned. The doctor, he likes to make fun.”
“That he does.”
Seth grunted and concentrated on cutting his pancakes and pouring syrup over them.
“I’m glad I didn’t miss you before you left,” Maniram said.
“Why’s that?”
“Hita wanted me to tell you about our cousin Rupesh, who has just taken a job on the QM Two as a room steward. His mother received a postcard from him. Rupesh is—how can I put it?—Rupesh is a bit of a character. Over the years he’s worked at too many jobs around the world to keep track of—computers, restaurants, tourist offices, teaching. He even spent a few months as a karate instructor back in India. A strange way to use his college degree.”
I had to laugh. “A true jack-of-all-trades.”
“Oh, yes, definitely that. We just wanted you to know about him in the event you and he should happen to meet on the ship. If you do, please say hello for Hita and me, and tell him to call his mother back in Delhi. A postcard is nice, but she likes to hear his voice every now and then. He isn’t very good at keeping in touch with the family at home, and my aunt worries.”
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