Wiles of a Stranger (2 page)

“Mr. Beaudel had never heard of you, Papa. In London circles, you are known. You were a stranger to him, and an unmounted stone would be an easy enough thing to pocket after all. He is nervous looking after someone else’s collection. That’s what it is,” I said, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers.

“He was certainly unhelpful, giving the impression I was not to be trusted. The butler came to speak to him, while I was looking at the better stones, and he called his wife in to ‘keep me company,’ as he called it. That is when I saw her. To keep me from sliding one of his jewels into my pocket was what the fellow meant. Commoner.”

“It is over now. Relax and forget it. Now we can begin our little holiday. The weather is fine today. I have already had a look at the church, but we could...”

“Let us go home,” he said, pulling out his turnip watch to check the time. “It is not late. We could be home tonight.”

I had seen about enough of Chelmsford to satisfy me. I did not in the least mind departing. “I’ll go and pack my bag.”

“Yes, let us get out of here,” he said impatiently, almost angrily. I wondered if he had come to cuffs with Beaudel. It was entirely likely he had taken offence at his treatment and told the man off. That would account for his mood. Or perhaps he was only feeling he should, by rights, return some part of Mr. Kirby’s advance, and was worried about spending more than he had to.

Just as I turned to go next door to my own room, adjoining my father’s, there was a peremptory knocking on the door.

“Yes, who is it?” my father asked.

“Constable Harper. I’d like to see you, sir,” a voice bellowed back.

I stared at Papa, startled. “What on earth...?”

“Get into your own room. Close the door,” he said urgently. “This may be trouble. If it is, I don’t want you in it. If they take me, you go home. Go to Kirby. Tell him. He’ll handle it.”

“Papa! What trouble? What do you mean?”

The knocking and hollering were repeated. “Go!” he said, pushing me into my own room, just as the constable opened the other door and barged in. I stood frozen in shock on the far side of the door, listening, but not understanding anything.

“I’m afraid I have to arrest you, sir,” the voice said. I put my hand on the knob to pull it open and confront him, but before I did so, my father replied.

“On what charge, my good man?”

“Suspicion of robbery, Mr. van Deusen. You’ll have to come with me.”

“This is absurd! Who sent you after me?”

“Mr. Beaudel. He reported some diamonds stolen after your visit to him. You are the only one who was there.”

“Take a look about my room. You’ll find nothing.”

“I’ll just check your pockets,” the constable answered. I could see nothing through the keyhole, but heard some sounds of movement. “Aha! Here we are!” were the next shocking words spoken by the constable.

“What! Where did those...?” A confused, incredulous jumble of exclamations came from my father’s mouth.

“Where are the rest of them, eh?” the constable demanded, his tone becoming harsher now. “You pocketed more than five. Eleven are missing from the Park.”

I felt the hair on my scalp creep as I stood there, mute, on the other side of the door. How could this impossible thing be happening? My father, Josef van Deusen, the most honest man in the country, was being accused of theft. Worse, evidence of it was found on him. Again my hand went to the doorknob. My instinct was to rush out and tell the constable he was mistaken. There had to be some dreadful mistake. My father was suddenly uttering my thoughts aloud.

“There is some mistake,” he was saying, and other protests of a similar nature, while the constable insisted he had hidden some stones, and rummaged about the room, opening drawers, looking for them.

“You’ll talk freely enough when we get you locked inside a cell. We’ll strip you bare, and ransack this room from top to bottom, so you might as well hand them over.”

I felt ill, sick to my stomach with apprehension. I didn’t know what to do to help him. But I knew what my father had told me to do. Stay out of it. Go to Kirby, and tell him. It almost seemed Papa had expected something of this sort to happen. Why else had he pushed me into my own room and closed the door? Yes, if he were in trouble, and he certainly was, I would be more help to him outside the jail than in the cell beside him.

After some more charges from the constable and protestations from my father, it was settled the bill at the inn would be paid on the way out.

“I’ll have to arrange for the return of the hired carriage to London,” Papa said, his voice loud. I took the notion he spoke this for my benefit. I was to return to London in the carriage, to see Mr. Kirby.

“Are you alone?” the constable asked, just before they left.

“Do you see anyone with me?” Papa asked, in an ironic vein, for even in this he could not bring himself to speak a lie, so incurably honest was he.

“Beaudel didn’t mention anyone else,” the constable said, and contented himself with that bit of confirmation.

There was a strained cessation of speech while I heard the suitcase being pulled from the top of the clothespress, the rattle of a hanger as the coat was removed to put in it. After a few minutes the constable said, “We haven’t got all day. Hurry up.”

“I am ready. Naturally I’ll want a solicitor to represent me.”

“You can arrange that from the jail.”

Then the door was opened, they left, and closed it after them.

Immediately, I nipped into his room to look for—I hardly knew what. A message, a clue, a something to tell me what in the world was going on. I found a handkerchief bearing a well-embroidered (by me) D in the corner, and beneath it, carefully concealed for me, a portion of Mr. Kirby’s letter. It was the bottom half, with his address. The top part of the message had been torn off. “In case of any trouble, I can be reached at the Clarendon Hotel. Leave a message.” It was signed J. V. Kirby. I read it twice.

What trouble could be expected to arise in the simple examination of some jewelry and stones? My father had made hundreds of such examinations during his life, without once running into trouble. Why had it been expected this time? I wished the rest of the letter were there. My father had expected some trouble, which hinted he knew more than he or the bit of letter told me. And if he expected trouble, why had he taken the job? Upon consideration, it seemed ten pounds was excessive for examining the jewels too. Oh, but it was not enough to repay for this day’s work!

I hurried back to my room, stuffed the address and the  handkerchief into my case, threw my clothing in after them, and went downstairs to catch our carriage, before it left without me. I expected to feel the arm of the law grab me as I went, but no constable was waiting. I got the carriage in plenty of time, and settled in for some hard thinking during the trip to London. It was imperative to be in touch with Mr. Kirby as soon as possible. The trip would take several hours. It would be dark before I reached the metropolis. Then, before we left Chelmsford, my heart nearly broke with grief.

As the carriage swept through the middle of town, I saw my father being led into the jail by the constable. His head was bent. The jail had bars. He did not glance up to see who was in the carriage that bowled past. He looked defeated, and I was never so furious in my life. I was anxious to confront Mr. Kirby, who had brought this disgrace and misfortune down upon our innocent heads.

A jewel merchant’s reputation is the most precious thing he owns. A single whiff of scandal would ruin us.

Chapter Two

I went directly to the Clarendon Hotel when the carriage arrived in London. Disappointment welled up inside me when the clerk told me Mr. Kirby was out, and he had no idea when he would return. To wait for him alone at a public hotel late at night was impossible, but presumably he would be back to sleep. I left a note, couched in terms of the greatest urgency, telling him my father was in jail in Chelmsford, and desired his immediate help. He knew my home address, but to prevent any possibility of a muddle, I gave it to him again, and requested that he see me before leaving for Chelmsford. My intention was to cadge a ride back with him.

Then I went home to our apartment to wait. I told our housekeeper, Mrs. Farell, all about the situation, and requested her to tell Beeton, in case my father was gone for a few days. Going to bed did not so much as occur to me. I wasn’t the least bit tired, in spite of the exertions of the day, and the lateness of the hour. I freshened my toilette, repacked my little bag with fresh linens, and sat at the window, looking down on the street below for the approach of Mr. Kirby’s carriage. For the first hour, I waited fairly patiently, but as midnight came and went, I became not only impatient, but worried.

What sort of a man was this Kirby, that he stayed out roistering till past midnight? Had he not got my note? I most particularly asked the clerk to see he got it. Paid him a shilling to do it. The interval between twelve and one seemed to last an eternity. There is nothing like expecting a thing to happen every second to make the hours drag by. The time between one and two went equally slowly. Between two and six, the hours passed more quickly. I slipped into a light, troubled doze, to awaken as the fingers of dawn lightened the sky. My neck had a nagging crick in it; and both my legs and feet were sound asleep. A million needles pricked them when I tried to stand. The street below was still empty. Not so much as a linkboy or milk cart was in evidence.

As the pangs of hunger made themselves felt, I remembered I had missed my dinner the night before. Mrs. Farell was bustling about by that time, and brought me some breakfast. It was seven by the time I finished. In the emergency that prevailed, seven did not seem too early an hour to have Mr. Kirby roused from his bed, no matter at what hour he had gotten into it. By seven-thirty I was back at the Clarendon in a hired cab, my packed bag with me, to be told by a different clerk that Mr. Kirby was not in. He had checked out the night before.

“That’s impossible! He was still registered last night when I was here.”      

“You’d be the young lady who left off a note? He got it, Miss. I gave it to him myself.”

“When did he receive it?”

“As soon as he came in.”

“Did he leave me no word, no forwarding address, nothing?”

“He didn’t, Miss, but he said he’d be back in a few days. He got the message, so there’s no need to worry your head.”

 He was looking at me so suspiciously by this time that I blushed for what the man was thinking. I believe he thought Kirby was a beau who was trying to give me the slip. I left, as there was nothing more to be gained from him. I went home and cudgeled my brains as to my next step.

I must be an optimist. What else could account for my taking the idea Kirby had immediately dashed off to my father’s rescue? I was not only an optimist, but a spendthrift as well. I went to Papa’s shop (or consulting office), rifled the strongbox to get the required funds in hand, hired the cheapest rig I could hire, and dashed off posthaste back to Chelmsford. With some little apprehension I would be recognized at the Stag and Hounds, I went to the other fairly decent hostelry in town, the Shipwalk, which is not as absurd a name as you would think on first glance. Ship is a corruption of sheep. The place was perhaps built on or near a former sheep walk. To conceal my identity, I took the name of Miss Stacey.

There was never the least doubt in my mind all along that I did the proper thing. My father was in trouble, and I must be there to help him. But of what possible help was a Miss Stacey, who did not even reveal her relationship to Mr. van Deusen? Yet to reveal who I was would have the effect of throwing me into jail with my father. I would do him no good there. I hired a cheap room, not knowing how long I must stay, but knowing very well how few guineas I had to spare.

I picked up the local newspaper from force of habit, as my father always did when he was registered at a hotel, and went to my little cubbyhole to think. The only thing that occurred to me, and it was but a thread of hope, was to discover whether Mr. Kirby had already come to town. He was not at the Shipwalk, they told me, and after sending a boy over to the Stag and Hounds, I soon discovered he was not there either.

Afternoon was drawing to a close by this time. Weary, dispirited, frightened and ravenously hungry, I had my meal sent up to me on a tray. The Shipwalk was not the sort of establishment where an unaccompanied lady dared to expose herself belowstairs with dark coming on. To reward myself for my total failure, I had half a bottle of wine sent up with the meal. With nothing to be done all evening but sit alone in my room, I dawdled over my food, scanning the Chelmsford paper as I did so. It was largely a waste of time. They carried the week’s local news, with a few scraps of national doings.

Although it was a weekly, it bore that day’s date, which led me to search for the story of the diamonds missing from Glanbury Park. There on page two, I saw my father’s name staring out at me, for the world to read. “Suspected in the affair is Mr. Josef van Deusen, a gem consultant” (that at least would  please him!) “from London, who was at Glanbury Park at the time. Mr. van Deusen is known in London and internationally by the name ‘Diamond Dutch’.” There was no mention that he had originally been accompanied to Chelmsford by his daughter, Mieke. For small mercies, let us be thankful. But if the constable had slipped up on that detail, it was entirely probable the proprietor of the Stag and Hounds would inform him, after reading this story.

It was a long article, the whole of it of great interest to me. I read it through twice, to acquaint myself with the details of the family at Glanbury Park. The gentleman Papa had visited was a Mr. Charles Beaudel, uncle and guardian of the owner of the place, Sir Algernon Beaudel, who was a student at Cambridge University. The jewelry, however, did not belong to Algernon. It was the inheritance of the younger son, Lucien, six years of age. The father of the two boys was the late Sir Giles Beaudel, former governor of the province of Madras, in India. He and his wife had both died during an outbreak of some plague in India. It was rather a romantic tale. When the plague broke out, the two boys had been put on a ship home, but the governor was already ill at the time, and his wife elected to stay behind and treat him. She too contracted the fever. They were buried together in India.