“I take it,” said Bethancourt, “that the copies vanished along with the real jewels?”
“So we were given to understand,” said Neil. “At least, there’s been no sign of them, and the police did search the rest of the house.”
“I imagine,” said Mrs. Burdall, “that Miranda probably kept all the jewelry together, both the genuine and the copies. A thief wouldn’t bother sorting them out—if he even knew that some of the pieces weren’t real.”
“You couldn’t tell at a glance,” agreed Neil.
“Do have another biscuit, Mr. Bethancourt,” said Mrs. Burdall. “Dylan, pass the plate, please.”
“Thank you,” said Bethancourt, taking another piece of shortbread. “What else did you talk about with Sergeant Gibbons?”
They had gone into some depth about the events of the past months: the Colemans’ arrival, Rose’s death, followed by Miranda’s passing, and then the burglary.
“He asked a lot about the Colemans,” offered Dylan.
“That’s right,” said Nicky. “He didn’t know they hadn’t been here that long.”
“Of course,” breathed Bethancourt. “Four months—that’s what he meant.”
The Burdalls looked curious.
“He had that written in his notebook,” explained Bethancourt, “but we couldn’t make out what it meant. I should have known—Colin James told me the first day that the Colemans had only come to England this past summer. I’d forgotten it, actually.”
Neil shrugged. “I can’t see why it’s important,” he said. “Miranda didn’t seem to think much of Rob Coleman, but she had no plans to change her will.”
“It may not be important per se, but since Sergeant Gibbons made a note of it, he must have felt it was significant in some way. This is all,” Bethancourt added, “in aid of trying to map his train of thought that day.”
“What else was in his notes?” asked Mrs. Burdall.
Bethancourt consulted his memory. “The initials ‘WC,’” he said. “Not,” he added, as both Nicky and Dylan giggled, “meaning the usual abbreviation. We think—although this isn’t at all certain—that the initials refer to a person.”
“Coleman begins with a ‘C,’” volunteered Dylan.
“But their first names don’t begin with a ‘W,’” Nicky corrected him.
“They could have relatives,” argued Dylan, and that remark turned on the light for his great-grandmother.
“Oh, I wonder if it could be William Coleman,” she said. “I’m sure I mentioned him to Sergeant Gibbons—he was asking how the Colemans were related to Miranda.”
“Oh, good Lord,” said Bethancourt, irritated with himself.
Mrs. Burdall stopped speaking and raised a white brow.
“Mr. Bethancourt?” she said.
“Sorry,” apologized Bethancourt. “It’s just that I asked Mr. Grenshaw the same thing yesterday, and he told me all about William Coleman, and how he married one of Evony’s nieces. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”
“But who was William Coleman?” asked Nicky curiously.
“He was Rob Coleman’s ancestor,” replied Mrs. Burdall. “He married one of Evony’s nieces, as Mr. Bethancourt said, but William died young and his wife and son returned to the Ukraine. That’s how Rob comes to have an English last name, even though he comes from the Ukrainian side of the family.”
“But can we think of any other explanation?” asked Neil. “It seems unusual that a police detective would be interested in that kind of genealogy.”
They all thought for several minutes, but no one could come up with anyone or anything else with the initials “WC” that related to the Haverfords or their jewels.
“Maybe,” said Dylan after a few moments, “it means Sergeant Gibbons thought Miss Haverford hid her jewelry in the toilet tank.”
Nicky hooted at this, rolling her eyes, and received a punch in the arm from her brother for this impropriety. Even the two elders smiled.
“I don’t think,” said Mrs. Burdall gently, “Miss Haverford was quite that eccentric.”
“Though,” put in Bethancourt, who rather felt for the boy, “odder things have been known, and my police acquaintances have found some very strange things in toilet tanks over the years. But I’m afraid it’s not likely in this case—the police searched the house, you see.”
Dylan nodded, apparently gratified to have his remark taken seriously.
From outside the room, the sound of the door chimes rang out clearly, interrupting the conversation. Nicky jumped up at once.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “It’s probably the chief inspector.”
“I’m coming, too,” called Dylan, running after his sister, who was already across the room.
The two older Burdalls looked merely confused.
“I’m sorry,” said Bethancourt. “I should have said—now you’ve confirmed Sergeant Gibbons was here that day, his superior naturally wants to come and talk to you. I probably should have left it to him altogether,” he added deprecatingly, “but, well, it was my idea and I wanted to follow it up.”
Mrs. Burdall smiled, apparently finding humor in the situation.
“The more the merrier,” she said. “Neil, would you tell Molly to put on some more tea? And perhaps bring out another plate of biscuits? I’m afraid the children have pretty well decimated this one.”
In a few moments, Carmichael appeared with a child on either side. Both youngsters were beaming, and Carmichael wore a genial smile, but Bethancourt detected a distinct bristling of his bushy eyebrows when the chief inspector’s eyes lit on him. Bethancourt rose politely at his entrance, but before he could effect introductions, Dylan burst out, “Look, Grandma Nicky! This Mr. Carmichael—he’s a detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard!”
“It’s
Chief Inspector
Carmichael, not Mr.,” corrected his sister, apparently a bit put out that Dylan had beaten her to the announcement of Carmichael’s identity.
Dylan paid no attention to this criticism, concentrating on guiding Carmichael to his grandmother’s side, where Cerberus, detecting a familiar scent, wagged his tail in greeting.
Mrs. Burdall smiled and held out a hand. “I hope you don’t mind the enthusiasm of our welcoming committee,” she said.
“Quite the contrary,” replied Carmichael, grinning at the children. “I found the welcome charming, which is not always the case with a policeman.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Burdall, “do sit down.”
This occasioned a flurry of activity in which Nicky and Dylan brought up another chair, Neil arrived back from his errand to Molly, bearing a tray, and Carmichael was got settled with tea and biscuits. The detective at first tried to put off all the fuss by saying he did not care for anything, but gave up his protests almost at once, realizing they would have no effect.
But once they had fulfilled their responsibilities as hosts, the Burdalls were content to let Carmichael take over the reins and direct the conversation where he would. Bethancourt, sitting silent, was very pleased to find the chief inspector going over much the same ground as he himself had covered. He did it far more efficiently, without letting his witnesses meander off on various digressions, but Bethancourt did not think there was much of import said that he had not already been told. And, he admitted to himself, he had quite enjoyed the digressions.
Unlike himself, Carmichael could and did demand to speak to the middle generation of Burdalls, and was duly conducted upstairs by Nicky and Dylan to meet their parents. Ordinarily, Bethancourt might have been invited along to observe, but it was clear Carmichael was annoyed with him for going along to the Burdalls without police supervision.
In view of this, Bethancourt decided it would be prudent to take his leave whilst Carmichael was occupied upstairs. Neil saw him to the door.
“Do you think,” he asked, “you’ll ever sort it all out?”
“I hope so,” replied Bethancourt. “There’s been a few new things that’ve come up in the last few days, so at least we haven’t reached a dead end.”
“Well,” said Neil, “I’d appreciate it—and so would my mother—if you wouldn’t mind stopping by to tell us how it all ends up.”
Bethancourt felt quite flattered. “Of course I will,” he said.
“Although I imagine it will make the papers once the case is solved. But I’ll come along and tell you whatever I know.”
And he made a mental note to himself not to forget this promise; he had taken a definite liking to the Burdalls.
“There you are, my man,” murmured Markham.
There was an edge of relief in his tone; for what seemed like an age, he had been tracing the train Gibbons had taken to Waterloo back through station after station. He had been beginning to think he must have missed the sergeant somewhere along the line, but now, at last, he’d found him.
Markham tweaked his controls, bringing the picture on his screen into clearer focus and enlarging slightly the section that showed Gibbons. Then he turned to Constable Lemmy, who was working on the footage from the stations south of Waterloo.
“I’ve got him, Constable,” he said. “The sergeant got on the train at Camden Town.”
“Oh, let’s see,” said Lemmy, swiveling his chair round. His eyes found Gibbons on the screen and he smiled. “That’s him all right,” he said happily. “I’ll switch over to the Camden footage, too, shall I? And we can look to see if the sergeant was following anyone.”
Markham had rather thought the idea that Gibbons had followed anyone to Waterloo had already been dismissed, since they had traced the path of the peacoated man back through Waterloo station and proved conclusively that he had come off the 9:06 train from Reading. But Markham agreed to the constable’s suggestion anyway, that being the easiest course.
“Gibbons can’t have transferred at Camden,” he remarked, turning back to his screens. “There’s no connection there. So he must have been somewhere in the neighborhood. Have you heard of any connection with Camden in the case, Constable?”
“No,” answered Lemmy, who did not seem very curious. “Perhaps Sergeant Gibbons has friends up there.”
Markham shot him a puzzled look. “If he’d been visiting friends, wouldn’t they have come forward by now?”
“Oh, right,” said Lemmy, whose attention was fastened on his screen. “Still, he can’t have been up in Southgate—he’d get the Piccadilly line from there, not the Northern.”
This was undeniably true, but Markham nonetheless found Lemmy’s lack of curiosity distinctly odd in a newly made detective. However, he shrugged it away and returned to his work; after all, Lemmy’s career was no business of his.
On Hampstead Heath
A
n old Counting Crows CD was playing over the stereo and Bethancourt was warbling along to it absentmindedly as he carefully set the custard to bake in the oven. He associated that particular band with domestic activity, it having been a favorite of an old cook his family had employed in his youth. He surveyed the debris his efforts had left scattered across the counters; he rather enjoyed cooking from time to time, but he was not very keen on clearing up afterward. He considered tackling the job briefly, but ended up, as he usually did, just shifting it all into the sink to await his charwoman’s ministrations in the morning.
That matter disposed of, he lit a cigarette and was just pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee when the phone rang. Bethancourt raised a brow when he saw the number listed on the caller ID and he reached to answer the call immediately.
“Phillip?” said Colin James. “It’s a glorious day—excellent weather for dog-walking on the Heath. Would you care to venture out with Churchill and me?”
“Thanks very much,” answered Bethancourt. “I was just thinking about taking Cerberus out, in fact. I’ve got something in the oven just at the moment, but I could be up there by four.”
“That suits perfectly,” said James. “I don’t mean to imply I have great news, by the way. I’m only after an exchange of thoughts.”
“Always beneficial,” said Bethancourt, who would have gone to meet James for any reason at all, given his latest suspicions. “I’ll see you there, then.”
He gazed thoughtfully at the phone after he rang off, wondering greatly what had prompted James to make the call. After all, if the investigator wanted information about the police investigation, he already had a good working relationship with Inspector Davies who would know all about it. But Bethancourt was more likely to be privy to the inner workings of Gibbons’s mind.
“Of course,” he said to Cerberus, “if James is innocent, he might still want to know what Jack’s been thinking. I would, in his place.”
Cerberus lifted his head, but when no food was forthcoming, he laid his muzzle back on his paws and ignored his master’s conversation.
“In any case,” Bethancourt continued, “it ought not to be too difficult to find out if James has a younger boyfriend. I wonder if I could get myself invited back to his house.”
Still turning the possibilities over in his mind, he went to change while the custard finished baking.
Nurse Pipp looked dubiously at the custard Bethancourt presented to her.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It looks very rich.”
“I thought of that,” said Bethancourt, very proud of himself. “I didn’t use cream—only milk. Here, taste it.”
Nurse Pipp seemed more agreeable to this suggestion and allowed Bethancourt to feed her a spoonful.
“Mmm,” she said. “That’s very good.”
“I kept it nice and bland,” said Bethancourt. “It’s only flavored with vanilla.”
Nurse Pipp reached for the spoon and Bethancourt handed it over readily. She took another spoonful, savoring the taste on her tongue while Bethancourt watched anxiously.
“The eggs,” he added persuasively, “were quite fresh.”
Nurse Pipp laughed at him.
“Very well,” she decided. “You can give him some. I’ll take the rest and put it in the refrigerator and dole it out at the appropriate times.”
Bethancourt beamed at her and trotted off to Gibbons’s room with his prize.
He found his friend frowning over the fresh notebook Bethancourt had brought him.
“Your custard, sir,” announced Bethancourt with a flourish as he entered, and Gibbons looked up and smiled. “It has been Nurse Pipp-approved.”
“Thanks, Phillip,” said Gibbons, reaching for the dish eagerly. “God, that smells much better than the rest of the muck they’ve been trying to feed me.”
“Taste it,” urged Bethancourt.
Gibbons was already digging into it, and he smiled beatifically as he savored his first spoonful.
“That’s wonderful,” he said, dipping the spoon back in. “Is there any more?”
“Lots,” said Bethancourt. “Nurse Pipp has got it and will be doling it out in medically appropriate amounts.” He was smiling while he watched the success of his culinary creation, much pleased. “I can’t stay long,” he added in a moment. “Colin James rang to invite me to walk dogs on Hampstead Heath and I’ve got to meet him there by four.”
Gibbons looked up. “Did he give a reason for this invitation?” he asked.
“He said he was after an exchange of ideas,” replied Bethancourt. “I’m going to try to find out if he has a younger boyfriend possibly matching the description of the man you were following last Tuesday night.”
“It needn’t necessarily be a boyfriend,” said Gibbons. “It could be any trusted associate.”
“Yes, but I’ve got to start somewhere,” said Bethancourt.
“I expect so,” said Gibbons, his attention on scraping the last
remnants of the custard out of the bowl. “Do you know, I was just thinking about James and Davies when you came in.”
“Oh?” asked Bethancourt. “Any fruitful thoughts?”
“Not exactly. I was only thinking that they both fit the description James himself gave me of the kind of people who commit jewelry thefts. They both are great appreciators of art and beauty, they both know a great deal about gemstones and their history, and they both have a taste for the finer things in life.”
“True enough,” agreed Bethancourt. “Though actually a lot of that applies to me as well.”
“Jewelry is not one of your hobbies,” said Gibbons dryly. “You only know about gemstones because you date the kind of women who expect them as presents.”
“Well, I can’t deny it,” said Bethancourt good-humoredly. “I really must run, Jack. I’ll stop on my way back and let you know if I found out anything.”
“Do,” said Gibbons. “Go on now—and ta very much for the custard.”
Bethancourt waved the thanks away as he led his dog out the door.
The sun hung just above the bare branches of the trees as Bethancourt let Cerberus out of the Jaguar and led his pet into Hampstead Heath. The air was crisp, but blessedly dry, and the darkening sky above remained clear. Bethancourt headed for the area where he had last encountered James and was shortly rewarded by the sight of an English bulldog lumbering toward Cerberus, tongue lolling happily.
“There you go, lad,” murmured Bethancourt, slipping the great dog from his lead. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and scanned the area until he spotted the tall figure of Colin James. He waved and began to make his way in that direction, keeping one eye on the frolicking dogs.
“Hullo!” said James. “Nice change from the wet, isn’t it? It seems like it’s been weeks since I didn’t get soaked walking Churchill.”
Bethancourt agreed. “The rain’s been pretty constant,” he said. “Do you always take Churchill out yourself?”
“Not always,” admitted James, his eyes following the dogs. “I have an arrangement with an obliging neighbor. But I like to take him myself as often as I can—he gets left alone too much, poor chap.”
“Cerberus goes most places with me,” said Bethancourt, turning his back to the wind in order to light a cigarette.
“Ah, well, there’s no denying he’s a better behaved dog than Churchill,” said James, somewhat sheepishly. “My own fault—I’m no good at discipline.”
Bethancourt considered this as they strolled after the dogs.
“I’m pretty awful at self-discipline,” he offered.
James laughed. “So am I,” he said, “so am I. What fun is it, after all?”
“None,” said Bethancourt with a grin.
Ahead of them, Cerberus and Churchill had paused to inspect a clump of rather shriveled bushes, judiciously choosing the best spot to mark on.
“Well,” said James, “pleasant as this is, I expect I had better deliver the bad news.”
Bethancourt was immediately alert. “Bad news?” he asked.
“Bad enough,” answered James. “The prospect of recovering the Haverford jewels anytime soon is looking rather bleak.”
Bethancourt absorbed this in silence for a moment. If James had stolen the gems, he would naturally be certain to introduce this idea sooner or later, but Bethancourt could not help but wonder why he had been chosen as the recipient of this information. Surely Carmichael—or Davies, if he was innocent—were more important people to convince of this point.
“Not good,” he said at last. “Why have you come to the conclusion it’s hopeless?”
“I didn’t say
hopeless
,” said James, who seemed to resent the term. “I just said the prospects were poor. There’s not a whiff of the benighted jewelry anywhere. Inspector Davies is waiting on some further inquiries he’s put out to some of his contacts in Hawaii, but
it’s unlikely anything will come of them. And I’ve drawn a blank on every level. The closest I’ve come is an old friend in Amsterdam who once, several years ago, saw a diamond similar to the one in the Haverford brooch.”
“How nice for him,” said Bethancourt dryly, and James snorted.
“He seemed to think so,” he said. “He went on about it for an unconscionably long time. Anyway, the point is that when things are this quiet after a big job like this, there’s usually only one reason, and it’s never good for our side.”
“What reason?” asked Bethancourt.
“It usually means it was a custom job, undertaken for a specific client,” answered James. He was frowning, as if in distaste for the very notion. “Even then, there are normally rumors circulating because one or more of the thieves can’t keep from hinting about their big coup. But sometimes—not often, mind—the thieves are loyal to their employer, possibly even regular business partners of his, and they keep mum.”
“So what you’re saying,” said Bethancourt, “is that the jewels have most likely gone into a private collection, from whence they will never be recovered.”
James’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Never is a long time,” he said, with a hard edge in his tone. “I’ve pulled off a few recoveries of that sort. But,” he added, almost apologetically, “such things can take years, unless one is extraordinarily lucky.”
Bethancourt took a last puff of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the thin stream of smoke whisked away by the wind. He suspected that if the private collection in question was James’s, there was every likelihood that collector and thief were one and the same. But, he reminded himself, what if the private collection belonged instead to Davies? Was it possible James had let friendship blind him? Bethancourt glanced at him sidelong; James was watching the dogs, the trace of a fond smile on his lips.
Cerberus was chasing Churchill in a wide arc across the meadow; the race was a very uneven one, but both dogs seemed to be enjoying it. Cerberus kept catching his prey up, at which point they tousled briefly, and then Churchill would trundle off again
while Cerberus lay panting happily, watching his friend’s progress until he judged him far enough away. At which point the borzoi would regain his feet and sprint off in pursuit.
“Well,” said Bethancourt as they strolled on toward the trees, following the path of the dogs, “I hope if you do recover them some years on, you’ll remember me. I had rather been looking forward to viewing the alexandrite necklace.”
James sighed. “Weren’t we all,” he said.
“And,” continued Bethancourt, “it may be that the Haverford case has nothing to do with the attack on Jack. In any case—”
He broke off at the sound of a sharp report.
“What was that?” asked James.
For a split second, Bethancourt could not place the sound, though he knew he recognized it. In the next instant, realization dawned and he shouted out even as he reached for James and a second shot rang out.
Oddly enough, Bethancourt’s first thought was for the safety of his dog, and in his first stunned moment, all he could think was that it was not possible to mistake Cerberus for a deer despite his size.
“Cerberus!” he bellowed. “Down!”
Even as the words left his lips, he had seized James’s arm and was dragging the larger man down into the bleached grass.
They fell heavily into the soggy ground.
“Christ!” swore James.
“Roll!” ordered Bethancourt, shoving at the other man’s shoulder. “Roll for the bush there.”
Swearing mightily, James rolled while a third shot echoed across the Heath.
People were screaming now and Bethancourt wondered if he had just badly overreacted to an attack on someone else.
“Dear God,” said James. They had reached the scant cover of the bush the dogs had earlier shown such interest in, and James was squirming in an effort to see through the sparse foliage. “Churchill! Where’s Churchill?”
Bethancourt was just as worried about his own dog, but was hoping Cerberus had obeyed his command. He dug in his pocket
for his mobile, hoping he had not damaged the device by rolling on it. It had certainly bruised his ribs nicely.