The Blue Diamond (24 page)

“He would not be at such pains to have set up as a connoisseur unless he means to put it to some use,” Moncrief said, with a wise look which set Kruger to frowning in consideration.

He sat silent for a time. Little by little, his expression changed from confusion to certainty, then to wonder. Maria watched her father, the only change on her own face its passage from confusion to deeper confusion. “What is going on?” she asked the gentlemen.

“The genius!” her father said in a reverential tone. “Moncrief, I come to think Talleyrand has met his match. Monsieur Chabon is too wily to be a mere thief. He should be a king. He means to be the expert called in to authenticate the jewels he is going to sell himself.”

“Exactly,” Moncrief agreed, nodding. “And he wouldn’t need a crooked expert if he meant to sell the genuine article.”

“He does not intend to sell the genuine Blue Tavernier, but a facsimile made by Eynard. And that is why Eynard was murdered, to prevent his telling he made the copy," Kruger said, his face still full of awe at the contemplation of so much connivance. “Eynard would have delighted in making a replica, testing his skill, but when it was learned the fake diamond earrings were actually being sold as genuine, Eynard would have suspected the same fate was planned for the Blue Tavernier. He would have made public that he fabricated a fake. He would not sit still to see our Congress receive a black eye—sooner he would have betrayed a customer’s confidence. We have at last solved the mystery of Eynard’s death. What do you think, Moncrief?”

“It is the first convincing explanation I have heard yet,” he admitted. “Odd Eynard did not list it in his books though. He kept a very complete set.”

“Chabon convinced him it was some official French business, and asked him to keep it out as a favor to France,” Kruger suggested.

“I wonder who he plans to have act as his salesman, if he is to be the expert called in to authenticate the fake himself.”

“I was to have been the dupe,” Kruger replied, a little sheepishly. “He was working up to it today. Twice he mentioned what the collection was worth if it were sold. I said very definitely that it was unthinkable, and he agreed at once, pretending he had only been thinking aloud. He will find another to do it for him. No doubt of that.”

“Surely this is all very hypothetical, Papa,” Maria objected.

“An hypothesis is the best place to begin,” he told her. “Let us test it on all points, and see if it holds true. Chabon has the jewels which he wishes to profit from. First, he plans to return them to Louis for a reward, and sets on Feydeau as the villain who had them. As she ended up here, he used me to help him ‘catch’ her. Then he becomes greedy, or as the story spread, he received a tempting offer from someone. Your cousin Palgrave,” he said to Moncrief. “They have been seen together often. So he decides to sell instead. Then his greed swells—he will not only sell, but sell a forgery, keeping the genuine for himself. He requires a scoundrel to assure his buyer the fake is real, and settles on himself for the job. Then he must become an expert, very quickly. Enter the Countess Poronovitch and the diamond earrings Feydeau is selling her.”

“That is why he did not bother to join us when we searched Mademoiselle’s apartment,” Maria said, nodding as she began to grasp the idea.

“The girl shows promise. Two rational thoughts in one day,” Kruger pointed out to their guest.

“So we’ve been looking in the wrong place for the collection,” Moncrief went on. “Chabon has them. I suppose we dare not break into Talleyrand’s palais.”

“He wouldn’t keep them there,” Kruger thought. “A dreadful disease, this greed. You think the French Government will give me the reward for having solved this matter?” He looked to Moncrief, whose dubious face gave him little hope. “I don’t think so either. Pity. I could have used the money. Ah well, there might be a small sinecure in it if Metternich feels it to be of interest. You will tell Wellington, I expect?”

“Yes.”

“I must visit Hermione. I shall take her some violets. She likes them, and the season approaches. There were violets in town, today. The first of the season.”

“It is time for it,” Moncrief said, with a sudden smile. “March already.”

He reported the story to Wellington. “A bit farfetched,” he concluded, “but it does explain certain facts, such as Eynard’s death.”

“Someone has been pulling your leg,” Wellington told him bluntly.

“Either Kruger lies, or Talleyrand is up to some of his sly tricks. He had a note over here two minutes after meeting with Kruger, demanding an explanation of England’s—i.e. Lord Moncrief’s—part in the infamous affair of the French crown jewels. No mention of the ruby not belonging to Marie Antoinette. He is aware of every move Chabon makes you may be sure, but unofficially. He has asked us to give Chabon every assistance, especially since those demmed Bonaparte supporters have begun pulling out of town. It looks as though they know something we don’t.”

“We know it is violet time,” Moncrief answered, with a meaningful look.

“Aye, so it is. I may get to lock horns with Boney yet. I have been fighting his armies for years, but have never had the chance to meet him head-on in battle. I regret that.”

“You may get your chance yet,” Moncrief consoled him.

Chapter Twenty-three

As he poured over Eynard’s books, Moncrief was impressed with their completeness, and their lack of discretion. Countesses, baronesses, even reigning monarchs were named, as having sold jewelry and having copies made. The Grand Duchess Catherine, for example, sold a diamond brooch “set with garnets and beryl,” which were no doubt posing as rubies and emeralds. Count Rechberg was a name frequently encountered, as selling first items of some real value, then finally sinking to hawking his snuff-box for the sum of a few pounds. His purchasers were also named, Countess von Rossner amongst them. All Kruger’s entries were there, spread over a few years, but there was nowhere a mention of having copied the Blue Tavernier, or anything remotely resembling it. Entries were complete right up to the day of his murder, including Mademoiselle Feydeau’s diamond earrings.

He was about to set the books aside, was flipping through them for one last time, when one fell open at a space close to the back. A number of blank pages separated the last entries from this page, which held a number of items. Looking at it, Moncrief noticed that this was a different section, listing not copies or sales, but creations—new pieces commissioned by customers. He read it through eagerly to the bottom. There, blazed on the bottom line, was what he sought. “Dome-shaped blue sapphire, brilliant cut, set in diamonds and gold, following the insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece, to the account of Monsieur Castonguy.” It had been ordered five months ago, and delivered a month later. He sat, stunned, rereading the item several times, then he sat back, emitted a joyful curse, and laughed. “So that’s it!” he exclaimed.

They were even more clever and more devious than Kruger had thought. If they pulled this stunt off, it would be the greatest hoax perpetrated since the South Sea Bubble. The strands were twining into a neat thread now. The victim, Harvey, had his gold amassed no doubt. He knew who would be doing the selling and the authenticating, and he had a very good idea where the transaction would occur. What better time and place than a masquerade party in the Wienerwald, far enough removed from the city that Hager’s men would not be around, and with the added confusion of masks to hide their identity. And it was violet time, with the Bonapartists beginning to move out of the city, to meet Père Violette. Oh yes, tonight was the night, he thought. His blood quickened with the thrill of the chase.

When Wragge peeped his head in at the door ten minutes later, Moncrief said only, “Make sure my domino is pressed for this evening, please. And will you have my carriage called. I must go to the bank. To several banks. In fact, to all of the banks in the city. And don’t disappear, Wragge. I will have several things for you to do later.”

It required a letter from Wellington to loosen the tongues of the bankers, who had no desire to alienate such a profitable client as Lord Palgrave. He was happy to learn the payment was to be made in paper currency. It was so much easier to manage. Wragge, given the job of cutting up newspapers in bill sizes did not think so, but he did as he was told.

Lady Palgrave refused to keep Austrian hours, no matter what the rest of the city did. When she held a dinner party, it began at eight o’clock, with the result that those invited to dinner before the masquerade were likely to be still at table when the other guests began arriving. She was immensely disappointed that Marie Louise had declined the card to the party. She had scraped an acquaintance with Napoleon’s Austrian wife, but felt more at home with the six-year-old King of Rome, her son. He was not allowed to come to the party either.

Despite the Lenten penitential season, there was meat served at the table—some of the tastiest meat served outside of Talleyrand’s palais, where Carême continued to perform his miracles, untempted by the offers poured on him weekly by Palgrave. The centerpiece of the table was an enormous reproduction in spun sugar of the Prince Regent’s Brighton Pavilion, which would be dismantled and eaten later. She wished Prinney could see it.

The most illustrious of Lady Palgrave’s guests did not attend dinner. Kings, tsars and tsarinas, princes and plenipotentiaries had some reluctance to be seen at so gala an occasion in Lent, but they would arrive later, concealed beneath their masks. In fact, as Moncrief glanced down the table, he saw no one of much interest to himself. “Were the Krugers not invited to dinner?” he asked Googie when he had the opportunity to speak to her.

“No, but they will be here later. Peter is a pet. He adores me.”

“Chabon coming?”

“Now you don’t think I would leave out one of my favorite flirts!” she answered playfully.

The after-dinner guests soon began trickling in. There was some uncertainty as to their identity, as the hostess had forsaken the custom of having them announced. “It would defeat the purpose of secrecy,” she explained to Moncrief, who questioned her about it.

It also made it damned difficult for him to pick Chabon out from the crowd of tall, dark, domino-clad gentlemen. As to his accomplice, if the lady chose to wear a wig, he would be all night discovering her.

“I shall greet them at the doorway,” Googie said. “Harvey should be with me. Have you seen him?”

“I’ll see if I can find him,” Moncrief offered. He wasted no time scanning the crowd, for he had kept an eye peeled on his cousin since dinner, and knew he had gone to his study. He suspected, was fairly certain, Harvey had gone to check that his money was intact for buying the diamond. The barred door, and the delay in responding to his knock, confirmed it.

“Your wife wants you to join the reception line now,” Moncrief told him, not allowing his eyes to circle the room.

“Was just about to come,” Harvey answered, going into the hallway with an unwonted haste, and turning a key in the lock behind him. “Got a few valuables in the safe in there,” he explained to his cousin.

Moncrief followed behind him to avert suspicion, then, as soon as Harvey had joined his wife, he returned to the study, bent on his knee at the lock and inserted a passe partout. The door opened easily and silently. Wragge appeared as if by magic from a nearby doorway.

“All is ready,” he said, with vast importance. “Shall I proceed?”

“Yes, drag it in here quick and go to it,” Moncrief said. “I’d better go back to the ballroom to allay suspicion. Be sure you lock the door behind you. And if, by any chance, they come here and I’m less than a minute behind them, go fetch me. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” Wragge replied, then he darted back into the room from which he had come, to drag a heavy box into the study, while Moncrief returned to the ballroom.

He knew well enough he would be expected to stand up with anyone who lacked a partner. Knew too that it was impossible to do a proper job of watching under such a circumstance. For this reason, he adopted a sprained ankle, that left him free to hobble about from corner to corner without dancing. Looking over the throng, he saw no sign of Chabon, and went to the entrance hallway, where new arrivals were still coming in. It was the ugly Countess von Rossner who tipped him off to the Krugers’ party. When a towering turban with three swooping plumes was noticed above the milling sea of heads, Moncrief began working his way towards it. The stocky figure by the lady’s side was of course Kruger, but where was Maria?

“Ah Moncrief, it is you. I thought you were Count Werner,” the Countess said. “You fellows all look alike in those dark dominoes. Maria? She will be coming along shortly. She dined with the Duchesse de Sagan, but they eat at five, and she should be coming any moment now. Peter and I had a
petit souper à deux
at my place,” she added roguishly, while Kruger squirmed at the possessive clutch of her fingers on his arm. God, but she was ugly. Those yellow teeth, a lady would do better to have them extracted entirely.

“Candlelight and wine,” Kruger added. “She spoils me.”

“She won’t be coming alone?” Moncrief asked, a little worried.

“No, no,
la duchesse
will very likely bring her in her carriage,” Kruger answered offhandedly. “Or someone at the party. I dropped her off there. Several of them to come to this masquerade. Have no fear she plans to miss it. She is looking forward to it very much,” Kruger said in a hearty way, calculated to inform Moncrief it was himself who formed a part of the girl’s anticipation of pleasure.

Then he adopted a more serious air. “You think Chabon will take the opportunity to try to sell your cousin the Blue Tavernier here, under cover of the masquerade.”

“Probably. Have you seen Chabon about?”

“We just got here. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

A waltz began, its strains coming from the room beyond. The Countess put up her arms playfully, indicating she was ready to dance. Why did she not have the common decency to cover those goats’ legs she called arms with a sleeve, or a shawl. “Ah, you want to waltz, my dear,” he said. “Let us go, or one of those handsome young bucks will be stealing you from me.” Hermione stepped forward, with Peter following close behind. The glance he cast back at Moncrief, over his shoulder, held much in it of despair, with that saving Austrian touch of humor. He would not fight Fate, but he would try to the last to outwit it.