I glanced out the window and saw that the storms of the previous night had passed and that the sun was shining brightly. Buoyed by the promise of fair weather, I dressed and headed downstairs to meet George in the hotel’s dining room. He was already there when I arrived, and had secured a prime table next to a window.
Handsome as ever, he was wearing what is almost a uniform for him—Harris Tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, blue button-down shirt, muted maroon tie, tan slacks with a razor crease, and low brown boots polished to a mirror finish. Wrapped in that outfit was a six-foot-four-inch-tall man with eyes the color of Granny Smith apples, rugged but not coarse features, and brown hair with just the right touch of gray at the temples.
“Hello,” I said as he stood and kissed my cheek.
“Hello to you,” he said, pulling out my chair for me. “Well rested?”
“Not really. My circadian rhythms are still adjusting.”
“You’d never know it by looking at you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve reached an age where I don’t casually dismiss compliments. Speaking of compliments, you appear to have lost a year or two.”
“Must be the lovely weather we’re having this morning in London, aided by the flattering lighting in this room. But I agree with you about graciously accepting compliments. I accept, and thank you.”
He smiled broadly, and so did I. It was wonderful being there with him, as it always was when we got to see each other after a long absence. “Maybe this diamond robbery and murder has brought out the boy in you,” I said.
He rolled his eyes and grinned. “It certainly has,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines in the tabloids.”
“Just a fleeting glance here in London, but I read fairly detailed accounts back home. I had a bit of an inside look at the case last night.”
“Oh? How so?”
“One of my fellow dinner guests was a partner of the man who was killed during the robbery.”
“Kim Chin-Hwa?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing there at your dinner party?” George asked, his eyes wider.
“The host was my publisher, Tom Craig. He told me that Mr. Kim is considering investing in Tom’s plan to take over a small publishing house that’s up for sale. You’re obviously aware of Mr. Kim’s connection with the victim.”
“Very aware, indeed. I questioned him at length shortly after it happened.”
“And?”
“He has an airtight alibi, which doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved from a distance.”
I tipped my head. “Is that the theory you’re operating on, that he might have been involved in some indirect way?”
“Just one of many possible theories, Jessica.”
We gave our order to the waiter, an English muffin and a bowl of fruit for me, fried eggs, tomato, and bacon for George.
“You were saying,” I said after the waiter had left the table.
“Oh, yes. Kim Chin-Hwa. I don’t know if you’re aware that the victim, Walter Soon Yang, has been suspected for some time of funneling money to the Maoist Communist Party of India and other terrorist groups.”
“It was in the papers I read back home. Any truth to it?”
George shrugged. “All I know is what I hear. The intelligence chaps are reportedly looking into it, but I haven’t been informed of any progress on their end. Mr. Kim’s name has also come up in that regard.”
“Did you know he’ll be on the QM Two with me?”
His expression was a meld of exasperation and concern. “Yes. We’re aware of that at the Yard.”
“I hadn’t known, of course, when I first met him at dinner,” I explained. “He announced it toward the end of the evening. He’s traveling with some business associates, he said, and a beautiful young Eurasian woman who was his companion last evening.”
“Ms. LeClair.”
“You’ve spoken with her, too?”
“We have. She was at Mr. Kim’s home when we went to interview him. The background check we ran on everyone, including Ms. LeClair, turned up some interesting facts about her. She was born in Shanghai, father a French soldier-of-fortune type, off fighting for one cause or another until one of those causes killed him. Mother was Chinese, moved to Paris with her daughter when she was nine years old. It seems the mother got herself involved in a smuggling operation that was broken by French authorities. She was convicted and sentenced to a lengthy incarceration, although she didn’t last long. Died in her cell a year or two into her confinement. The daughter, Ms. LeClair, was raised by a distant relative of her father and went on to a successful modeling career, high fashion, that sort of thing.”
“You learned quite a bit about her.”
“There’s more. More recently she’s achieved a reputation for herself as a party girl.”
“A girl who likes parties?”
He laughed. “No, hardly that. She evidently uses her exotic good looks to entice wealthy men into relationships. A few years ago one of these men, who was well into his eighties, changed his will six months after meeting her, leaving a hefty portion of his estate to her. A son challenged it in court, but the will was ruled valid.”
“Do you think that Mr. Kim is one of those men who’ve been seduced by her looks and charm?”
“It’s not out of the realm of possibility, although I doubt she needs his money now that she’s an heiress.”
“Some people are never satisfied with how much money they have,” I said.
“True. We’re keeping an eye on her, too, but I’d wager that Kim has a motive in Yang’s murder. We just haven’t uncovered it yet.”
Our breakfasts were served, and conversation ceased for the moment. One of many things I love about London—all of England for that matter—is the homemade jams and jellies, which I liberally applied to my muffin.
I broke the silence with, “How was Mr. Yang killed, George?”
“He was found on the floor of what you might call his library. At least it contained walls of books. It appeared he’d been beaten, although the official cause of death was strangulation. He’d evidently put up a struggle, but the room was relatively intact aside from the door to a large wall safe left swinging open.”
“Where he kept the diamond.”
“Precisely.”
“I wonder . . .”
His raised eyebrows invited me to continue.
“I was just wondering why the safe would have been open. According to Mr. Kim, it was a very secure safe.”
“It was of a type that would have made it extremely difficult for the thieves to break into. Too heavy to have been removed from the wall and carried away, although I’ve been involved in cases where heavier safes have been removed by particularly muscular thieves. The assumption, of course, is that either the thieves forced Mr. Yang to open the safe, or he had already opened it and was enjoying fondling his precious gemstone when the thieves entered, which we understand he was wont to do. I rather favor the latter theory.”
“Why?”
“A man can’t give directions to open a safe while he’s being strangled. Or call for help. I think the thieves killed him quickly and then walked off with the goods.”
“Perfect timing, wouldn’t you say, knowing when he’d removed the diamond from the safe?”
“Raising the possibility that someone from within Mr. Yang’s inner circle knew when he would have the rock in his hands and alerted the thieves to that moment.”
George fell silent as he finished what was left of his breakfast.
“Am I asking too many questions?” I asked.
“No, luv, not at all. I don’t have any problem sharing this with you. I trust your discretion.”
“I appreciate that, George. I assume the diamond was insured.”
“Oh, yes, for its full value.”
“The estate will want to collect the insurance money, of course. Do you know who his heirs are?”
“Not yet. There’s a questi
on of a missing will, allegedly made later than the one on file with his solicitor. There’s also some confusion about whether his various business entities might be involved in ownership of the diamond. The insurance chaps have their hands full trying to sort things out.”
“I would think that a man of his wealth would have a sizable household and professional staff.”
“We questioned them all. No one claims to have heard or seen anything that night. A few of the household help were off for the evening.”
“No security?” I asked, incredulity in my tone.
“He had four security men assigned to the house. They worked in shifts. The bloke on duty the night of the robbery—a formidable fellow with a neck the size of my waist—claims that his boss informed him earlier that evening that he was not to be disturbed. He assumed that Mr. Yang was entertaining a woman in the library, which he said wasn’t unusual. If that’s true, his lady friend enjoyed perfume, and plenty of it. The scent lingered in the room. One of our female investigators at the scene said she couldn’t identify the name of it but was certain it was expensive.”
“How did the thieves enter the house?” I asked.
“A back door leading into the kitchen.”
“No alarms, no sirens going off, no video cameras?”
“Oh, yes, the place was nicely alarmed. But the system had been deactivated.”
“Convenient,” I said, my expression of disbelief overt enough to cause him to laugh.
“You have the genes of a top-shelf criminal investigator, Jessica. Murder brings out the best in you.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing,” I said, “but enough of diamonds and murder. Tell me everything that’s been happening in your personal life since the last time we were together.”
We left the restaurant an hour later and went to the curb, where a line of taxis waited.
“I’m always impressed with how easily the conversation flows between us,” he commented. “I’m sure we could have stayed at the table for the rest of the day.”
“I always love our conversations.”
“It says something about us, Jessica.”
“And what might that be?”
“It says that—well, it says that we’re always comfortable together. I observe too many couples these days who sit in restaurants and have absolutely nothing to say to each other except ‘Please pass the salt,’ or ‘I wish you wouldn’t chew with your mouth open.’”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t use much salt, and neither of us chews with an open mouth.”
“I think you’re evading the point I was trying to make.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I was. Will I see you again before I go to Southampton on Saturday?”
“I’ll make certain of it. I’m tied up tonight and all day tomorrow. Dinner tomorrow night?”
“Love it.”
We embraced, and I watched him climb into the back of the next available cab and ride off. It was always so wonderful to see him—and equally sad when he went away.
Chapter Four
I learned years ago from a veteran world traveler that the first things you pack when taking a trip are plastic bags of various sizes, which I’ve been doing ever since. The second item on my packing list is comfortable walking shoes. This is especially important when visiting London because no other city in this world that I know of is so conducive to walking. Well, Paris is wonderful, too, and New York City. But there’s something about London that especially appeals to me, and I try to take in as much as possible whenever I’m there.
Of course, my penchant for walking means spending less time in London’s fabled taxis. London cabs and their drivers are the best in the world. The boxlike vehicles provide spacious comfort for passengers, and the consummate professionals who drive them spend three to five years preparing for the stringent exams they must take in order to earn a license. They immerse themselves during those years in learning the location of thousands of buildings, hotels, and restaurants, as well as myriad out-of-the-way destinations their customers throw at them; they tool around the sprawling city on motorbikes until they know London cold and can prove it to their examiners.
But on this day, with perfect weather—bright sunshine coupled with a cooling breeze—I was in a walking mood and set off to explore the area around my hotel, Grosvenor Square. I’d done some brushing up on my history before leaving home, particularly the World War II era. Not only is London made for walking; you’re surrounded by history with each step you take.
During World War II, Grosvenor Square and its immediate surroundings were home to the headquarters of the U.S. command in Europe, as well as to General Eisenhower’s headquarters. Locals called it “Little America.” Today, it’s the site of the American Embassy, the largest embassy in Britain, with almost six acres of floor space.
I stood outside the embassy and looked up at a gigantic bald eagle on its roof. My guidebook said its wingspan was approximately thirty-five feet, a huge, soaring symbol of my country, the business of which is conducted inside. A stroll through the square itself brought me to William Reid Dick’s magnificent bronze sculpture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. My walk took me as far south as the famed Hyde Park Corner, where I ducked into the Four Seasons Hotel for a light lunch. From there I headed northwest to Berkeley Square, home to some of London’s wealthiest families, and proceeded back to my hotel to kick off my shoes and rest my tired feet.
I’d asked Tom Craig during dinner to recommend a play for me to see while in town. London’s vibrant and easily accessible theater scene is inevitably thought-provoking, and I always try to catch a few shows, often seeing them before they transition to Broadway. He had suggested the new revival of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House that had been set in Edwardian England rather than in Ibsen’s Norway. I’m a fan of Ibsen, and I’ve always liked that particular work. Tom also had said that its focus on political scandal had special meaning in its new English setting because of the current uproar over members of the British parliament obscenely padding their expense accounts.
I was about to call the concierge to see if tickets were available when the phone rang. It was George.
“Jessica,” he said, “bad news. I’ve been called out of town to follow up on a lead in the diamond case. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel dinner tomorrow night. I feel terrible bollixing up your plans.”
“Oh, that’s a shame, George, but I certainly understand. A promising lead?”
“Hard to know at this juncture, but of course every lead must be followed, promising or not.”
“Of course. When do you think you’ll be back?”
“I don’t know that either, hopefully before you head for Southampton. When is that?”
“Saturday morning.”
“I’ll do my best to be back before then.”
“I know you will. Be safe.”
“You, too, Jessica.”
We’d no sooner ended the conversation than the phone rang again.
“Is this the famous Jessica Fletcher?”
I knew immediately that it was Michael Haggerty.
“Hello, Michael.”
“You knew I’d be calling.”
“I recognized your voice.”
“I’ll have to work harder at disguising it, maybe develop a Maine accent like yours.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you could muster a Down East accent. Why are you calling, Michael?”
“Jessica, why this standoffish tone? It was wonderful seeing you last night.”
“I’m sorry, Michael. I don’t mean to be standoffish. I’ve just come back from a long walk and—”
“I know, I know—your feet hurt.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, yes.” What I didn’t say was that my disappointment at not being able to see George again was probably coloring my tone of voice.
“A good soak in cold water and you’ll be tip-top in no time.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Mother Hagge
rty’s recipe for ailing tootsies. Look, Jessica, I really would like to see you again while you’re in London. Do you have plans for this evening?”
“No, I—I thought I’d take in some theater.”
“A musical?”
“No. As a matter of fact—”
“There isn’t any better theater in London than the Ivy.”
I knew that he was referring to the celebrity-driven restaurant that has long been a favorite of London’s theatrical and motion picture crowd. I’d been there before as the guest of an actress friend and enjoyed it very much.
“We’ll see all the stars in London’s entertainment firmament, but unfortunately you won’t be able to prove it to the folks back home. You can’t bring a camera to the Ivy,” he continued. “Taking pictures there is prohibited. Got to protect the celebs from the paparazzi. Always quite a show, however. How about we have dinner there tonight?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Reservations had to be made at the Ivy weeks, if not months, in advance. He sounded as though we could just pop in and have our choice of tables. I mentioned this.
“Not to worry, Jessica. I’m a charter member of the Club at the Ivy. You can do theater any night, but an invitation to the Ivy comes along only now and then.” He broke into song: “. . . and we will cling together like the ivy.”
I sighed.
“A popular song of yesteryear, Jessica; that’s where the Ivy got its name. They say a table at the Ivy is the most sought-after piece of furniture in all of London, and the sticky toffee pudding with vanilla ice cream is divine, worthy of sainthood.”
“I get your point, Michael.”
He turned serious. “Jessica,” he said, “it’s really important that I spend some time with you. I have a favor to ask.”
“Which is?”
“Not on the phone,” he replied, his voice dropping.
“Michael, I—”
“Swing by to pick you up at nine? I know that’s late, but the action really doesn’t get started until then. The Ivy. My treat. Think of all the famous folks you’ll see prancing about in their thickest makeup and latest designer togs.”
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