The Annam Jewel

by Patricia Wentworth

  Peter sprang up to meet her, and she touched him familiarly on the arm.

  “Come and be introduced to some friends of mine,” she said: and, as Peter murmured an introduction, she smiled and added, “Will you spare him just for a minute, Mr. Banham?”

  “Do you like my frock, Peter?” she said in a confidential voice as they moved away together.

  “I think the spiders are perfectly beastly,” said Peter. “I like the glittery white part. What on earth made you have black spiders?”

  “They’re symbolic,” said Sylvia with a funny, light laugh. “I’m in the web, and the spiders will have me unless—unless, oh, well, here we are.”

  Peter had been looking at her. He now saw that they had come to a standstill by the Hendebakkers’ table. Before he realized what was happening, Sylvia was introducing him to Anita, and Virgil Hendebakker had risen to his feet with a smooth, “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Waring.”

  Peter was experiencing sensations which he had never known before. Anita was wearing the Annam Jewel. She was Hendebakker’s wife. Who and what was Hendebakker? How had he come by the Jewel? Was he Henderson? These thoughts had been battering themselves against Peter’s consciousness during all the time that he had been eating, drinking, and talking. The force of their impact now became terrific. Hendebakker might be Henderson! The heavy build was there. The light eyes suggested that his hair had once been fair. The hand—that was the only certain thing, the scar on the back of the hand I The thought came like a flash.

  As Hendebakker rose, his right hand rested on the table; he leaned upon it as he made his polite speech. Peter looked at the hand and saw what Henry Waring had seen and described twenty-five years before—a round white scar, the size of a threepenny-bit, half-way between the wrist and the middle knuckle. The hand was plump and smooth-skinned. The mark showed up distinctly.

  “It’s Henderson!” said Peter to himself. “It’s Henderson!” And, as he said it, Hendebakker swung round and held out the hand with the scar.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Waring,” he repeated. His light eyes looked hard at Peter’s face.

  Peter had grown so pale that Anita, glancing at him lazily over her white shoulder, wondered what was the matter. Peter looked for a moment at Hendebakker, but made no movement to take his hand. The one thought which at that moment filled his mind was that this very hand had done murder upon his uncle and his father. He knew that he must say or do something; but he did not know what he would say or do. He heard Sylvia say, “Peter”, and then he heard himself speak in a voice that was not at all like his ordinary voice, but sharper and colder. He heard himself say:

  “Mr. Henderson, I believe—or is it Henders?”

  Hendebakker raised his eyebrows, dropped his hand, stepped back half a pace.

  “My name, sir, is Hendebakker—Virgil P. Hendebakker at your service—tolerably well known, too.”

  “Perhaps,” said Peter, “there is a mistake somewhere.”

  Anita’s lazy stare had become tinged with boredom.

  “Sylvia, Mr. Waring, why do you not sit down?” she said. “They will take coffee with us, will they not, Virgilio?”

  “I’m afraid,” said Peter, “that I must be getting back to my party.” He spoke gravely and quietly now; his self-control had returned to him.

  He bowed and walked away. Mr. Hendebakker resumed his seat.

  “And now,” he said, speaking genially, “now I think we know where we are. Sit down, Lady Moreland, and have some coffee. Anita’s been wild to see you all day.”

  Peter found his uncle and Mr. Cowan on their feet.

  “Come up to my room,” said Miles as he joined them. “Can’t talk here—too many people.”

  They went up to the second floor where Mr. Banham had a private suite, no less. When the door of the sitting-room was closed, all three men remained standing. Miles was the first to speak.

  “Now, Cowan,” he said, “let’s have it. That was one of the best dinners I’ve ever sat down to, and it was absolutely clean wasted on me. Out with it, man, out with it!”

  Mr. Cowan seemed amused.

  “What am I to come out with, my friend?”

  Miles shook his fist at him.

  “I saw it in your face,” he said, “and I’ve been on thorns ever since.” He turned to Peter. “Cowan knows more about precious stones than any man between this and China. That’s why I asked him here tonight. That’s why I asked you. Come to think of it, you’d better own up first, Peter. The thing that lovely lady had got stuck on the front of her frock—well, in one word, is it the Annam Jewel, or isn’t it?”

  “How should I know?” said Peter. He laid his arm along the mantelshelf as he spoke, and leaned on it. The room seemed to be quivering about him. He did not know that his face was ghastly.

  “My good man, if it isn’t, what’s making you look as if you’d seen a ghost? You needn’t be shy in front of Cowan or in front of me. I know a little more about the Jewel than most people do, though that’s not saying much; and, as for Cowan, he’s all solid moral worth, and probity, and cast-iron trustworthiness.”

  Mr. Cowan interposed.

  “I think Mr. Waring has had a shock,” he said. “It will be better if he says nothing until he is sure that he wishes to do so. As for what I have to say, it is very simple. I am, as my friend Banham says, an expert, or, as I prefer to put it, a specialist in precious stones.”

  He addressed himself to Peter.

  “I am really a consultant. If it is a question of just how much cutting a great stone will bear, they do me the honour to send for me. Now, Mr. Waring, for years—yes, perhaps for thirty years—I have heard of a stone that is not like any other stone at all. The first I heard of it was in China when I was a youth. I was told there was mention of it in a very ancient Chinese manuscript. Since then I have heard, here and there, of this stone. I have never seen it. I have never met anyone who has seen it, or who has ever known a person who has seen it. I am interested; but I put it down, you understand, as one of those myths or legends which pass from one to another in the East and are as insubstantial as a mist. Then my friend Banham tells me a little more. He tells me, to be quite frank, the history of your family connection with the Jewel. You need not be troubled, Mr. Waring. I do not, perhaps, deserve all the pleasant things which my friend has said of me, but I certainly do not betray a confidence. Well, Banham tells me that; and then he tells me two other things. He says it is his belief that you will receive the Jewel when you are twenty-five, and he says the Jewel has appeared in London in possession of an American millionaire. I am naturally interested. He asked us both to dinner, and there enters a very beautiful woman, wearing something that I do not quite know how to describe.”

  Peter had been recovering himself. The room had become solid again. He looked at Mr. Cowan, frowned deeply, and said:

  “She was wearing the Annam Jewel.”

  Miles Banham gave his knee a resounding slap. “Of course she was,” he said triumphantly. “But how did she get it? That’s the rub, how did she get it? And what did you get, Peter my boy?”

  “I got a bit of glass,” said Peter, “a fake—this.”

  He held out his hand with the sham Jewel in its palm.

  Mr. Cowan nodded gravely.

  “That was left you by your father?”

  “That was left me by my father.”

  “Yes, that’s very interesting,” said Mr. Cowan, “very interesting indeed, because—and now I’m going to surprise you—the Jewel which Mrs. Hendebakker was wearing tonight—” he paused, and made a very slight gesture with his right hand—“that also is a fake.”

  Peter stood upright with a jerk. Miles Banham leaned forward, a hand on either knee, his withered brown face a-quiver with excitement, his eyes as bright and restless as a monkey’s.

  “What’s that? What’s that?” he said; and then, “By gum! By gum!”

  “A fake?” said Peter. He lifted his arm from the mantel
piece and leaned back. “How could it be a fake? How could you tell?”

  Mr. Cowan smiled.

  “Ah, Mr. Waring,” he said, “if I could tell you that—” he paused, and again made that slight gesture—“it is my métier, you see.”

  “But are you sure, Cowan, sure?” said Miles quickly.

  Mr. Cowan nodded.

  “I am sure,” he said.

  “Without handling it? Without any test?”

  “Why, yes. I cannot explain—at least I think I cannot explain; but I will try. In all the great jewels there is something, something beyond the colour, the water, the fire—whatever you like to call it; I do not wish to be technical. This something, it is not life as we understand life, and yet it is the life of the stone. When Mrs. Hendebakker passed us, I looked for this something, and I did not find it. It is not there. No, I cannot explain; it will not go into words; but I am sure.”

  “If it’s a fake, who made it?” said Miles quickly.

  “That is it,” said Mr. Cowan. “I know all the men who make such things, and I know of no one who could have made the stone we saw tonight.” He nodded at Peter. “It is a stone, you know—a stone that has been made, not glass, or paste. Michel, now, he might have done it—”

  Peter stood upright, his shoulders clear of the mantelpiece.

  “Oh, Hendebakker made it,” he said.

  “Impossible!”

  “No, sir, not impossible. You mentioned Michel. Now, I can’t prove this, but Hendebakker’s name used to be Henderson, and my father believed that it was Henders before that, and that he was Michel’s assistant before the smash came.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Cowan gently. “Yes, that is very interesting; it would account for a great deal.”

  Miles Banham flung himself into a chair.

  “By gum, what a mix-up!” he said. “Interesting evening we’re having, aren’t we? But what I want to know, my dear Cowan, and my excellent Peter, is—where is the real Jewel?”

  Peter said nothing. Mr. Cowan pulled a chair into a comfortable position and seated himself.

  “I wonder now,” he said quietly, “whether there ever was a real Jewel!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Rose Ellen came up to town next day. Peter got her letter at breakfast.

  Dearest wants me to look at coats for Jimmy, and I want hats and frocks. I’m sure you’d love to shop with me; and, anyhow, I thought we might have lunch somewhere. Would you like to meet my train?

  Peter met the train. He was uncommonly pleased to see Rose Ellen. He didn’t want to think about the Jewel, or Roden Coverdale, or Sylvia’s money matters, or Virgil P. Hendebakker; most particularly he did not want to think about Virgil P. Hendebakker. It was extraordinarily pleasant to see Rose Ellen get out of the train. He thought she looked so cool, and fresh, and pretty.

  They shopped coats for Jimmy—Jimmy being, of course, the Gaisford baby—and Rose Ellen bought two hats and three frocks, after which severe exercise they had lunch.

  It was at lunch-time that the day began to cloud a little. It clouded for Rose Ellen when Peter started talking about Sylvia Moreland.

  “I do want you to meet her,” he said earnestly. “I’ve told her about you, of course; and I’m frightfully keen on your meeting. You don’t really want to shop any more, do you? Because I thought that I could ring Sylvia up just to find out if she’s going to be in, and we could go round there after we’ve had coffee.”

  “I’ve got lots more to do, Peter,” said Rose Ellen.

  “Not really? You can’t have. You’ll be stony-broke if you buy anything more. Look here. I’ll telephone now and find out.”

  Peter came back triumphant.

  “We’re to go right along,” he announced. “It’s a bit of luck her being in—she has a frightful lot of engagements. I say, I’m most awfully glad you’re going to meet her. You’ll—you’ll admire her frightfully.”

  “Shall I?” said Rose Ellen. A little sparkle came into her brown eyes. “And do you think, Peter dear, that she’ll admire me frightfully, too?”

  “You’re getting vain,” said Peter. “I shan’t encourage you.”

  “Oh, Peter, but I want encouraging—I want it dreadfully, Peter de—ah.” The sparkle died. Rose Ellen smiled her lovely smile.

  Something warm and soft swept over Peter.

  “You said ‘Petah’,” he said; “you said it worse than ever. Say it again. Say ‘Petah de—ah’.”

  “I won’t,” said Rose Ellen. “I don’t—I never do.”

  “And you never did? Oh, Rose Ellen, what a frightful story! You used to be truthful—but, removed from my moral influence—”

  “Petah de—ah!” said Rose Ellen.

  The sunshine lasted until they reached Sylvia’s flat, when the day became so overcast that even Peter could not fail to be aware of it.

  Sylvia was exquisite in black—the thinnest, latest, smartest black. Rose Ellen immediately realized that her coat and skirt were just a shade out of date. Sylvia greeted her graciously.

  “Peter hasn’t said your name,” she said, “and it’s so stupid of me, but I’m a little mixed—you don’t call yourself Waring now, do you?”

  “No,” said Rose Ellen. “I took Mrs. Mortimer’s name when she adopted me.”

  “Yes, of course. I suppose Peter told me, but changes of name are so difficult. Don’t you find it rather confusing yourself? First your own name—I don’t think Peter ever told me what it was—and then Waring, and then Mortimer, and—isn’t she Mrs. Gaisford now? Shall you change again, or just stay as you are until you marry?”

  The sparkle had returned to Rose Ellen’s eyes. She met Sylvia’s appraising glance, and said:

  “I don’t know, Lady Moreland. I haven’t thought about it.”

  Just for a moment they looked at each other. In that moment Sylvia thought:

  “Peter never told me how pretty she was. I wonder if he knows.”

  Rose Ellen’s thought was sharper, thrusting deeper into the tender places of her heart:

  “She hates me because she wants Peter. She’s the sort that gets what she wants. She doesn’t love him, but she wants him.”

  Sylvia turned to Peter.

  “Oh, I met the Merritts this morning,” she said. “They want you for their dance next week.”

  “I don’t think I can go,” said Peter.

  “Oh yes, you can—with me. I told them you would, and they’re counting on you.”

  Her manner was coolly possessive. She ignored Peter’s frown, and explained to Rose Ellen.

  “He’s really getting fearfully dissipated, and I take great credit to myself for his dancing.”

  Then she began to talk to Peter about a play which they had seen together; a book she had lent him; a proposed expedition on the river with the Merritts. Every now and then she half turned to Rose Ellen with a casual, “I expect you’re rather out of the way for theatres,” or, “It’s so difficult to keep up one’s reading in the country, don’t you think?”

  After about a quarter of an hour of this sort of thing Rose Ellen got up.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but my train won’t wait for me, and I’ve left some of my shopping rather late.”

  Peter got up too. He was looking cross, and had been replying to Sylvia’s flow of conversation with monosyllables.

  “Oh, you mustn’t go yet,” said Sylvia. “Why, you must have quite a budget of country news to give Peter, and I’m sure he’s dying to hear it—how the hens are laying, and all that sort of thing.” Sylvia’s tone was lightly impertinent. She smiled charmingly as she spoke.

  Rose Ellen’s colour deepened. She looked at Sylvia with a gentle dignity which seemed to set a distance between them. Sylvia read the look easily enough. It said, “Use your weapons; they are not mine.”

  Rose Ellen held out her hand.

  “My news must keep,” she said; “or I can give it to Peter next time he comes to Merton Clevery. Good-bye, Lady Moreland.”

>   Peter followed her from the room. Neither of them spoke until they reached the street. Then Rose Ellen said:

  “You needn’t come to the station, Peter.”

  “I needn’t, but I’m going to,” said Peter gloomily. Then, after a pause: “I thought you’d have hit it off so well. Why on earth can’t women get on together?”

  “I don’t know, Peter,” said Rose Ellen.

  They walked on in silence. At the corner of the street Rose Ellen turned on Peter.

  “I hate hens, I simply hate them!” she said with vehemence.

  “So do I,” said Peter. “I should think everyone does.”

  He looked at Rose Ellen and saw that her eyes were bright with tears. He gave her arm a little squeeze.

  “I say, Rose Ellen, don’t. I’m a cross beast. Don’t let’s quarrel. But I did think you’d like her, because—well, she’s a great friend of mine, and I like you to like my friends.”

  “She’s most awfully pretty, Peter de—ah,” said Ellen.

  They finished the shopping, and Rose Ellen caught her train. Peter found her a corner seat in a carriage which contained two old ladies and an immense number of parcels. Just at the last moment, when Rose Ellen gave him both her hands, Peter felt that same sense of something soft and warm; it swept over him and filled him with a desire to go on holding Rose Ellen’s hands. Then the train began to move. The warm moment was gone.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The library at Sunnings was a very pleasant room; from its window you could see how the lawns ran down to the river. The grass was not as carefully tended as it had been, and the shrubberies were overgrown, but a hundred different shades of spring green made the prospect a pleasing one.

  Roden Coverdale sat at a table which faced the windows. Sometimes he sat quite still, watching the sunlight flicker on the distant water; sometimes he looked down, frowning at the newspaper cuttings which were spread on the table before him. There were a good many cuttings, mostly from the Society papers. He began to pick them up and make a little pile of them. Occasionally he read a few words. To the last one he gave a more careful scrutiny. It had only reached him that morning. He read it right through before he laid it down. It was an extract from one of those letters which have become a weekly feature in certain papers: