Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  Maybe not about rough stones, Meg thought. The gem gravels of Ceylon, the island off the coast of India, were among the richest in the world. Ratnapura, the City of Gems, had for centuries supplied the world not only with fine rubies and sapphires but with an astonishing variety of semiprecious stones— tourmaline and topaz, moonstone and garnet and zircon. Kashmir, in northern India, was the source of the exquisite cornflower-blue sapphires, the most prized of that variety of corundum. The best rubies came not from Ceylon but from the mines of Mogok in Burma. Like those of Ceylon, the Burmese deposits contained a variety of stones, including sapphires and peridots.

  For Dan, being stationed in that part of the world must have been like turning a child loose in a candy store in the middle of a hurricane. The upheaval of war sent whole populations fleeing for their lives. The Japanese had swept through southeast Asia with the same blitzkrieg speed their German allies had shown in Europe, driving ahead of them a ragtag army of refugees who carried with them their most valuable and portable treasures.

  From desperate people and in a market flooded with gems Dan could have acquired cut and uncut stones legally, and still made a killing. Meg didn't doubt that he had "forgotten" to declare some of them on his return; authorities couldn't have searched the duffel bags of hundreds of thousands of returning heroes.

  The treasure trove must have been more difficult to smuggle into the country. How he had done it Meg didn't know, but that he had done it she could not doubt. Like many other small kingdoms and principalities, Mogera had been taken over by the British in the nineteenth century. Though it had lost its independence it had preserved royal dignities—including, obviously, the royal treasury. Mogera was shown on no modern map, but she knew it must have been high in the mountains, in upper Burma. That was where the resistance to the Japanese invaders had centered.

  Searching through other books, she found no further reference to the princes of Mogera, but she ran across a story that suggested a possible parallel. It was one of the legends Dan had told her years before, the mysterious disappearance of the crown jewels of Austria. The larger part of them, including the Empress's diamond-and-pearl crown, had vanished without a trace after the revolution of 1918. According to one version, the Emperor had entrusted them to a friend, who was supposed to sell them in order to finance a counterrevolution. The friend had fled to South America instead; but if he had taken the jewels, what had he done with them? None of them had ever been heard of again. Were they sunk in the sands of the ocean or buried in a forgotten grave—or in the secret strong room of a private collector?

  Had the Maharajah's treasure also been entrusted to a friend who betrayed his master? There would have been much less risk in that theft than in the case of the Austrian crown jewels, which had been photographed and inventoried in painstaking detail. So far as Meg had been able to ascertain, the crown jewels of Mogera were mentioned only in the rare publication she had discovered. She understood why the rulers of that small beleaguered principality had kept quiet about their riches; the world was full of predators, and precious stones attracted the most deadly of them.

  With the tattered volume in front of her, she spread the jewels out across the table. Comparing them to the illustrations in the book, she saw that they represented only a fraction of the original collection. Some might have been dispersed during the century that had passed since the book's publication, but several, she knew, Dan must have possessed, even though they were not among the ones she had found: the armlet with the immense pink diamond, the emerald peacock and a sword hilt set with crudely cut stones, the largest of which was a pigeon's-blood ruby. Meg opened another of the books she had taken from the shelf, and found the photograph she wanted.

  The diamond in the photograph hung from a heavy platinum chain studded with smaller blue-white stones. It was considerably smaller than the rough chunk of rose-pink ice in the armlet, but precious stones always lost some of their bulk when they were recut in the modern, brilliant style. According to the text, it had been purchased from "a dealer" in 1949 and sold to "a private collector." No help there; but naturally Dan wouldn't admit the truth if he had come by the stone dishonestly. Diamonds had individual characteristics by which they could be identified even after drastic recutting; at least some experts claimed to be able to do so. But in this case the original stone had never been inspected by an expert. Dan would have been willing to sacrifice the diamond. He didn't like diamonds anyway, and the setting of this one appeared to be undistinguished. A few stones of that quality would have been enough to lift him into the ranks of the world's foremost jewelers—especially if he got them for nothing.

  As for the ruby. . . . Meg went back to the shelves and selected another book. She had good cause to remember that ruby, for Dan had often talked of it, bemoaning its loss and berating himself for succumbing to an offer even he couldn't resist. After selling it to a Denver businessman who fell on hard times, he had bought it back in 1960 and had it reset. Meg stared at the photograph with a painful constriction of her throat. The ring was one of the first pieces her father had made. Most modern designers would have surrounded a colored stone of that size and quality with diamonds. Instead, Simon Venturi had cupped the central stone in a frame of smaller rubies and carved emerald leaves. He was good, Meg thought. Not as good as Riley, but who knows what he might have become? How could he. ...

  The creak of the door rang through the silence with such startling effect that she dropped the book. Her uncle looked in. "Oh—it's you, my dear. I saw the light and wondered who. . . . Good lord!"

  He stood frozen, staring at the table with its opulent covering. Meg picked up the book and smoothed its crumpled pages. "The cat is definitely out of the bag," she said with forced lightness. "Come in, Uncle George. I take it you didn't know about Dan's private hoard?"

  The explanation took quite some time; Meg had to explain her theory and show him the sources she had used. His reaction took her by surprise. "Well, I'll be damned! Imagine squirreling these things away all these years. But that would be just like Dan. I'm only amazed he could bring himself to part with a portion of them, he sulked like a spoiled child when he had to sell one of his pet stones."

  "But, Uncle George, you don't understand. Dan stole these, he must have. He smuggled them into the country, he hid them. . . . What am I supposed to do, put them back where I found them and leave them there?"

  "Hmmm. I see what you mean." Her uncle replaced a jeweled belt on the table. "It is a problem. Have you told anyone else about this?"

  This time, instead of telling him a direct lie, Meg lied by implication. "I was going to consult Darren—"

  "Don't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Let me put it this way. Do you want to hand these jewels over to the government? Because that may happen if you report them to the proper authorities. You might successfully argue that they qualify as antiques and were therefore exempt from ordinary customs duties, but there is still a matter of failing to declare them. However, I suspect the main problem will be with the Internal Revenue Service. Obviously Dan never paid taxes of any kind on these objects, and whether they are considered a capital investment or a part of his estate—"

  "Stop." Meg raised her hands in protest. "Let's not go into that, Uncle George, talking taxes always makes me dizzy."

  "No need for you to worry about it, my dear; that's my job. If you'll take my advice, you'll hold off talking to Darren until I can make a few discreet inquiries. There must be parallel cases, but I'm not familiar with them. I wonder if the laws regarding treasure trove and antiquities would apply? It's an intriguing little problem."

  "Intriguing? How about dangerous? Or deadly?"

  George studied her quizzically. "You've been watching too many TV thrillers, my dear. There can't be any connection between this hoard of Dan's and the harassment we've experienced. The rings certainly didn't come from this collection, they are European."

  Meg leaned forward, intent on convinc
ing him. She could see the way his thoughts were tending, and they were completely at variance with her own. "Uncle George, stories of crime and violence connected with jewels aren't all fictional. I could tell you tales that would make your hair stand on end, all of them true. Oh, I'm not suggesting that the heirs of the Maharajah have finally tracked us down, that really would be stretching probability after so many years. But consider this. Dan got these jewels from someone—maybe a thief, maybe an agent of the owners. He may even have paid for them. But suppose he didn't. Suppose he pulled a swindle of some kind. Isn't it possible that one of the other people involved in the deal still holds a grudge?"

  "For almost fifty years?" George laughed. "He'd be an old man, honey. Old and decrepit."

  "Not necessarily. Not if he was only a boy when it happened. Oh, hell, Uncle George, I don't care whether he's seventy or ninety-nine, whether he's real or imaginary. If Dan stole these things, I want them to go back to the rightful owners. If he swindled somebody, I want to make—"

  The noise sounded like a buzz saw, harsh, shrill, penetrating. It came in short bursts, three in all, and then stopped. Before it died away George was on his feet. Then he was gone. Meg had never imagined he could move so fast.

  Assuming that something had set off the alarm system, she followed her uncle as quickly as she could, arriving in the hall in time to see him taking the stairs two at a time. As she started up after him she heard the howling—not a mechanical cry like the first, but a desolate, high-pitched wail reminiscent of the old Irish tales of banshees. Meg knew what it was, and the realization terrified her more than any supernatural manifestation. She was younger than George and in better condition, and now she was equally frightened; she caught up with him outside her grandmother's door.

  Light overcame the darkness within when George hit the switch and Henrietta Marie's outcries stopped. The cat was pacing back and forth across the bed. The covers had been thrown back. Mary lay in a twisted turmoil of silk and lace, arms outflung. Her face was a sickly blue-white.

  Meg had only one flashing, dreadful glimpse of her grandmother before George threw himself at the bed. "Call," he shouted. "Rescue squad, 911. Hurry!"

  Meg snatched up the telephone. Stammering out the information the dispatcher requested, she saw Henrietta Marie go flying as George shoved her out of his way and bent over the still body. He paused in his efforts only long enough to gasp, "Go down, let 'em in."

  In the doorway Meg collided with Cliff. He was wearing pajama bottoms and his hair was wildly on end. There was no time and no need for talk; Cliff sent her on her way with a sharp shove and ran into the room.

  A century later the ambulance arrived.

  "She's going to be all right," George said. "Why don't you go to bed, honey? You must be exhausted."

  "Let her unwind first." Cliff went to the liquor cabinet and took out a glass. "We're all too keyed up to sleep. What would you like, Meg? I've got some sleeping pills, if you'd prefer them."

  "No." Meg slumped into a chair. The doctor had insisted they go home. Mary was sedated and sleeping, there was no immediate danger.

  "She's going to be fine," George insisted.

  "Thanks to you," Meg said. "If you hadn't acted immediately, known just what to do. . . ."

  "Oh, well." George shrugged and looked uncomfortable. "I'll have my usual, Cliff, if you're playing bartender. My throat feels dry. Nerves, I guess."

  Henrietta Marie sauntered in, considered the options and jumped onto Meg's lap. Meg stroked her ruffled fur and was rewarded by a faint purr. "She's upset, too. It's going to be all right, Henrietta. She'll be home soon. Oh, Uncle George—did Henrietta do that?"

  The bloody scratches on his hand were only too apparent when he reached for the glass Cliff offered him. "I wasn't the only one," he said wryly. "She bit one of the rescue squad on the ankle."

  "I thought Frances was going to bite me," Cliff said, dropping onto the sofa. "Dad, couldn't you talk Frances into early retirement? She's too old and too loony to take proper care of Mary. That was quite a scene she made at the hospital."

  "I'll try to convince Mary," his father said, sighing. "But I've tried before, without success. The relationship between those two baffles me, but it's strong. And nobody could be more devoted than Frances."

  Meg had to agree. After her initial outburst Frances had proved more than competent. Refused a place in the ambulance, she had turned up at the hospital fifteen minutes later, fully dressed and carrying an overnight bag, and announced she was staying. "I don't care whether there's a bed available, I'll just sit here till there is. I won't get in nobody's way nor cause trouble unless you try to make me leave her."

  There was no doubt that she meant it, and no one was in the mood to argue with her. Cliff expressed Meg's sentiments fairly accurately when he added, "On the other hand, I'd rather she were there than here. Now the only neurotic we have to cope with is Henrietta. I refuse to have her sleep with me, Meg. Looks as if you're elected."

  "Like certain other people, Henrietta sleeps where she likes," Meg said, tickling the cat under her chin. "But I promise I'll keep her away from you, Uncle George; I only wish I could begin to tell you how much I appreciate. . . ."

  "Oh, now, honey, don't cry. She's had a couple of minor heart attacks before—"

  "I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "She didn't want to worry you. The fact is, we couldn't get her to take it seriously. What she needs is a pacemaker; that's almost a routine operation these days, and it would solve the problem, but she raised holy cain when the doctor suggested it. Said she didn't want an ugly scar."

  "Oh, no," Meg exclaimed. "I knew she was vain, but that's ridiculous."

  "Not at all," Cliff said. "For Mary it was a logical decision. If God had meant us to have artificial devices installed in our bodies, he'd have equipped us with zippers."

  George was not amused. "I had a hard-enough time persuading her to install that buzzer."

  "Thank God you did," Meg said.

  "It could be improved, though," Cliff said. "For one thing, it sounds too much like the burglar alarm. Another problem is that we're too far from her room. What if she doesn't have enough warning to reach the buzzer? I don't know how she did it last night, it had fallen to the floor, out of her reach."

  There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Then George said, "It dropped from her hand when she lost consciousness. It must have happened that way. There was nobody else in the room."

  Meg looked at Henrietta Marie. Henrietta Marie bit her.

  The housemaid who found the jewels on the library table the next morning was young and excitable. She fled the room screaming incoherently about burglars, and the ensuing uproar woke everyone in the house, including Meg and Henrietta, neither of whom appreciated being wakened. Henrietta expressed her feelings vigorously before stalking out of the room with her tail lashing.

  The maid, who had prudently gotten herself out of the cat's way, reappeared in the open doorway and Meg wiped beads of blood off her calf. "There aren't any burglars, Linda. It's my fault, I forgot to put the damn things away last night. Tell everybody to go back to bed. I'll take care of it."

  By the time she had bundled up the treasure and carried it to the safe, she was wide awake and so were the others. George was at the breakfast table when she came down; Cliff soon joined them. George brushed her apologies aside. "I forgot too. Small wonder! No damage was done, my dear."

  Except that the secret hoard was no longer a secret. The staff had been warned not to discuss the incident with outsiders, but Meg had no illusions about how much heed they would give to that warning. However, most people, including the staff, would assume the jewelry was part of Dan's regular collection. Perhaps the damage was minimal after all.

  They had all called the hospital, and agreed that the reports were encouraging. "I'm going over there after breakfast," Cliff said. "Want a ride, Meg?"

  "I'll try to see her later today. They said no vis
itors."

  "That doesn't apply to us."

  "I bet they won't let you in. If they do, and if she's awake, for God's sake don't say anything to upset her."

  "What do you think I am, an idiot?"

  "You're no idiot, but you have an overactive imagination." Meg reached for the coffeepot. Her appetite was nonexistent, but she needed a large jolt of caffeine if she was going to make it through the day. "I know what you're thinking, because.

  Because I've been wondering the same thing."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," George said in bewilderment. "Am I missing something?"

  "No, we're the ones who are missing something. A couple of bricks off the load, maybe. You said she'd had attacks before, Uncle George. There's no reason to suppose something happened last night to send her into another one?"

  George looked from Meg's anxious eyes to his son's downcast face. "I never thought. . . . Surely not. She was asleep. The room was dark."

  Cliff looked up. "The phone didn't ring?"

  "No. Now, I'm absolutely certain of that; we'd have heard the one in the library." He patted Meg's hand. "Forget it, child. Nothing could have happened. And I'm sure Cliff has better sense than to ask questions of a sick woman."

  Cliff threw his napkin onto the table and stood up. "Cliff is humbly grateful for the confidence you have in him. So maybe I am missing a few bricks off the load. I'd rather be overly cautious than criminally careless. At least while she's in the hospital she's safe."

  He strode out of the room, giving his chair a kick as he passed it.