Barbara Cleverly (27 page)

shots were exchanged if you can believe

and there they were – drugged, like a lot of dormice. So, you might say, I owe Robertson a good turn. I don’t suppose that the trade troubles his conscience much, it’s as good a way as any of keeping in with me – slipping a bit of information from time to time. I suppose that’s the way to run an Empire. A little bit of accommodation, if you know what I mean.’

They paused outside Robertson’s shop. Robertson himself emerged in his shirt-sleeves taking an elaborate farewell of a Bengali customer.

‘Spare us a couple of moments, Robertson?’ said Charlie. ‘I think you’ve met my friend Joe Sandilands? Fact is, we could do with a little help. May we come in?’

‘Of course,’ said Robertson unctuously with something between a salute and a salaam. Joe remembered that he was said to have a Scottish father and a Persian mother and looking at that mysterious face he was very ready to believe this, supported as it was by the accent. Strange! Very much the English of a man of whom it was not the first language and yet, on the other hand, a perceptible flavour of upper class English as spoken in the Raj.

His eye slid over Charlie Carter without much interest but dwelt on Joe. ‘Come in,’ he said again. ‘Come right through.’ He said a few words to an assistant and, calling into the back premises, addressed a few more to an unseen presence who answered deferentially.

The shop, Joe recalled from his earlier brief visit, operated on two levels. Outwardly there was the stock in trade of any well-equipped jeweller’s shop but behind this was an accumulation that it would be impossible to classify. Objects Tibetan, Chinese, Indian and even European. Objects doubtless from the collapse of the Russian Empire, icons and pectoral crosses and a few items of classical antiquity. Joe remembered that Alexander the Great had passed this way. He tried to suppress the unprofessional fascination which these things had awakened. His hand went out to a small carved ivory figure and he held it to the light. A large-eyed, full-breasted woman held in her hand a knot of golden snakes.

‘You’re right,’ said Robertson surprisingly. ‘From Crete, I suspect. Minoan culture. The snake goddess. Question – how on earth did it get here? I can’t tell you anything about the provenance. Probably stolen from the excavations. It’s not expensive. Are you interested?’

‘Yes. Very,’ said Joe. ‘Some other time.’

‘Of course. Of course. I had assumed that this was an official visit.’

He led them into an airless little room and turned on a feeble electric light. He turned some cushions aside to reveal three chairs which he indicated with a hospitable gesture. ‘And now, how may I help the police?’

‘What I have to say is in confidence, Robertson,’ said Charlie in a bland official tone.

Robertson nodded and waited.

‘It concerns Alice Conyers-Sharpe.’

‘Really?’ Robertson’s eye flicked for a second to Joe.

‘We are worried,’ said Charlie confidentially. ‘You may say that it has nothing to do with us but she is a prominent citizen – a good client of yours, I believe – and many people in Simla depend on her. It has been revealed to us that this lady we all so admire is being cheated. Has any idea of this sort occurred to you?’

Joe decided that Robertson was making only a show of considering this question. He replied with confidence, ‘Yes. But it is not my place to question or advise or comment on Mrs Sharpe’s arrangements. All acknowledge her to be a splendid businesswoman, successful, decisive and well advised. Who am I to speculate on the soundness of her transactions? So long as her requirements of me are within the law, Superintendent, there is nothing I am called upon to do but fulfil them.’

‘It is known,’ said Joe, ‘that Mrs Sharpe deals consistently in jewels. We are making enquiries, with her knowledge and consent I should say, into specifically the purchases she makes twice yearly in April and October. Tell us how the exchange is managed from your end, will you?’

After a moment’s consideration, Robertson got up and took down a file from a high shelf. He extracted a single sheet of paper and handed it to Carter. As he and Joe eagerly pored over it he explained. ‘I received that in October 1920.’

On a plain sheet of white writing paper a short message had been written in English in neat capitals. Robertson recited the message as they read. ‘Mrs Sharpe will bring you a cheque for four thousand rupees biannually in April and October. When she arrives you will sell her jewels to the value of two thousand rupees. Select other jewels to the same value and place them in a blue box under the counter. Choose gems or pieces that are easily transportable and unremarkable. When a messenger asks for the blue box hand it over.’

‘And this has gone on as described. I performed the fourth regular transaction at the beginning of April.’

‘The regular transaction?’ asked Joe.

Robertson paused. ‘There was a further one, out of pattern, you might say.’

‘And can you say precisely when this one occurred?’

‘Yes.’

He selected another leaf from the file and handed it over. ‘You will see that the value varies. This one mentions the sum of three thousand rupees. And it is dated 1st May 1921. It was shortly after Mrs Sharpe’s brother was killed. I remember she was wearing black and she chose a diamond and jet mourning piece.’

Joe looked at him closely. There was no hint of suspicion or suggestion in the bland, dark eyes.

‘Who collects the contents of the blue box, Robertson?’

‘No one I know. It’s a different messenger each time. An Indian. I suspect just someone picked up in the bazaar and given this task for a few annas. I have no doubt the messenger is carefully watched, of course, but as to the identity of the watcher or indeed the destination of the blue box, I have no idea. My responsibility ends when the box leaves here.’

‘Have you a feeling about all this?’ asked Charlie. ‘Share your thoughts with us. You must have formed some kind of theory about the exchange. Embezzlement? Extortion? Blackmail? Generous donations to an anonymous recipient?’

Robertson’s eyes gleamed for a moment. ‘Probably two out of the four,’ he said and appeared to be unwilling to take the thought further. ‘You may be interested,’ he went on after a slight pause, ‘in seeing this. It was put through my door this morning.’

He handed Carter an envelope. With an exclamation of dismay, Carter took it carefully by the edges.

‘I shouldn’t worry about obliterating any useful fingerprints,’ said Joe. ‘The world and his wife will have handled it by now – everyone, I would expect, apart from our, er, customer. He’s not going to make the mistake of leaving prints on it. Go ahead. Open it.’

‘Let’s see. “Mrs S. will buy more jewels. Value five thousand rupees. Same arrangements.” Mmm

price has increased significantly. I take it Mrs Sharpe hasn’t appeared yet?’

‘Oh yes, she has. She came in very early – about half an hour before your good selves. She chose a diamond solitaire ring and she gave me a banker’s draft in payment. And I have completed my arrangements in regard to the second part of the transaction.’

‘Would you show us the routine with the blue box then, if you’ve prepared it?’

They went back into the shop and Robertson took a small velvet box from a drawer underneath the counter. They peered inside. Coiled in the bottom and glittering even in the half light was a diamond necklace.

‘Very simple. Practically unrecognizable. Easy to break up and sell as individual stones,’ Carter commented.

‘Look,’ said Joe, ‘Robertson, would you have any objection to varying the routine a little? We desperately need to know – as I’m sure you’ve guessed – the identity of the person who is the recipient of the contents of the box. Mrs Sharpe’s peace of mind, to put it simply, is at stake.’

Robertson nodded his agreement.

‘What I want you to do is change these diamonds for something a lot more distinctive. Something so unique and decorative that wherever it appears again – if ever it does resurface – any jeweller would recognize it.’

‘I see,’ said Robertson. ‘And then, delivery safely accomplished, the Simla police circulate a description of a certain piece of stolen jewellery so unmistakable that it cannot safely be worn or sold without word getting back?’

‘Exactly,’ said Joe.

‘What if he objects?’ asked Carter. ‘Of course,’ he added, answering his own question, ‘then he contacts Robertson again and perhaps in his anger gives away more than he meant to? At least we’d have another handle on this discreet charmer. Come on – what have you got to show us, Robertson?’

Robertson hesitated then with a conspiratorial smile went into the back room and emerged a few minutes later. ‘I think you would agree that this fulfils your requirements,’ he said.

Joe and Carter looked and gasped.

‘It’s perfectly lovely,’ said Carter, ‘but it won’t do! Nothing approaching the value you’re supposed to supply. I mean – it’s

it’s

what do the ladies call something like this? – costume jewellery, yes, costume jewellery.’

‘No it’s not,’ said Joe. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen something like this before

on a portrait perhaps?’

Robertson smiled and nodded. ‘You have it. On a portrait by Hans Holbein. Sixteenth-century German portrait painter. The Tudor royal family were much painted by him. They liked to be seen wearing rather spectacular jewels, like this one.’

They looked again. The whole arrangement was perhaps four inches across and five inches long. At its centre glowed a stone which could have been a ruby, Joe thought, had it not been so large. It was surrounded by a gold circlet inlaid with bright enamels in the form of Tudor roses and posies of glittering clear stones which Joe would have sworn were diamonds.

‘The style became very popular again in Europe some years ago and these pieces began to be produced with showy semiprecious stones like peridots at the centre. They’re called “Holbeinesque” in the trade.’ He paused for a moment, looking at the brooch in rapt admiration. ‘But there’s nothing “-esque” about this one. This is a genuine sixteenth-century item. Any jeweller would recognize it if it passed through his hands. It’s the Duke of Clarence Ruby.’

‘If that’s a ruby, isn’t it a little over the mark?’ Carter wanted to know.

‘Yes. Far over. But in the interests of saving Mrs Sharpe even a minute’s concern, I’m sure it is worth the sacrifice,’ he said with his deprecatory smile. ‘And besides I did pick it up as rather a bargain. It was the property of a prince. He bought it in London and gave it to his senior wife. She was not grateful. She hated it. Couldn’t see the point of it and came and ordered me to swap it for a gold necklace she’d seen and matching ear-rings. I was happy to do so. Buy, sell or exchange, I get my commission, you know. But of course, if I were ever to sell it on the open market and it were to appear on the bosom of – let’s say the Vicereine – there might be problems.’

‘I see,’ said Carter. ‘In that case, it’s perfect. Any means we have of flushing out Mrs Sharpe’s unknown correspondent must be made use of, Robertson. I’m sure you understand. We’re grateful for your cooperation and, look here, one more thing you can do to help – it’s just a small thing – we’ve got the shop under discreet surveillance. When a messenger comes in for the box could you alert my men? Give them some sort of a signal?’

Robertson smiled and nodded compliance. Joe had little doubt that he was aware of Carter’s discreet surveillance. ‘Of course, Superintendent. Nothing simpler. The window lights are normally switched on. When the messenger asks for the box I will switch them off. The switch is here to hand under the counter.’

‘That will do well,’ said Carter.

With mutual assurances of esteem, they left Robertson and went out into the street. Blinking in the sharp sunlight, Joe screwed up his eyes and surreptitiously glanced up and down the Mall in an attempt to locate Carter’s surveillance team. He saw the usual bustle of European shoppers, Indian servants and street urchins. Two nursemaids walked by chattering and scolding. A Hindu holy man sat patiently opposite, cross-legged, with his begging bowl in front of him. Hesitating on the pavement’s edge, Carter waved away two rickshaws competing for their custom. Avoiding them, he stepped off the pavement into a puddle left over from a late night shower.

‘Drat!’ he exclaimed, running a fastidious eye over the spatters on his smart boots.

‘You’re in luck,’ said Joe, pointing across the street. ‘Look there!’

They crossed over to a boot black’s stand and Carter greeted the swarm of little Indian boys who appeared to be loosely in charge of it. He settled into the chair and stuck out his feet.

‘Clever chaps, these young ’uns,’ he said. ‘Movable stand, you see. They roll it around and set up shop wherever they see a puddle. Never entirely sure they don’t actually create the puddles!’

Five minutes later the chattering group were prepared to release Carter’s feet, now sporting boots a platoon-sergeant would have passed as acceptable. Carter offered a handful of annas to the oldest boy and, laughing, spoke to him briefly in Hindustani. They strolled on, dropping into two or three more shops on their way back to police headquarters.

Seated once again in Carter’s office, Joe remarked, ‘I didn’t spot your men!’

‘Yes, you did!’ said Carter cheerily. ‘There were six of them. The tallest came up to your belt and you gave them each a cigarette!’

‘The shoe blacks!’ Joe began to laugh. ‘What is this? Simla’s answer to the Baker Street Irregulars?’

‘Just that! They’re actually all the sons of Sir George’s head gardener. Sir George set them up with the equipment and they’re doing well – they make a decent living at the shoe blacking and then they’re on a police retainer. It’s amazing what they get to hear! People, even those you’d think would know better, seem to assume that young Indian shoe blacks must be deaf and stupid. Not at all! They’re as smart as whips! And they can go practically anywhere and no one notices them. It’s a good arrangement.’

‘Will they know what to do?’

‘Oh, yes. I passed them the word about the shop light signal. They’ll follow whoever comes out with the blue box to the ends of the earth if they have to. All we have to do now is wait.’