Trick of the Mind (11 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Chan

BOOK: Trick of the Mind
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Carmichael sighed and shook his head. The best thing, really, would be to have Gibbons read O’Leary’s version of events and see if whatever he had thought of that night would recur to his mind. But
Carmichael, remembering his sergeant’s pale face and dazed expression that morning, was not sanguine about the outcome of such an experiment. Still, he decided, it would do no harm to drop a copy off at the hospital on his way home that night, and Gibbons could look at it whenever he was feeling better.
And that reminded him of another unpleasant chore he had been avoiding. Sighing mightily, he shrugged back into his coat and left the office.
After his lunch with Colin James, Bethancourt felt he would be a much better informed and more knowledgeable shopper the next time he went to buy jewelry for Marla. He was also feeling considerably more cynical toward the human race than he normally did, owing to various stories James had told over the meal; apparently in the investigator’s experience there was absolutely nothing people would not do where fine jewels or high-end art were concerned.
The lunch had been otherwise excellent. Morgan M was a restaurant in Camden Town whose cuisine had a well-deserved reputation, and Bethancourt enjoyed himself heartlessly, with hardly a thought for poor Gibbons on a restricted diet in his hospital bed.
As they made their way out, ushered on their way by beaming smiles from the wait staff, Bethancourt reached for his cigarette case and asked, “Do you mind my asking if there’s any particular reason you chose north London for lunch today?”
James smiled lazily. “Possibly it was because this place is not far from the Colemans’ flat,” he answered. “Although I was no doubt influenced by the very high recommendation a friend of mine gave the restaurant.”
“No doubt,” said Bethancourt, amused. He paused as they emerged onto the street to light his cigarette and then said, “I would be very interested to meet the Colemans.”
“Do you know, I’m not at all surprised to hear that,” said James. He glanced sideways at his companion. “Planning to act as Sergeant Gibbons’s eyes and ears while he’s sidelined?” he asked.
“As best I can,” replied Bethancourt.
“Then let us take a little postprandial stroll in that direction,” said James, indicating the way with a wave of his hand.
Bethancourt went willingly, pleased that James had evidently decided to help him. He put that down to a mutual interest in jewels and food, and the positive impression Gibbons himself had apparently made on the man. In addition, Bethancourt sensed James rather enjoyed demonstrating his expertise and, robbed of one apprentice, was not displeased to have found another.
They walked toward the canal until they came to a row of Victorian warehouses, long since converted into flats.
“Here we are,” said James. He shot back his cuff to check his watch. “Right on time,” he added, reaching out to ring the bell. “The Colemans are on the second floor—it’s a furnished flat. They initially stayed at the Dorchester when they first arrived, but found this place after a fortnight or so. Landlord has no complaints of them thus far.”
“How long have they been here?” asked Bethancourt, following James into the building.
“Four months. The lift’s over here.”
The lift was still of a size to transport large loads, but the once-utilitarian interior had been completely refurbished to reflect the building’s rise in fortunes with glossy paneling and thick carpet. The usual wooden guard gate had been replaced by an ornate grille, which slid silently closed when James punched the second-floor button and opened again on a mahogany door. There was the sound of a soft chime and in another moment the door slid back.
Standing just beyond it was a young man with curly dark hair and bright brown eyes. He was smiling in welcome and, indeed, looked uncommonly pleased to see them.
“Mr. James!” he exclaimed, reaching to shake the investigator’s hand. “Do come in. And who’s this you’ve brought to see us?”
He had the too-perfect British accent of someone not native to the UK, but Bethancourt could not place the original, underlying accent. In any case, Coleman sounded absolutely delighted to find he had an extra guest, and held out his hand almost eagerly to Bethancourt while James performed introductions.
“My colleague, Phillip Bethancourt,” he said. “This is Rob Coleman, Miss Haverford’s great-nephew.”
“How do you do,” said Bethancourt, rather lamely in the face of Coleman’s enthusiasm.
“Brilliant, thanks,” said Coleman, closing the door behind them. “This way, please. Can I offer you a coffee? My wife’s just brewing a fresh pot.”
The loft was furnished in the very latest in modern design, everything sleek and clean-lined. In one angle of the huge space was a sitting-room arrangement where a slender young woman was just setting down a tray on the glass-topped coffee table. Bethancourt, who was uncommonly fond of coffee tables, eyed it covetously, but then had his attention redirected to their hostess.
“My wife, Lia,” Coleman was saying. “This is a colleague of Mr. James’s, dear—Phillip Bethancourt.”
Bethancourt reached to shake her hand while she smiled and welcomed him. Lia Coleman’s smile was more reserved than her husband’s, though Bethancourt did not count that against her as he had never encountered a more beaming expression than that of Rob Coleman. For the rest, she was a very attractive brunette with straight, shining hair cut at the level of her shoulder blades and, in contrast, a very pale complexion. She was a little above average height, all her curves gone to slimness, and showed a natural grace as she sat and began to pour out.
“So have you any news for us, Mr. James?” asked Coleman, seating himself beside his wife and leaning forward eagerly, elbows on knees.
James shook his head dolefully. “Nothing good, I’m afraid,” he replied. “But you mustn’t be discouraged by that, Mr. Coleman. These things can often take some time, and we usually get there in the end. After all, the jewels have to be somewhere!” James gave a bark of laughter at his own joke and everyone else grinned in response. Coleman in particular seemed pleased to have a bit of good humor injected into so serious a subject.
“Unfortunately,” James was continuing, “we seem to have had a bit of a setback, though I can’t say it’s directly connected to your case.”
“Oh, yes?” said Coleman, looking slightly confused.
“It’s Sergeant Gibbons,” said James. “He was badly injured on Tuesday night, and in consequence has forgotten some of what he learned about your case that day.”
Both Colemans looked startled by this news, though the slight change in Lia’s expression was once again in contrast to her husband’s more exaggerated reaction. His surprise, however, went swiftly from surprise to deep concern.
“Is the sergeant all right?” he asked.
“He’s doing as well as can be expected,” replied James. “I’m told he should make a full recovery in time. But it’s most inconvenient as far as your case goes, as he was following up some quite promising leads. He hasn’t been in touch with you since our chat on Tuesday, has he?”
Coleman shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Your call this morning was the first we’ve heard from anybody, police or insurance. But what happened to Sergeant Gibbons?”
“There was an incident in Walworth,” said James. “The sergeant was attacked, but as I said, he’s expected to be just fine.”
“How terrible,” murmured Lia, while her husband shook his head and said, “I’ve heard Walworth can be a rough area, but I never … well, never mind.” A thought occurred to him, and he looked suddenly concerned. “It wasn’t anything to do with our case, was it? I should feel awful if—”
“No, no,” said James hastily, stemming this no doubt heartfelt outburst of feeling. “We haven’t really any notion why he was there. And even if it had been your case, well, that’s a policeman’s lot, as it were. In the meantime, I have one or two little questions I’d like you to clear up for me.”
“Yes, of course. We’ll be happy to tell you anything you like.”
“You said on Tuesday you didn’t know the combination to Miss Haverford’s safe.”
“That’s right,” said Coleman, with a little shrug. “We’d never actually thought about it.”
“But if you had wanted to open it,” continued James, “where would you have looked for the combination?”
Coleman exchanged a glance with his wife, who said, “If we’d
wanted to open the safe without Miranda, I expect we’d have got Rose to do it. I’m sure she knew the combination.”
“Rose,” repeated James, as if trying to come up with a connection.
“Rose Gowling,” said Coleman. “Aunt Miranda’s housekeeper. Didn’t we mention her to you the other day?”
“I don’t believe so,” said James, his tone indicating a deep disapproval of this omission.
“I thought we had,” said Coleman, frowning and looking at Lia again. “When we were talking about the keys to the house. But perhaps that was on Monday, when the police were there.”
“I really should have interviewed the housekeeper before this,” said James reproachfully.
“Oh, you can’t,” Coleman told him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a wrong impression. Rose is dead.”
James rolled his eyes. “Then how could she possibly have been of help with the safe combination?”
“Well, she couldn’t, not now,” replied Coleman practically. “But she hasn’t been dead long, and what Lia meant was, if we had wanted anything to do with the house while Aunt Miranda was unavailable, we would have asked Rose before anyone else. She’d been with my aunt for years and years.”
Lia nodded agreement. “You see, Rose hasn’t been gone long enough for us to consider other ways of dealing with things.”
“Well, she’s not here now,” pointed out James practically. “Suppose the safe hadn’t been broken into and you couldn’t wait to have a look at your inheritance. Where might you have searched for the combination?”
The Colemans smiled at each other.
“It did occur to us,” admitted Coleman. “I mean, we’d seen the pictures and all, and we were curious to see the real thing. If we’d known the combination, I can’t say we’d have been able to resist having a peek.”
“As it was,” said Lia, “we didn’t go beyond wishing. But if we had …”
She put a finger to her lips while she thought.
“I expect I’d have looked in the desk in the study,” put in Coleman.
“You don’t think that’s rather obvious?” asked Lia.
“Well, yes. It’s why I thought of it. Do you think Aunt Miranda would have been more devious?”
Lia paused in thought before she answered. “Perhaps not,” she said at last. “She didn’t seem to take the idea of security very seriously.”
“The desk for me, then,” said Coleman, turning back to James.
“Or the filing cabinet,” added Lia. “Miranda did once mention that she kept all her instructions and manuals in there. If she wasn’t trying to be particularly secretive, I don’t see why she wouldn’t have just written the number down on the manual.”
James nodded. “I’ll check on both of those places,” he said.
“You think the thief found the combination then?” asked Coleman, sounding a little disappointed. “Don’t they have safecrackers anymore?”
“Certainly,” said James. “But it’s not a method used much by criminals. For one thing, it takes considerably longer than they lead you to believe in films. No thief wants to stay in a house he’s broken into for longer than necessary.”
“Ah,” said Coleman thoughtfully.
“Do you mind my asking,” said Bethancourt diffidently, “if Rose lived in? I’m just trying to get an idea of how the house was run.”
Coleman chuckled and his wife smiled. “Oh, yes, Rose lived in,” he answered. “She was a martinet, was our Rose. I don’t think she took to us very well, do you, Lia?”
Lia shook her head in agreement. “I would describe her attitude toward us as one of deep resentment.”
“And suspicion,” chimed in Coleman. “As far as Rose was concerned, we were there to steal the silver. Really, one could hardly blame her. She was like family herself.”
“Yes, I know the type,” said Bethancourt. “Was her illness prolonged?”
“Oh, no,” said Coleman. “No, not at all. Rose was elderly, but quite hale and hearty right up until the end. She was a good bit younger than my aunt—” He broke off and looked a question at his wife.
“About twenty years younger, I believe,” she responded.
“Mind you, that didn’t make her a spring chicken,” said Coleman. “She was well into her seventies, and a bit past the heavy cleaning. We suggested to Aunt Miranda that she have a charwoman in once a week or so, but she refused. Said she didn’t want to upset Rose.” His face fell. “But that was probably because she couldn’t afford it. We didn’t know,” he added in a tone of wounded innocence, “that she was hard up.”
Bethancourt frowned, but let this pass without comment.
“Well in any case,” Coleman was saying, “after Rose died—which was quite sudden and unexpected, mind you—we were in a pretty fix. I said to Lia, ‘Do you know, if we had never come, we shouldn’t be responsible and we wouldn’t care in the least.’ To which, of course, she pointed out that as we had come, it was all a moot point.”

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