34 - The Queen's Jewels

by Fletcher, Jessica

  “I’ll certainly say hello for you,” I said, “and I’ll scold him for not calling his mother.”

  “Oh, don’t be too harsh with him, Jessica. He’s an incorrigible free spirit, really quite charming. His name means ‘god of beauty.’”

  “Quite a lofty translation.”

  Maniram laughed. “All Indian names mean something wonderful. My name means ‘jewel of a person.’”

  “Sounds like you were fated to go into the jewelry business,” Seth said.

  “Maybe so,” he replied. “Hita’s name translates into ‘lovable. ’ It’s very true.”

  “Well,” I said, “your cousin may be a god of beauty, but he still owes his mother an occasional call. I’ll gently remind him of that, provided I cross his path.”

  “Wonderful, Jessica. Thank you, and shubhyatra. That means I hope you have a safe trip.”

  “Yes,” Seth said, forking up the last of his pancakes. “Make sure you don’t fall overboard.”

  Chapter Two

  “Ah, Jessica, how wonderful to see you again,”my British publisher, Thomas Craig, said as he greeted me at the door of his home off Cadogan Place in London’s tony Knightsbridge section. “Good journey, I assume?”

  “Smooth and without hitches, Tom. Thanks to my frequent-flier miles, I flew first class.”

  “Nice to hear that someone enjoyed their flight. I find the whole flying experience these days to be dismal.”

  “It isn’t what it used to be,” I agreed.

  “Come in, come in. The other guests have already arrived with the exception of one. My wife won’t be here. She’s off on an African safari communing with wild beasts, all from the sanctum of an air-conditioned tree house. Whisky? A martini? I promise to make martinis the way you do in the States, mostly gin and just a hint of vermouth.”

  “A friend of mine says he just whispers the word ‘vermouth’ over the glass. But no martinis for me, thank you. Sparkling water will do.”

  He gave my order to a young uniformed woman and led me to the terrace, where the others had gathered. Craig brought a halt to their conversation to introduce me.

  The wife of one couple, Cynthia Walthrop, a woman of approximately my age, was a member of the House of Lords. I later learned she had been honored with a life peerage for her work with charities, which enabled her to be addressed as Baroness Walthrop. Her husband, Jacob, who appeared to have already enjoyed a few of Craig’s American-style martinis, did not share her title. Mr. Walthrop was one of those fellows who tended to talk and laugh at the same time; his words were filtered through throaty chuckles. Between that and his British accent, I had to listen hard to understand him even though we were supposedly speaking the same language.

  The second couple was Asian. Kim Chin-Hwa was introduced to me as a Korean venture capitalist who’d lived in London for many years, and who owned an office building in the financial district. He was a short, thin man with a chiseled face, and wore oversized horn-rimmed glasses. His companion, Betty LeClair, was a beautiful Eurasian woman with long, lustrous black hair. Her classic silk sheath clung to her lithe figure, the deep bronze color harmonizing with the large gold and onyx pin she wore at her shoulder. She was considerably younger and taller than Mr. Kim.

  “Here’s Paula Simmons,” Tom said, gesturing toward a striking brunette with sky blue eyes, “a name with which I’m sure you’re familiar.”

  “Of course,” I said, shaking hands with my British editor. “How nice to meet in person at last.” We’d exchanged a number of e-mails since Tom Craig had bought the British rights to my latest novel, and she and I had spoken briefly on the phone a few times.

  “Paula’s arguably the most beautiful book editor in London, not to mention that she beats the boys in the office at their game,” Craig said. “She’s a fan of your work.”

  Paula waved away his compliment. “I love your books, Jessica,” she said. “There’s a refreshing, old-fashioned attention paid to solid writing and inventive storytelling.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, Paula,” I said. “Coming from someone with your editorial skills makes it all the more meaningful.”

  Madge and Gerald Wilson, an American documentary film team who looked to be barely in their thirties, were the last guests with whom I shook hands. They were in London for the premiere of a documentary they had produced based upon a nonfiction book Tom Craig had published several years back.

  “It’s about smuggling drugs into Great Britain from northern Africa,” Gerald said, handing me a DVD. “Part of our promotional package,” he added. “I’m telling Tom his book sales will soar once the film gets distributed.”

  “One can hope,” Tom said drily. “If they do, I’ll paste a sticker on the cover boosting the film.”

  “It’s a deal,” Gerald said.

  It didn’t take long before the conversation found its way to the recent theft of the rare blue diamond, and the murder that had accompanied it. Baroness Walthrop raised the subject. The moment she did, a silence fell over the group and all eyes went to Mr. Kim.

  “Any leads?” Paula asked him.

  “None that I’m aware of,” he responded.

  Tom Craig noticed my perplexed expression and explained, “Kim’s business partner was the owner of the diamond. He was killed during the robbery, Jessica.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Mr. Kim smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “The loss was traumatic to be sure, but I have been working at overcoming my grief. Walter Yang was not only a valued business associate; he was a dear personal friend. It is my hope that those who took his life are brought to justice swiftly.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Jacob Walthrop, raising his glass. “To justice being served!”

  The mention of “justice” reminded me that the first person I’d called upon arrival in London was George Sutherland at Scotland Yard. I’d caught him as he was running out of his office, but we talked long enough for me to learn that he was working the diamond heist and murder case, and that he would fill me in when we met for breakfast the following morning. I’ve always been sensitive to the prohibition placed upon George when discussing an ongoing case, and never pressed for more information than he was allowed to give. But I also knew that he’d do his best to satisfy my natural curiosity without exceeding his professional boundaries.

  I was tempted to ask Mr. Kim a number of questions that I’d formulated since hearing about the crime, but didn’t want to appear insensitive. It turned out my reticence was unnecessary. He proceeded to speak at length about his relationship with his slain business partner and friend. As he did, I recalled that the articles I’d read about the theft and murder had mentioned that Yang had been suspected of funneling money to terrorists. Naturally I wasn’t about to raise that issue, but I did eventually ask, “Have you ever seen the diamond, Mr. Kim?”

  He managed a smile. “Oh, yes, Walter showed it to me shortly after he’d purchased it at auction at Sotheby’s. It was—how can I say it?—it was among the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” He glanced in Betty’s direction, and she smiled. “It had been put up for sale by Petra Diamonds.”

  “It was a blue diamond?” filmmaker Gerald Wilson asked.

  Kim nodded.

  “The rarest of all diamonds,” Jacob Walthrop pronounced.

  “That’s not quite accurate,” Betty, Kim’s companion, said. “Red diamonds are the rarest.”

  “Is that so?” Walthrop said, obviously piqued at having been corrected.

  “Betty is right,” Kim said. “But red or blue, any diamond of that size and purity is to be treasured.”

  “What did your friend Yang intend to do with it?” Madge Wilson asked.

  Kim shrugged. “Keep it until its value had increased to the point that he could sell it again on the open market for a handsome profit.”

  “It certainly wasn’t a secret when he bought it at Sotheby’s,” Tom Craig said. “I read about it in the
local press.”

  “Which meant that whoever stole it knew exactly where to look,” the baroness opined.

  “Obviously,” said Gerald Wilson.

  “Where did Mr. Yang keep it?” I asked.

  “He moved it several times to thwart would-be thieves. However, it was taken from a vault at his home,” Kim replied, “a very secure one.”

  “Not secure enough,” Jacob Walthrop offered. The baroness nudged him with her foot.

  “That’s obvious, too,” Wilson said through a sigh. He was a young man who wasn’t shy about throwing verbal jabs.

  A sudden clap of thunder caused everyone to look up.

  “Time to move inside,” Craig suggested. He glanced at his watch and muttered, “I wonder what’s keeping him.”

  We made it through the terrace doors just moments before the skies opened and rain came down in sheets. Craig led us to the large dining room, where the table was elaborately set with heavy crystal and flatware on a starched white tablecloth. Tall tapered candles in gleaming silver holders cast a warm, welcoming glow over the scene. Two household servants stood ready to serve: the young woman who’d delivered my drink and an older, tuxedoed gentleman with the quintessential bearing of an English manservant from central casting.

  As we found our places, the door chimes sounded.

  “Ah, that must be our missing party,” Craig said, his face brightening as he headed for the front door.

  At first, I was certain that I was confused. No, it couldn’t be. But it was. Craig returned to the dining room followed by Michael Haggerty.

  I’d first met Michael years ago at Brittany Bay, on the island of Jamaica. I’d flown there at the urging of a friend, Antoinette Farnsworth, who’d written me that she feared for her life. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to prevent her death, and spent the ensuing days attempting to solve her murder. Michael, a charming Irish rogue with a brogue, kept getting in the way of my investigation. Still, he had proved helpful with the final resolution of the case.

  We’d crossed paths after that on other occasions. By then, I’d learned what Michael truly did for a living: He’d been a secret agent for British intelligence, although he was officially retired when we met. But he always seemed to be called back into service by MI6 for assignments that demanded his particular skills and experience, including being a master at assuming different identities depending upon the circumstances. It had been a few years since we’d last touched base, and to say that I was surprised to see him come through the door is an understatement.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Tom Craig announced, “may I introduce our better-late-than-never and final guest for the evening, Mr. Wendell Jones.”

  Haggerty met my quizzical expression with a broad, charming smile and raised eyebrows. I’d seen that look before. It said, Don’t ask questions; I’ll explain later.

  After everyone had been introduced to “Wendell,” aka Michael, we took our seats, and the first course—a delicate shrimp and tomato bisque—was served. Michael, who is never at a loss for words, immediately threw himself into the conversation, charming everyone with tales of his life as a Dublin antiques dealer specializing in old theatrical and motion picture posters and handbills. I had little to say; I was still taken aback by his appearance and the identity he was using.

  “Jessica and I have met before,” Haggerty said. He flashed me his most winning smile. “In Dublin, wasn’t it, Jessica?”

  “I—I, ah, believe it was, Mr. Jones.”

  “The world gets smaller with every passing year,” he said. “It is wonderful to see you again. You haven’t aged a day.”

  “But I have aged a few years,” I said. “You look the same, Mich—Mr. Jones.”

  “You’ve always been such a flatterer,” he said. “And please call me Wendell.” He turned away to respond to something Baroness Walthrop had said about the political situation in Ireland.

  As the dinner wore on, I had the feeling that my publisher was trying to sort out my previous relationship with Haggerty. He cornered me in the library, where after-dinner drinks were being served.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering about Mr. Jones, Jessica,” he said in a low voice.

  “You’re adept at reading thoughts, Thomas.”

  “Interesting that you two have met before. I assume therefore that you are aware that his real name is—”

  “Michael Haggerty,” I filled in.

  “Yes, of course. You would know that.” His tone became even more conspiratorial. “You do know that he’s been a special agent for MI6.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve signed him up to write a book for us about his remarkable undercover career.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful.”

  “Yes. He tells me that he’s retired from the intelligence service, gave up the life of chasing spooks and other assorted bad types around the globe.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, “but why the false name tonight and the made-up background?”

  He now spoke in a whisper. “Between you and me, Jessica, he’s been called back to duty to work one last, very big case, something to do with terrorists and the like. He asked that his real name not be used tonight, and, of course, I obliged. Service to country and all that.” He gave me a wink.

  “I see,” I said. “Thanks for sharing it with me. At least I now know that I’m not hallucinating.”

  He laughed, and we joined the others.

  I found a seat next to Betty LeClair and complimented her on her beautiful dress and its unusual color.

  “Thank you,” she said, smoothing the fabric with a delicate hand. “It’s a special silk that was made for me.”

  “Well, it’s lovely,” I said, “although I’m sure that everything looks good on you. You carry yourself like a model. Have you ever modeled?”

  “I have,” she said, showing a rare smile.

  Mr. Kim was more forthcoming. “Betty was a top fashion model in Paris,” he said with understandable pride.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Did you enjoy modeling?”

  “Not really. It is so—well, I suppose you could say I found it boring.”

  I laughed. “Too much waiting around for the photographers to set everything up.”

  “Yes, that is exactly right. Good fashion photographers work so slowly.”

  Jacob Walthrop joined us, a large snifter of Cognac in his hand. “I understand you’re returning to the States on the Queen Mary, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

  “That’s right. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “When do you leave?” Haggerty asked.

  “This coming Saturday. From Southampton.”

  “Jacob and I crossed on it shortly after it was commissioned,” Baroness Walthrop said. “It’s a floating palace, everything top-drawer.”

  “You’re whetting my appetite even more,” I said.

  “What an interesting coincidence,” Kim Chin-Hwa said. “I’ll be on the ship with you.”

  “You will? That’s wonderful,” I replied.

  “Yes,” he said. “Betty and I and a few of my business associates will be fellow passengers. I trust that we’ll have a chance to get to know each other better before we arrive in Manhattan.”

  “Actually we’ll be docking in Brooklyn,” I said, “but Brooklyn and Manhattan are both parts of New York City after all. Brooklyn is just a different borough.”

  “Strange. On my last crossing, the QE Two docked in Manhattan.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but the Queen Mary is too big for the berths on Manhattan’s West Side. It would stick out too far into the Hudson River.”

  “Brooklyn is not too far from Manhattan, as I understand.”

  “Just a short hop across a river,” I said, neglecting to mention that New York City traffic could make the trip more like a long haul than a short hop.

  An hour later, guests started to depart, which pleased me. Although I’d gotten some sleep on the plane, I was still suffering from jet
lag; the vision of climbing into my bed at the Grosvenor Square Hotel exerted a powerful pull.

  Michael Haggerty suggested that we share a taxi, but I declined. As much as I was fond of him and admired his work as an undercover agent—and as much as I appreciated all the help he’d provided me in certain murder cases in which I’d unfortunately, and inadvertently, found myself immersed—I wasn’t eager to extend this most recent encounter. Michael can be as long-winded as he is charming, and I knew any extension of the evening would tax my weary bones.

  “It was good seeing you again, Mr. Jones,” I said with a twinkle.

  “Thank you for keeping my secret, Jessica. You see—”

  “I know—you’re working a case and writing a book for Tom Craig.”

  “You approve?”

  “About the case or the book?”

  “Either, or both.”

  “You don’t need my approval,” I said.

  “Oh, but I do.”

  “Then you have it. But for now, good night. I’m sure we’ll be bumping into each other again.”

  “It’s my most treasured hope,” he said as he kissed me on the cheek, and was gone.

  Tom Craig called for a taxi and waited with me by the front door. The rain had abated somewhat; it was now a quintessential London mist that created eerie patterns in the glow of the streetlights.

  “Other plans while here in London?” he asked.

  “A few,” I said. “Dinner was lovely. Please give my best to your wife.”

  “I certainly shall, provided she hasn’t become a snack for some ravenous lion.”

  The square black London cab arrived, and Craig walked me to it holding an umbrella, or “brolly” in British-speak, over my head. He leaned through the open door and said, “If you should run across a large blue diamond in your travels, please give me first crack at it.”

  I laughed along with him. Outlandish, unrealistic quips are often so amusing.

  Chapter Three

  I was asleep minutes after my head hit the pillow in my suite at the hotel on Grosvenor Square. I awoke at seven the following morning—two a.m. back in Cabot Cove—and despite the sleep I was groggy. It took a long shower to clear my head.