Manna from Hades (10 page)

TWELVE

The gemologist from Castle Jewellers was short and tubby, with disproportionately short legs, crooked teeth, and a piebald mop of hair. Eleanor couldn’t decide if it was naturally black and had gone white in patches, or whether it had gone white naturally and an unsuccessful attempt had been made to dye it black. Or perhaps it was a wig, a very peculiar one, though she’d seen much stranger fashions in obscure parts of the world: lengthened necks, stretched lips, bound feet, scarified faces and chests. If Mr Hobbes wanted to wear a small, shaggy dog on his head, then let him. She’d stick to a dab of lipstick.

Young people these days seemed to manage without lipstick, she mused, or used the palest shades. Heavy mascara was popular, though, along with vast quantities of eyeshadow.

“Would you mind, Mrs Trewynn,” said DI Scumble in his exaggeratedly patient voice, “opening the safe, since Mr Hobbes has come some distance to examine the contents. You do recall the combination, I trust?”

Eleanor gave him a speaking look and turned to the safe. Such was the power of suggestion that for a terrible moment her mind went blank. Then she thought of Peter and at once knew the numbers, as well as she knew her own birthday. She unlocked the safe and swung the door open.

Hobbes darted forward with a squawk of horror. “Oh no, no, no, no, no!”

“What’s the matter?” Scumble said sharply.

“Diamonds! Opals! Everything all jumbled together. Are you not aware that diamonds are the hardest substance known to man? They are capable of scratching even rubies and sapphires, while opals are extremely delicate. I’m afraid there may be extensive damage.”

With the utmost delicacy, he started to disentangle the pieces.

In answer to Scumble’s reproachful expression, Eleanor protested lamely, “They were like that when I found them. I just scooped them up and stuck them in there.”

Her words elicited a moan from Hobbes.

Scumble put his finger to his lips, frowning. Eleanor gathered that he didn’t want the jeweller to know any more than was absolutely necessary about the discovery of the hoard.

Extricating a bracelet, Hobbes brought it over to the table and carefully laid it flat. It was the lovely piece she had originally admired, woven gold wire set with violet stones. Amethysts? Judging by his extreme care, the expert must be pretty sure they were genuine.

One by one, necklaces, rings, brooches, and more bracelets spread across the table, glittering and gleaming. Scumble looked a trifle dazed. The safe was emptied at last. Hobbes sat down at the table, brought out his loupe, and stuck it in his eye. Eleanor held her breath, and she rather thought the inspector did, too.

Hobbes picked up a diamond and emerald pendant. “Light,” he said irritably. “I need more light.”

Eleanor switched on the ceiling light while Scumble dealt with her reading lamp. He tried to bring it over to the table, but the flex wasn’t quite long enough. He turned on the light in the kitchen. Each new source of illumination brought more sparkles.

“Hmm.” Hobbes moved on to the next piece.

He seemed to Eleanor to be working with excruciating slowness. Scumble looked as if he might explode any moment with suppressed impatience. At last Hobbes replaced a ring on the table, pushed back his chair, and removed the loupe from his eye.

“A few minor flaws, and the opals are scratched, as I feared, but not badly. All in all a superb collection.”

“They’re genuine?” Scumble burst out.

“Certainly.”

“What are they worth?” Eleanor asked. She couldn’t help it, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. If they had to be returned to the owner, she’d only torture herself with might-have-beens.

“I couldn’t possibly venture to give you even a rough figure, madam, without a thorough examination under proper conditions.” He cast a disparaging glance at her reading lamp. “I understood the inspector required merely an opinion as to the authenticity of the gemstones. If you’re interested in selling, you’ll want to try the London market. We can’t handle anything like this in Launceston.”

“Would you mind writing out a list, Mr Hobbes?” Scumble requested, tearing a sheet from his notebook. “Not in great detail, just enough to be recognisable to someone who’d seen this collection before.” He offered the paper and his biro.

Hobbes accepted the paper but rejected the biro with scorn. He took a fountain pen from his pocket and began to write. A few minutes later he handed a neat list to Scumble. “There you are. If there is nothing further I can help you with, I must be getting back to the shop.”

Scumble ushered him out. In the doorway, the inspector turned back for a moment.

“I shall be wanting another word with you, Mrs Trewynn,” he said grimly, as if he suspected she might scurry down the stairs and disappear through the back door while he was putting the jeweller into the police car for his return journey.

Eleanor was sorely tempted to take French leave—if it weren’t for the constable still on duty at the back. Somehow she hadn’t got around yet to telling Scumble about the briefcase. She had assured him nothing was missing from the flat or the stockroom. Where had she put it? She had brought it up here to empty it, she was certain of that. Impossible to carry all those bits and pieces safely in her hands. But the case would have been in the way in her sitting room. She must have taken it down again.

She closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to retrace her steps on Monday—

“Well?” The inspector, of course.

“In the passage!” she said, triumphant.

“In the passage! In the passage!” he exclaimed wildly. “What the devil do you mean, in the passage?”

“I assumed you’d want to know where I left the briefcase. Attaché-case, whatever you prefer to call it.”

He dropped onto the chair by the table with such force that it creaked, every inch of him expressive of weary resignation. “All right, so there was a briefcase. I never even wondered what the jewelry was in until you said you scooped it up. Let’s start again from when you started unloading your car.”

“I let Teazle—”

“We’ll take the dog as read. Where is she, anyway?”

“At the vicarage. She adores the vicar. He—”

“Mrs Trewynn!”

“You asked. I tipped the driving seat forwards and reached back for the clothes. As soon as I picked them up, I saw the briefcase. I didn’t remember anyone giving it to me, but it was a nice one, black leather, so I assumed it was a donation someone I’d called on had put in the car when I wasn’t looking. I took it out and carried it and the clothes back to the stockroom. It seemed heavier than if it were empty, so instead of putting it in the corner with the other new stuff, I set it on the table and opened it.”

“It wasn’t locked?”

“No. It had a lock, I think, a brass lock—no, keyholes in the latches, not a separate lock. But I didn’t have a key, of course. If it had been locked, I wouldn’t have tried to force it open.”

“Naturally not.” Was there a note of scepticism in his voice?

“I wasn’t being nosy,” Eleanor said with a touch of indignation. “I’m in charge of collecting donations and Jocelyn expects me to know what I’ve picked up and from whom.”

“Only in this case, you didn’t know from whom and the what took you by surprise.”

“It certainly did. More like shock than mere surprise, though I was sure they couldn’t be real. And I knew Joce would be annoyed that I not only had no paperwork, I had absolutely no idea where they came from. Anyway, real or not, they looked quite valuable so I closed the case and took it upstairs.”

“And scooped the jewelry into the safe. It was lying all higgledy-piggledy when you first opened the case?”

“Yes, but the case was lined with sort of cushiony black velvet, as if it had been made for jewelry. If it had been properly packed, I expect even the opals would have come to no harm.”

“Aha! Now that’s very interesting. Can you give me a more precise description of the exterior of the case?”

“Black leather. Good quality, as far as I could judge. A few scuff marks, but nothing a bit of polish wouldn’t cover. About so big.” She gestured to show the dimensions. “Hard-sided, like a small suitcase.”

“In the passage?”

“At the bottom of the stairs.”

“No way we could have overlooked something that size when we searched the place, though I suppose we’d better have another look around. Keyed brass latches, you said?”

“Yes. At least they had round knobs, buttons, the sort you press apart, if you see what I mean, with slots that looked like keyholes. I wondered why it wasn’t locked, with all that in it.”

“Not much point locking it. Opening it wouldn’t give a thief much trouble.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be difficult to break the locks. I expect it had brass hinges, too, but I didn’t notice them.”

“Could have been internal, hidden by the velvet. No maker’s name on the latches?”

“Not that I remember,” Eleanor said doubtfully. Wasn’t there something—? Under the inspector’s gaze, the harder she tried to remember, the blanker her mind.

“And no identification of the owner, inside or out, or you wouldn’t have been in such a quandary. Wouldn’t you think he’d put his business card inside in case he forgot it in a taxi? Well, that’s a very clear description,” Scumble congratulated her, then spoilt it by adding, “for once. And you put it down in the passage? Why was that?”

“The children arrived as I was coming down the stairs. I just put it down against the wall, where no one would fall over it.”

“And it never dawned on you that we might be interested in it?”

“Not till last night. And I told Megan—Detective Sergeant Pencarrow—first thing this morning. I would have told you about it sooner, but all the fuss over the jewelry put it out of my mind. And then you obviously didn’t want me to talk about it when Mr Hobbes was here.”

“True,” he conceded grudgingly. “Presumably the murderer took the case, to hide the evidence—afraid he’d left fingerprints, I expect—or even hoping the loot was still in it. He must have been in a tearing hurry to get away after killing the lad, perhaps too rushed to open it and check. Having left a body down below, he’ll certainly realise that you’ve had police swarming here, but judging others by himself he might wonder if you’ve concealed the jewels, or some of them, from us.”

“Mr Scumble!” Eleanor exclaimed, bursting with indignation.

“I’m not suggesting such a thing! And don’t go telling Mrs Stearns I did. I’m just trying to read the mind of a murderous thief. One who knows who you are, or they’d never have put the stuff in the car and come here to retrieve it.”

“You think he might come back again?” She shivered.

“There are plenty of my men around at present, but I’m going to have to persuade Superintendent Bentinck to spare a man or two to keep an eye on the shop for a couple more days at least. We don’t want to scare him off again. No hiding in blackthorn bushes! Now, back to that briefcase. If he’s got any sense at all, he’ll have wiped it clean of prints and got rid of it, but we’ll send out a description of it as well as of the jewels. If it’s found, it might at least give us a clue as to which direction he’s gone.” He stood up and stared down at the neatly laid-out jewelry. “Meanwhile, we’ll have to take custody of this lot. I’ll have someone copy the list and give you a receipt.”

“How are you going to take it away? You can’t just stuff it in your pockets, after what Mr Hobbes said about damage.”

“No,” he agreed gloomily. “And I’d probably have my pockets picked. Any suggestions?”

“I’ve got a bit of tissue paper. If it’s not enough, Joce is bound to have stacks.” She went to her desk.

“You told Mrs Stearns about the jewelry, you said.”

“Of course. As soon as I remembered it. I was just about to yesterday morning when I found the—the body and it put the jewelry right out of my mind. I told her in the afternoon. It appeared to be a donation, after all. She doesn’t know it’s genuine, though.” Rummaging in the bottom drawer, she found a whole packet of tissue paper. “This should do. And Nick next door—the artist?—he has flat crates for shipping pictures. One of the smaller ones might work.”

“The fewer people . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw her face. “That’s right, you already told him. Who else?”

“No one else.”

“And it was he who said you must report it to me.”

“Yes. I did try to tell you last night—”

“And I cut you off. So you reminded me. My sincere apologies, Mrs Trewynn.” He sounded more peeved than sincere. “Is there anything else you feel might be of interest to the police that you’ve had no opportunity to reveal?”

Eleanor’s mind immediately went blank again. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, if anything should happen to occur to you, please let me know immediately, even if it’s two in the morning. Ring Launceston and they’ll get on to me.”

“If you say so,” she agreed, though surely she couldn’t have forgotten anything sufficiently urgent to require waking him in the wee small hours! “When will I be able to move back home?”

“Are you sure you want to?”

“Oh yes. If he comes back again, I’m sure I’ll be safe with your men outside, whether they catch him or scare him off accidentally.”

Scumble scowled. “Whenever you want, then. As soon as I get these sparklers out of your way. I’ll go and make arrangements now. But please don’t go anywhere. I want you to hear what Constable Leacock has to say about that car you claim he must have seen. If he ever turns up.”

Naturally Bob Leacock turned up just when Eleanor had popped up to the vicarage to fetch her things. On her way back down the hill, after bringing Jocelyn up to date and having a bite to eat, she saw Bob’s panda car parked outside his house. At least, she thought it must be his. With so many police cars hanging about the village these days, it was hard to be sure. Teazle at her heels, she hurried on down the street, fending off friends, neighbours, and presumed reporters with a “Sorry, can’t stop.” She missed Megan’s protective escort.

As she approached the LonStar shop, a bellow echoed from within. “What do you mean, no one’s answering the door? Where’s the bloody woman got to
now?
” Scumble appeared in the passage doorway. “I told her she’d be needed,” he snarled at the constable on guard. “Where the devil did she go?”