My eyes widened at the price he wanted. “That's well above our usual range—but still not enough for such a lovely set.” I braced myself. “Are you sure these aren't off the back of some lorry, Piers?"
"From the collection of Lady Olivia Spedding.” He looked coldly down at me, rather like the Duke of Wellington, now I came to think of it, holding out his hand for the earrings.
I returned them, shrugging. “No skin off my nose,” I informed him, my voice at its most common, all accent and attitude.
I wasn't so much surprised as taken aback when, as we packed up at the end of a not especially profitable day, Piers sidled up, dropping the familiar jeweller's box on our stall. “Usual commission,” he said, and disappeared.
It was Griff who got first look at them with the eyeglass this time. “Continental,” he said. “And all good stones."
"You mean—?"
"What do you think?"
I peered. “Beautifully clean. Everything hunky-dory for the period. Feel the weight—they wouldn't half stretch the old ear-lobes. Lovely quality stones—all of them. I'd be honoured to sell these."
I thought I heard Griff mutter something about sprats catching mackerel, but perhaps I was mistaken.
* * * *
A couple of weeks later I handed over the cash for the earrings in the traditional brown envelope. It was hardly out of my hand when another slightly battered jewel case appeared, purple leather outside, purple silk in, showing off a diamond pendant and matching earrings to perfection. Victorian, again, and perhaps a bit fussy for modern tastes.
It was all so low-key we might have been business partners, not engaged to become life partners. Theoretically engaged. Anyone who could palm off a piece with stones I could feel in my bones were false was no longer my fiancé. I said nothing yet. Grassing someone up was something not to be done lightly. But in a trade that totally depended on trust, what else could I do?
* * * *
Griff removed the eyepiece and rubbed his face. “And what four-letter word, first letter S, last letter M, springs to your suspicious mind?"
"Scam,” I said flatly.
"A profitable one, too. You buy a couple of these so-called man-made diamonds for a song, remove two decent-sized but not particularly noticeable stones from pieces where no one will immediately notice the exchange, replace them with the fakes, and pocket the difference. If you got brave enough to replace a one-carat diamond, say, with a fake one, you could profit by four or five thousand pounds."
I nodded. “To get away with it, you really need someone totally reliable like us. If by any chance people found they'd bought a wrong ‘un they'd hotfoot it back to us and complain. And we could only say we'd had them from someone else and terribly sorry and here's your money back."
"And you complain to Piers, who laughs in your face. Or says his great-aunt or whatever must have replaced them to raise cash for her gambling habit. Or his aunt's dead, and he reminds us it's caveat emptor."
There weren't many Latin phrases I knew but that was one of them. “To my mind it's more a case of caveating Trading Standards or even the police."
"Oh, dear one, you can't use caveat like that,” he sighed. “But you're right about the legal implications. To my mind, the only question is how much Piers knows about it."
"If his genes are anything like Lord Elham's, a lot. But we need proof: You and I know there's something wrong, but neither of us could stand up in a court of law and say what these stones actually are. And surely, Griff, in that thick Filofax of yours, you've got the number of a—whatsit—a jewel expert."
"Gemologist, angel heart. Yes, I'm sure I have. One, moreover, I can trust implicitly. Now, that chicken should be cooked to perfection."
Over supper we debated long and loud what we should do next. My initial impulse was to pack up the pendant and earrings and send them straight back to Piers. With both gorgeous rings. But if we did, he'd certainly try to palm them off on someone else less canny than us.
"Equally, of course, Piers might be an innocent dupe of someone to whom he'd innocently taken old items to be cleaned,” Griff observed resignedly. “And it's the cleaner who's at fault."
I pulled a face. But it was of course true. “So how do we find out—any of this?"
* * * *
I might have known who would do the dirty work. Yours truly, of course. Well, not for anything would I have put Griff at risk. His arthritis was better since he'd cut down the drink and was downing measures of an evil-looking liquid prescribed by an alternative therapist, but he tended more and more these days to let me go to sales while he stayed at home and ran the shop. That way he had more energy to go to the very taxing antiques fairs we set up our stall at. So there was no argument. Especially as I didn't tell him what I was planning.
He and Lord Elham had disliked each other at sight. Lord Elham loathed Griff's campiness, Griff Lord Elham's dishonesty. At bottom, I suspect Lord Elham wanted to wrest me from Griff's care, for no better reason than that he needed a skivvy. Griff wanted to keep me with him because he loved me. There was no point in forcing them into each other's company: I'd sussed out that getting to know each other would only make matters worse. The main reason why I'd spend occasional days at Bossingham Hall was because Lord Elham had rooms full of the most amazing junk, some of it extremely saleable. Since his favourite tipple—indeed, his only tipple—was Champagne, my skill in sorting out items I could sell for him was called for quite often. This time, on the principle of setting a thief to catch a thief, I popped round at a time when daytime TV was at its nadir, taking with me a couple of homemade casseroles he could warm up in his new microwave. He looked worse than ever: Though he was ten years younger than Griff, his complexion was purply-grey and very dry looking. At least since I'd come on the scene his hair looked better: He'd seen some terribly expensive product in a TV advert and I now bought some whenever I shopped for his Champagne. If only I could get him to exercise something other than his zapper thumb and drinking elbow.
"Piers Hamlyn!” he exploded. “Going to marry Piers Hamlyn! And why didn't the young bastard seek my permission?"
I ignored the term “bastard,” quite restrained of me in the circumstances. “I don't think young men do, these days.” It was one thing wishing I'd asked Griff to vet my choice, quite another letting Lord Elham in on the act. “In any case, I said I was engaged to him, not that I was going to marry him.” I explained about the dodgy diamonds.
He slammed his fist on the Sheraton occasional table beside his chair. I winced. “Any young man who puts fake diamonds on my daughter's hand will not marry her."
All that Champagne was making him a bit slow. Or it might have been his diet, mostly Pot Noodles, with the odd frozen ready-meal thrown in.
"He doesn't know I know they're fake,” I said, taxing his limited abilities.
"If you say they are, they are,” he declared loyally, topping up my 1860 cut-crystal flute.
"I need to prove it. And I want to know if it's his scam, or if he's a victim, like me. He's brought a few things for me to sell—from the collection of Lady Olivia Spedding, he says."
"Olivia Spedding! Good God! I didn't know she was still alive."
"Fallen on hard times; having to sell bits and pieces. Would she have had a few stones replaced here and there?"
"More likely to have the whole lot exchanged for paste,” he mused. “You sure she's still alive?"
"He ought to know: He's her nephew. Great-nephew."
"Is he indeed? That must mean I'm related to her. Are you sure?” He peered at me, then, more hopefully, at the bottom of his glass.
"It's what he says. Anyway, what shall I do?"
A familiar expression of piggy greed settled on his puffy features. “Sell that sauceboat for me and I'll make a few enquiries."
It may have looked like a sauceboat, but it was in fact an eighteenth-century ladies’ urinal—a vessel for ladies to wee into during long sermons or ceremonies. But that made
it more, rather than less, valuable. I hoped that the women in the family had more sense of hygiene than my parent, or I couldn't have sworn that anyone had washed it before it had come to its present use.
* * * *
Even with my ten-percent commission, I was able to return a week or so later with four cases of Champagne.
"That Piers Hamlyn chappie still sniffing after you?” he greeted me, though his eyes were on the cardboard boxes in the back of our van.
"He's in Ireland,” I said. “Doing a few sales.” Which was unlikely, come to think of it, given his stock in trade, which last time I saw him included a couple of Ty Beanie Bears. If he'd taken me, with my divvy skills, I'd have made us a mint. But for some reason he'd never suggested it, and I was too sure I didn't want to marry him to ask. And then I cursed myself for being so damned moral—maybe Ireland was where he got his dodgy gems.
Lord Elham sniffed. “Not good enough for you, my girl. Not good enough."
Not good enough for the illegitimate daughter of a drunken old lecher like him? Griff referred to him fastidiously as a reprobate, which sounded nicely eighteenth-century.
"The man's a fraud. At least that tosh about Olivia Spedding is. Popped her clogs years ago: no stamina, those Speddings. So wherever he's getting it from it's not Olivia. In any case, she spent all her dosh on the gee-gees: never wore a diamond in her life. You sure you got the name right?"
I didn't see how I could have misheard a name like that, but until I got all that booze into his domain and a glass of it in his hand, I'd get no more sense out of him.
When he was settled at last, I asked, “Has Piers any other relations who might have asked him to sell the jewellery?"
"That was the respectable branch of the family. Have you met Hamlyn's family yet?"
I shook my head. I had an idea it was because he was afraid I wouldn't pass muster, and would start dropping aitches and eating my peas with a knife. Or was it only the middle classes like Griff who worried about such niceties?
"Or his friends?"
Another shake of the head.
"Are you sure he's kosher?"
I looked him straight in the eye. “That's what I'm hoping you'd tell me."
He took the sort of pull on his Champagne that I can only manage on water, and then it gives me hiccups. “Tell you what, you sell those plates for me and get me some more bubbly, and I'll see what I can do."
I nodded. I knew of old that the plates were a pretty tatty collection, mostly more Piers's sort of price range than mine, but for the information he might come up with I'd buy him a case of fizz myself.
In the event, I didn't have to. I found a red anchor mark Chelsea plate at the bottom.
* * * *
"Ireland!” Griff repeated, when I reported back our conversation as word for word as I could make it. “Why didn't you tell me the little rat had gone to Ireland?"
"Because I know you don't like me talking about him, and I thought you'd think I was upset not to be invited."
He frowned as he worked out what I meant. That was the trouble with not finding words easy: Sometimes they shuffled themselves into clumsy lumps. “And you weren't upset?"
"Glad not to be. I wouldn't want to sleep with him under false pretences."
"God knows where you got your moral principles from—not Lord Elham."
"Mostly from you!"
I could see he was pleased. But he added, quite seriously, “On the other hand, think of the stuff you could have picked up over there. Anyway, Ireland. And Dublin in particular. Diamond merchant."
"Not Amsterdam? Or Hatton Garden?"
"We're not talking about real diamonds, are we, petal? Not according to my contact.” He touched his nose.
"They are fakes?"
"As true as a six-pound note. As we always suspected."
"But that doesn't get us any further forward with Piers. For my own satisfaction, Griff, I need to know if he's running the show or if he's a dupe. I may suspect ... but I need to know."
"For that, my love, unless you wish to involve the police, you may have to rely on Lord Elham."
"Set a thief to catch a thief, you mean."
* * * *
"Not in your trade vehicle!” Lord Elham insisted.
"I'm not going to turn up advertising it's me, am I? We'll do what Griff and I always do if we want to go to London. We catch the train, and after that take a cab. There's nothing more incognito than a cab, surely."
"And you're happy to lurk outside the establishment—in that cab, for preference—while I Do the Deed?"
I wasn't, but I didn't see my getting admitted into what called itself a massage parlour but sounded more like a high-class brothel, except as an employee. And I'd always drawn the line at that, even when I was at my lowest, before Griff came to my rescue.
So when the day came, and Lord Elham had had the nod and the wink he'd hoped for, I collected him in my Fiesta and drove us to Ashford International Station.
"Travel first class? Dear me, I can't afford that!” was his reaction to my offer, but I could tell he was sacrificing himself. However, he perked up considerably when he saw even the second-class areas were comfortable and our seats even had a little table on which to place our Champagne, which I was determined to ration. To my amazement, he showed me how to tackle Sudoku, rattling through the Times's fiendish puzzle as if he were a child with an abacus. The journey passed surprisingly quickly.
"Now,” I prompted him, “you remember how that little tape recorder works? And you won't have more than one bottle?"
"Shampoo at six hundred pounds a pop? You jest!"
* * * *
All three faces were serious as we sat around Griff's dining table. He'd made a huge effort, not to impress Lord Elham, but to show me how generous-spirited he was, entertaining a man he still saw as his rival under his own roof. To be honest, the delicate soup, tender guinea fowl, and exploding meringues were wasted on my father. But he too was on his best behaviour, praising as judiciously as if we didn't know that Spicy Beef Pot Noodles were his real preference, and gossiping about the famous faces he'd seen at the brothel. I'd spotted, from the depths of my cab, a further couple he'd missed. One face we'd both seen was Piers Hamlyn's.
At last Lord Elham extended a spatulate finger and pressed the Play button. We could hear Piers's voice quite clearly, against the chink of glasses and the raucous voices of the rich. He was boasting about his fence, how it was like taking candy from a baby.
And then we heard Lord Elham's voice: “Young man, it happens to be my baby from whom you are taking the confectionary. My little girl Lina. She will not be marrying you, of course. And, unless you want an exposé that would shock even your family to the roots, I suggest you listen very carefully to what I say..."
* * * *
"The Falklands!"
"I do wish, my love, you wouldn't squeak,” Lord Elham reproached me, just as if he were Griff. “Yes, the Falklands. I believe he will find his niche out there: sheep or mineral rights, whichever interests him more. Not forever. Just long enough for you to mop up all the fake gems he's scattered about the country.” He laid a wad of notes on the table. “That should suffice. You will keep any change.” He looked at my ringless finger. “You should find enough there to purchase genuine stones for the two rings in your keeping.” He sat back, belched, and looked as his watch. “Now, I always watch Big Brother at this time. And then, my child, you can run me home."
(c)2007 by Judith Cutler
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen
Maps have often added an extra touch of distinction to crime novels, once as-sociated with classical puzzles (floor plan of the murder house with X marking the spot the body was found), today more likely to turn up on historical mysteries. The first three very dissimilar books reviewed below have in common both their excellence and their use of maps, two with classy endpaper illustrations, the third a back cover in the style of the 1940s D
ell Mapbacks.
**** C.J. Sansom: Sovereign, Viking, $25.95. In 1541, King Henry VIII is heading northward from London to the recently rebellious York, where hunchback lawyer Matthew Shardlake, hero of the author's two previous novels, has been sent ahead to review petitions to the king and to oversee the care of an imprisoned conspirator. This model historical detective novel offers period details with the ring of truth, a complicated but comprehensibly presented political and social context, painfully believable interpersonal conflicts, and enough plot and incident to justify its near-600-page length. One minor com-plaint: occasional anachronisms in the dialogue, most jarringly the modern term propaganda.
**** Deborah Crombie: Water Like a Stone, Morrow, $24.95. Scotland Yard's Duncan Kincaid and his fellow cop, now life partner, Gemma James, travel with their children to Cheshire for Christmas with Kincaid's family, encountering both domestic crises and the discovery of a mummified infant on a building project. Deft plotting, a large cast of well-drawn characters, and a good background of the narrowboats that travel the local canals mark the usual fine job from one of the most consistently excellent writers on the current scene.
**** Richard A. Lupoff: Marblehead: A Novel of H.P. Lovecraft, Ramble House, $38 hardcover, $25 trade paper. In 1927, the plot confronting New England's horror master includes the Ku Klux Klan, German agents, Houdini's surviving brother, Lindbergh's flight, the Sacco-Vanzetti case, Hitler's Mein Kampf, and various U.S. and European political issues. Lupoff manages to make a man as odd and as full of repellent opinions as Lovecraft a sympathetic protagonist. Some may find the period and biographical detail overwhelming, with no meal or monthly issue of Weird Tales left undescribed, but those fascinated by pulp writers and their times will find this novel even more enthralling (and certainly more historically accurate) than Paul Malmont's The Chinatown DeathCloud Peril. (According to Fender Tucker's introduction, Lupoff's 1985 novel Lovecraft's Book, a shorter version of the same story, was a from-scratch rewrite of this book, which was written in the 1970s but not published until now.)
**** Steve Hockensmith: On the Wrong Track, St. Martin's Minotaur, $23.95. In a second book-length appearance even better than their Edgar-nominated first, illiterate would-be Sherlock Holmes Gustav ("Old Red") Amlingmeyer and his lettered older brother Otto ("Big Red") bend their cowboy principles to take a job with the Southern Pacific railroad in 1890s California. This seriocomic variation on the lively subgenre of passenger train mysteries enthralls from start to finish and is fairly enough clued to satisfy traditionalists.
EQMM, August 2007 Page 12
