Toad in the Hole (12 page)

“Grandmother? Bloody hell,” he chuckled. “So she has an American granddaughter. I should have guessed. You look a bit like her, just not as pretty.”

Travis and I locked eyes. Finally we’d get some answers and I’d cash in on the bet we made. After tonight, he’d be dining on English cuisine of my choosing.

I placed the oyster in Sonny’s palm. Moving along the empty jewelry counter, he pulled out a cushion display stand from inside a case. Placing the oyster on the velvet as though it were a feather, he examined it from top to bottom.

We moved in closer, but were careful not to cast our shadows in the dim light.

Flipping it over, he scanned the back.

“There’s a compartment,” I said.

Sonny placed the brass jeweler loupe in his left eye. Years of intricate craftsmanship had taken a toll and his long fingers curved at the joints. Centering the tremble in his hand, he splayed his fingers on the two largest stones and twisted until we all heard the click. As the brooch opened, he grinned and a sigh quivered from his throat. Without lifting his head, he reached under his vest and removed a leather pouch. Unsnapping it with one hand, his fingertips removed a tool the length of a drinking straw. The handle was wooden, shaped like a mushroom, and the tool reminded me of a dental plaque scraper. Holding the brooch in place, he touched the implement to the underside.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I said as I threw my hand on top of his, attempting to nab the tool he held.

Sonny had surprisingly quick reflexes for a snozzled old dude and in a flash the tool was back in his pocket. His back straightened. “I etched the engraving, I can remove it too.”

Travis’s mouth winced.

“But this is Garrard’s. The clasp says Asprey. Did you work at Asprey or Garrard’s?” I asked.

“Asprey! Never. Garrard’s was my life,” he said, wiping a tear from his cheek.

I made a mental note to avoid mention of Asprey.

“I’m lost,” Travis said.

Under the florescent light, the brooch gleamed.

“When they buried her, I figured it was forgotten. Secrets are pesky buggers. The older they become, the more vengeful they grow.”

“Buried?” I asked.

Sonny’s feet pivoted. With his cane still in hand, he scurried across the empty showroom toward the back of the store.

Contorting his face, Travis twirled a single finger around his temple. A soft whistle from his mouth rang, “Cuckoo.”

We both heard the clip, clomp of the cane tip fade away. “Um Sonny,” I called. “Where are you going?”

He re-directed his path and picked up the bottle of scotch. “I’m too old for this. I was so enthralled to meet someone of such prestige.” He stopped to guzzle. “Thought the connection would be worthwhile. Damned foolishness. That’s what it was.”

We followed him through a doorway and down a hall. He was so inebriated, I worried that he’d fall and hurt himself before we learned anything. In passing, his fingers flicked light switches on in empty office spaces.

“What connection?” Travis asked.

“Cockles and mussels, life is a muck bed,” he said, as he descended a narrow flight of stairs.

Travis grabbed my arm. “Rachael, we have no business being here. Let’s just go.”

“Are you kidding? He’s the key to the brooch. He may know why the Turk is following us.”

“Us?” Travis repeated. “You’re the one that attracts the creepy types.”

Sonny’s steps stopped at the bottom of the staircase. “What Turk?”

“Ahmed Sadid,” I said.

His eyes appeared glazed and he wavered. Steadying himself, he anchored a hand on the wall. “Never heard of him.”

“He keeps showing up offering to buy the brooch. Says he’s from the Turkish Department of Antiquities.”

“Like that position even exists,” Travis scoffed. “Rachael has a way of luring crazies.”

I scowled at Travis. His insight wasn’t helping us send Sonny a ‘we-are-trustworthy-tell-us-your-life-story’ vibe.

Snapping his head to attention, Sonny threw his hands in the air and he shook the cobwebs out of his head. “Bloody hell,” he roared and scurried through a maze of hallways.

Shopping bags rustled as Travis and I trotted behind him. It wasn’t clear if we were chasing or following.

A light cast into the hallway. Inside a windowless room, Bisley file cabinets with map size compartments lined the cement block walls. Sucking wind up his nose, Sonny centered himself and tapped a thumbnail on his front tooth then started opening and slamming drawers in a flurry.

Travis and I watched with curiosity.

“Haunts me from the grave. Gems do that. Lure you into thinking you can possess them. Minerals don’t perish like flesh.”

As far as I could tell the building was deserted. Everything but the display cases and some furniture had been cleared out. “Why is Garrard’s empty?” I asked.

“Mergers and acquisitions. They sold out to bloody Asprey.”

 “So you stayed behind,” Travis asked.

“Retirement, they called it. Offered me a package. Like it was my idea.” Sonny began tapping his tooth again. “Think, think.”

“What is this, storage?” I asked.

“It’s the vault.”

“Oh, for locking up the jewelry at night.”

“Your boyfriend’s a clever one, eh?”

I shrugged. Sonny was like a roller coaster without brakes and I stayed silent so I wouldn’t derail him.

With animated vigor, his wrist flicked above his head. “Back in the day, this room housed it all.” Dropping to his knees, he removed the lower drawer from a middle cabinet.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s the relevance of this vault to the brooch?” Travis asked.

With his back pressed to the floor, Sonny stretched a hand inside the blueprint size drawer. Besides a layer of dust bunnies, it was empty. His wrist twisted, enabling his fingers to scale the topside of the compartment. A smile pricked his lips and he removed a yellow envelope, slightly thicker than my roommate’s phone bill.

“A rake, he liked the ladies.” Sonny straightened and nudged Travis’s thigh with his elbow. “What handsome lad wouldn’t? My old man said he was generous and the brooch was just another little something.”

“Sounds harmless,” I said.

“That’s what I thought. And when he asked me to engrave it, I did.”

Inside, my head danced with questions. Sonny had engraved the oyster. “The oyster was a gift from Edward the King to Ms. Simpson?”

My voice fell on deaf ears. Sonny moved to a worktable in the middle of the room. As far as I could tell the outside of the envelope was blank. His fingers toyed with it as if deciding their next move.

Travis put the shopping bags down by the door and I put the one I carried at my feet.

“What’s inside?” Travis asked.

The light overhead was soft and cast a vanilla glow. Sonny’s hands, I noticed, stayed steady, and a boyish smile smoothed the skin on his cheekbones. He withdrew a piece of parchment, folded like a road map that had yellowed over time. “Ah, here you are. It’s been ages.”

The unfolded paper was the size of a desk calendar. My eyes took in a charcoal sketch of a long staff. Portions of it were labeled in script.

“A blueprint?” I asked.

“It’s a staff, like the one we saw in the Tower,” Travis said.

“But this is the original. Sonny pointed to a spot of the drawing. “The Cullinan’s placed here. A stroke of ingenuity. The diamond is removable so it can be worn as a brooch. Bet you didn’t know that.”

Sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds that embellished the stick were detailed down to the size and shape, cut, color, and flaws. The amethyst was labeled ‘Facet, round. Grade, gem, Deep Russian – Origin Turkey, circa 1853-1856.’

“Did you design this?” I asked.

“No, not I. This piece was crafted before I was born to accommodate the great Star of Africa.” Hovering his finger over the drawing, he was careful not to touch it and smear the oils from his finger onto the sketch. When he neared the top of the scepter, just below the emerald set in the cross, his hand began to tremble.

I looked to Travis. He mouthed my thought. “The amethyst.”

“The amethyst in the scepter? Does it have something to do with the brooch?” I asked.

Sonny’s eyes bugged out and went all goldfish on me.

“The amethyst brooch and the crown jewels, linked? That’s crazy,” Travis said.

Re-folding the paper, Sonny replaced it in the envelope.

Thoughts spilled from my mouth. “Why would the Turks want an amethyst that’s as big as a golf ball?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Travis replied.

The gears inside my head cranked. I laid a hand on Sonny’s arm. “What do you know about the amethyst?”

“Cockles and mussels,” he said, looking for his cane.

“Did the Brits get it from the Turks?”

“Acquired under the gray area leaders like to call ‘diplomacy,’” Travis said.

“That’s a devious theory.”
I was impressed.
“Now the Turks want it back?”

Snatching his cane, Sonny bolted out of the vault room.

“Sonny, Sonny,” I called as I hurried after him down a hallway.

Our shopping bags rustled as Travis brought up the rear.

Before the steps, Sonny leaned his back against the wall. “It was before my time, I don’t know how the amethyst came to Britain.”

An ‘ah ha’ moment snapped inside my brain. “That
circa
dates it to the Crimean War. The Brits and Turks fought against the Russians.”

Sonny stood, paralyzed.

“But what does the oyster brooch have to do with the amethyst in the scepter?” Travis asked.

Sonny clutched the envelope against his heart. “Insurance. That’s why he took it.”

“He? Who?” Travis asked under labored breath.

I searched Sonny’s eyes. “King Edward took it so he could abdicate and still be safe, taken care of. Don’t you see? And the brooch is a key.”

Noises echoed down the staircase. All three of us tilted our heads upward. In a panic, I patted my chest. “The brooch, it’s upstairs in the shop.”

NOTE TO SELF

Having serious kook attraction situations. Going to switch deodorant brands or toothpaste or something.

Sonny’s story—not a load of codswallop!

G
etting On My
W
ick

T
aking two steps at a time, I left Sonny and Travis in my dust. No sooner did I enter the front of the empty jewelry showroom than arms on either side clutched me up and propelled me forward. The counter where the brooch had lain was empty.
Stupid.

My head swiveled left then right. The guys I’d seen at the bar and again in the parking lot were fit and their grips pressed imprints into my forearms.

The thugs moved me toward the door, which pissed me off. Digging into my arsenal of possible diversionary tactics, all I came up with was going limp. My knees now dragged on the floor, and out onto the sidewalk where an idling transit van’s side doors were open. “You can’t just snatch someone. That’s kidnapping and my country is best buds with this country. If you don’t let me go, a ballistic missile will be pointed at your ass.”

They both laughed and in a twangy British accent that sounded exotic, the thug on my right said, “Don’t struggle. Someone wants a word with you. It would be in your best interest to cooperate.”

“Hey, you know English,” I said, trying to wiggle out of their grips.

Ducking my head low, I flailed my arms high and threw one of the men momentarily off balance.

A rapid clicking noise tapping on the sidewalk echoed from behind me. Travis called my name and things went warp-speed weird. Surprisingly not only did Sonny stick around, but he found some inner mojo and cracked bruiser number one on the back of the knee with his cane, sending him on a field trip to inspect the cobbles.

In a synchronized ambush, Travis sideswiped bruiser number two on my left upside the head with shopping bags to the face, temporarily discombobulating him.

With wide eyes, I scrutinized the shopping bag, then Travis. “What kind of underwear did you buy?”

“Egyptian cotton. Some jeans, and an oak backgammon game set to help us pass time on the boat.”

Speaking to one another in a native tongue I didn’t understand, the thugs rallied. Closing in, they positioned themselves to pounce, then abruptly froze. With raised arms, they backed away. I turned to Travis, who under Sonny’s instructions was tossing all the purchases we’d made into the back of the van. Sonny had drawn a wicked six-inch straight blade from the shaft of his cane. With practiced dexterity, he made a show of swishing and thrusting it in the direction of our assailants. “Get in and drive, Missy,” he ordered me.

It was then that I noticed Ahmed cowering behind the passenger door that he sneakily tried to close.

“Ahmed,” I seethed as I snatched the door handle.

“This is not what it looks like, Ms. O’Brien.”

With two bounces he was in the driver seat and out of the door onto the street before darting around the back of the van to meet his cronies.

Travis and I jumped in, followed by Sonny. Car doors slammed and I hit the gas. When I looked in a rear view mirror, I saw a handful of men pile out of a Range Rover that had pulled into the spot we’d left. A guzzling noise rattled next to me. “Really, you managed to bring the scotch?”

“Want some?” Sonny asked.

“Yeah!”

Travis locked his door and reached forward, locking mine. “Rachael, not now.”

“Tally-ho,” Sonny shouted, then sheathed his sword.

I’d only driven a manual vehicle on two prior occasions and fuddled to find the gears. We lurched with each shift. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t have a license to drive on the left side of the road.”

“I don’t drive,” Sonny said.

“Rach, just get us away from here.”

I chanted, “Left side, stay left,” and merged into traffic. “Where are we going?”

“To the river,” Travis suggested.

“No, we can’t. This van will lead them to us,” I said.

Sonny made an honorable attempt at finishing the bottle. “Piccadilly Circus?”