Wiles of a Stranger Read online

  "So that is your Aunt Stella,” I said, taking Lucien's hand.

  "Yes, she is very pretty, isn't she? I like her a lot, but she likes Wiggins better than me.” Wiggins, not Uncle Charles. Out of the mouths of babes!

  We went to the kitchen for lemonade. I was also introduced to Cook and the other servants, who regarded me with suspicion, which turned to acceptance as I behaved myself with propriety and friendliness.

  I was as curious as Mrs. Beaudel to discover what news the messenger had brought to the door. I did not learn it until that evening. The interval was passed interestingly enough with the promised tour by Lucien. It was a fine old house, but the details are not important, except inasmuch as I learned where the jewelry collection was kept—in a safe in Mr. Beaudel's study. Oh, and I also saw the master bedroom, which was kept very properly waiting for its master, Sir Algernon Beaudel, who used it on his visits from Cambridge, and whom I learned would soon be its regular occupant, as he was finishing his course that year.

  Charles Beaudel was not the encroaching sort who considered himself anything but a guardian for the two boys. He was not, from what I could see, trying to take over their domain. I was not shown into Charles's room, but had a door pointed out to me as belonging to Aunt Stella with Beaudel's room next it.

  One cannot spend long under a roof without ferreting out the family's little secrets. I discovered that evening that Mrs. Beaudel was bored to flinders with her aging spouse. I ate with Lucien abovestairs, but about an hour after dinner, Mrs. Beaudel came in person to suggest we join her and Charles in the saloon, “to become a little acquainted,” as she phrased it. “For it is so tedious here in the country, with few callers."

  Both Lucien and I were eager to join them. When we entered the room, I observed that Mr. Beaudel was perusing the latest newspapers. A pipe had been allowed to go out, but its smoke still perfumed the air, reminding me of Papa, who likes his pipe after dinner. Would he be allowed to have it in jail? I wondered.

  It was no cheerful, domestic scene, despite the pipe. What we were looking at was a tired old man taking his ease at the end of a day, while his young wife, dressed to the nines, fidgeted and wanted to go out, or at least to have someone in. No book, no magazine, no embroidery, no knitting or fringing was in evidence. A half-drunk glass of wine was on a table beside her, forgotten.

  Mr. Beaudel arose and smiled pleasantly, made a few jokes to Lucien, then returned to his papers with a sigh of relief, while his wife began flirting with Lucien. It is a foolish word to use, but she was only trying to be friendly, I think, and knew no other way to set about it with a male of any age whatsoever. Lucien was a good little flirter too. He began by saying, “I like your new gown, Aunt Stella. I think it is new, is it not?"

  It was a green satin, modishly low in front, which looked very well with her pale blond hair and green eyes. “I'm glad someone noticed,” she replied, with a sharp glance in her husband's direction.

  The newspaper rustled, as Beaudel peered guiltily from behind a corner of it. He was listening then, from his hiding place. He had donned a pair of spectacles. In order to see his wife, he had to look up over the top of them. It added a few years to his appearance, that gesture. What on earth had she ever seen in the man? It could only have been a case of cream-pot love on her side. Beaudel's personal financial position was not known to me, but at least he lived in a fine home.

  Wiggins came in to see if Madame would care for more wine. There was no teasing, no flirting, with Beaudel in the room. He behaved properly, only losing control of his eyes for a moment as he bent over Stella, filling her glass.

  I was curious to turn the conversation to the messenger, or if not that then to the diamonds. To my intense satisfaction, Lucien blurted out the question for me.

  "What did the messenger want, the one who came this afternoon?” he asked his aunt.

  "A man is coming to look at your diamonds,” she told him.

  "Are you selling some of them, Uncle Charles?” he demanded at once, with a very inquisitive face. What a wise little hammer he was, and not yet seven years old.

  "You remember we discussed it, Lucien,” his uncle replied, setting down the newspaper. “Just some of the lesser pieces, not the Jaipur certainly. It was your father's intention that some of the pieces at least be sold, to provide funds for your education when you grew up. You cannot expect Algernon to carry all the expense of that for you. If you decide to buy an estate later, after you are older, then you can sell your more valuable pieces. On the other hand, if you join the Army or something of that sort, you may want to keep them. An estate is no advantage if a man is not home to look after it."

  "I don't see why you don't sell the lot and have done with it,” Mrs. Beaudel said peevishly.

  "They might evaluate, bring a better price at a later date,” he explained.

  "Yes, might evaluate, but it is certain that money invested would pay good interest. Oh, Charles, I do wish you would sell them, and be rid of the worry of looking after them. It worries him so,” she said aside to me, with an uncharacteristic concern for her spouse.

  It was not my place to venture an opinion, or to pose any questions, which did not prevent me from thinking. I judged Beaudel must have sole authority of Lucien's estate, and Algernon's as well.

  "Who is coming to look at them?” Lucien asked.

  "A military man. His name is Morrison, a Major Morrison,” Beaudel answered. His wife patted the satin material of her skirts, and raised her hands to preen her hair, smiling softly to herself, while I wondered how a mere Major could afford to be buying diamonds.

  "Do you know him?” Lucien asked.

  "Not personally, but he sent a letter of introduction from your grandfather Sacheverel, so his character cannot be in doubt. I shall be more careful who comes here in future, you may be sure. I shan't let another piker like Diamond Dutch get a foot inside the door. I'll not deal with anyone we don't know, or who has not got a character reference."

  "Is he a real soldier?” Lucien asked, while I clenched my hands into fists, and managed to keep my tongue silent.

  "To be sure he is. He is a Major. He saw action in the Peninsula with Wellington."

  I looked up with interest, for no other reason but that my brother also saw action in the Peninsula. He was killed at the Battle of Vitoria. It was possible Major Morrison might know him. It was on the tip of my tongue to say so, when I recalled I was no longer Mieke van Deusen.

  "I doubt he will be wearing a scarlet tunic,” Mrs. Beaudel said. “Since Waterloo, many of the officers have sold out, and returned to civilian life. This Morrison has an estate somewhere in Devonshire, has he not, Charles?"

  "I believe Sacheverel mentioned something of the sort."

  "I wish he would wear his tunic and bring his sword,” Lucien said wistfully. “He will have some good stories at least. I would like to be a soldier when I grow up."

  "If that is the case, we might just hold on to his collection,” Beaudel mentioned to his wife, who rolled her eyes ceiling-wards before pointing out this was only a child's dreaming.

  The newspaper rustled back into place, Beaudel retired from the social circle, and Mrs. Beaudel examined the cuticle of her right thumb with great interest. This done, she said, “Lud, how boring! Do you play cards, Miss Stacey?"

  "Let us have a hand of loo,” Lucien exclaimed with the keenest enthusiasm.

  The cards were brought out, and the three of us sat down to a session of cards. Mrs. Beaudel was petulant, and an indifferent player. Lucien was in alt, and the craftiest little fellow with the cardboards that you ever saw. I was observant, paying more heed to any conversation Mrs. Beaudel cared to make than to the game.

  After a short while, she threw down her hand of cards, in mid-game, and said, “This is boring. Charles,” she turned and called over her shoulder to her husband. “Why don't you show us the jewel collection? Miss Stacey has not seen it. It will be more amusing than this. Would you not like to see the jewel
s, Miss Stacey? I'm sure you would."

  "I would be very interested to see it,” I said promptly.

  "Do let us show her, Uncle,” Lucien added his entreaties.

  With a fond smile at his wife, Charles set aside his newspaper, removed his spectacles, arose and went for the key.

  Stella led the way to his study, where we waited for him. He went upstairs to get the key. Mrs. Beaudel, although she must have seen the treasures many times, was excited to see them again. They were kept in a heavy safe that sat on the floor behind Beaudel's desk. It would have taken two burly men to remove it.

  The jewels were kept in a wooden chest, covered with brown leather. It was about fifteen inches long and nine wide, the same in depth. When it was opened, it was seen to have drawers, lined in dark yellow velvet, five in all, each shallow. The drawers held an assortment of gems, magnificent pieces of varied sorts. The loose diamonds were kept in the top drawer. There were too many to count—about a hundred, I guessed, varying in size from one carat to five. This would be what my father had seen. It would be from this bunch too that he was accused of having pilfered.

  I could profess no knowledgeable interest in the stones, but was allowed a good amateur's enthusiasm. “How lovely! They must be very valuable!” I exclaimed.

  "If they were perfect stones, they would be worth a great deal. Indeed, you are looking at about five thousand pounds, Miss Stacey,” Beaudel told me.

  "Is it some of these the man tried to steal?” I asked guilelessly.

  "It was. He got away with eleven, but five were recovered. We made sure the other half-dozen would turn up in the toe of his boot, or in a pocket, but they were not found."

  "He got rid of them when he heard the constable banging at his door,” Mrs. Beaudel surmised.

  "His room was searched carefully. They even looked on the ground beneath his window, but they were not found,” Beaudel said.

  "Maybe he swallowed them,” Lucien suggested.

  "I wouldn't put it a bit past him,” she agreed.

  "How did he take them without being seen?” I asked, with idle-seeming interest.

  "He was light-fingered. I'll say that for him. I did not hand the tray to him, or leave him alone for a minute,” Beaudel told me. “I daresay I glanced away for a second, and that must be when he slid them into his pocket. It is fortunate I counted them after he left. I don't know how I came to do it either, for I had no reason to suspect him."

  "Aunt Stella told you to,” Lucien reminded him.

  "No! I merely asked Charles if he had counted them,” she pointed out. “It looked to me as if the tray were less full than before. But let us see the real jewelry, dear,” she said to her husband. It was the first time I had heard her use any term of endearment. “The diamond necklace that belonged to that Italian queen..."

  Charles obediently shoved in the top drawer and opened the next, to lift up a glittering necklace of blue-white diamonds, made in an old-fashioned style, rather clumsy, with a great cluster at the front set in such a manner that no individual stone showed to best advantage. Today they would be set differently, the larger stones having more importance in the design.

  "May I try on your necklace, Lucien?” Mrs. Beaudel asked archly.

  "I would like to see it on you,” he agreed at once. “Diamonds look much better on a pretty lady."

  Her husband fastened it around her neck, smiling at her excitement. “I wish I could give it to you,” he said.

  "You can wear it any time you want, Aunt Stella,” Lucien assured her.

  "That would not be quite the thing, Lucien. People would talk,” his uncle explained. I surmised he had learned that fact by experience. People were talking—the servant at the inn, for instance.

  "The earrings to go with it,” Mrs. Beaudel demanded, reaching out her hand to him, and using the tone more usually employed for servants.

  Another drawer was opened, and large pendant ear buckles handed to her. She put them on herself, in front of a mirror that was on the far wall. She had a lamp moved to illuminate the image in the mirror, and a very lovely image it was too. Her eyes glowed as strongly as any of the gems. She adored wearing them, to cock her head this way and that, and see the diamond drops jiggle against her white skin. She fingered the necklace, lovingly, while Lucien admired her, both orally and with his eyes. She coveted those jewels, and it was strange she should be prodding Beaudel to sell them. Of course she could not wear them without causing gossip.

  I was curious to return to the unmounted stones, to see just what it was my father stood accused of stealing. I don't know what I had in mind—to see they were only paste, or crystals faceted to look like diamonds perhaps. “How do you know these stones are imperfect, Mr. Beaudel?” I asked, playing the amateur. “You said if they had no flaws, they would be worth more. They don't seem to have any flaws."

  "They cannot be seen by the naked eye,” he told me.

  "You use one of those eyeglass things, do you?"

  "A loupe,” he informed me, nodding his head. “I have one about here somewhere."

  "Could I take a peek through it? I have never used one of them,” I lied, with a beguiling smile.

  He glanced to see his wife was still being entertained by Lucien before rooting through a drawer for his loupe. That action told me he was no real jewel connoisseur. My father's loupe was never more than an arm's length away, usually in his pocket.

  I was careful not to display any expertise with the instrument. I let Beaudel show me how to use it. He chattered on with some unnecessary information. “They tell me the north light is best. I daresay you will see nothing by lamplight."

  I saw that the stone, roughly three and a half carats, which he handed to me, had been badly cut, and had a flaw so large that it tended to make the stone virtually worthless. “I see a black mark in it, a sort of line,” was all I said.

  "The larger ones are all flawed, but the diamond would look well in a ring or a brooch for all that. A diamond is always worth something. Here, try this one. The smaller ones are unflawed."

  He let me examine three or four, making sure to get the last back in his hands before letting me touch another. As he said, the large ones were flawed, the small ones perfect. It seemed pointless to go on, but I accepted the last one he selected for me.

  The word “carat,” as it pertains to precious stones, is an indication of weight, not size. A carat indicates two hundred milligrams of weight. The stone he handed me was about the size a one-carat stone should be, but its weight in my hand felt less than half of what I expected. One comes to recognize what a diamond should weigh, when she has been handling them all her life. I inhaled sharply, but he did not appear to notice. With the greatest curiosity, I held the stone under my eye, but it was a mere formality. Even before I did so, I could feel a trace of roughness on the edge where it had been chipped against the real diamonds. A true diamond does not chip. What I had was very likely a zircon, baked in an oven to remove any traces of color. Zircons chip rather easily. The examination was a mere formality.

  I mumbled the word “interesting,” and asked if I might look at another of the small stones. The others examined were all genuine diamonds. Somehow, one false stone had gotten passed to me. I considered telling Beaudel so, but even a cursory examination of my position showed me this was unwise.

  Mrs. Beaudel was removing the necklace and asking to see other pieces. “You know I do not keep the Jaipur here,” he told her, with a repressive stare, perhaps because of my presence. He gave no indication where he did keep it, whether in another part of the house or elsewhere, in a bank vault.

  "I don't mean the Jaipur. Let me see the star sapphire,” she replied.

  He reluctantly opened another drawer to show her this expensive trifle, then another to allow her to pin a ruby brooch on her gown. None of these was examined by me, nor was I so much as allowed to touch them, but they had the look of genuine jewels Soon Beaudel closed up the box, returned it to the safe, and locked i
t, pocketing the key.

  "Let us have a cup of cocoa and go to bed,” he suggested.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Beaudel's jaw tighten, but she smiled and agreed to it. “Please join us, Miss Stacey, and you too, Lucien."

  "Lucien should be in bed,” I pointed out, as it was close to nine o'clock. Eight was a likelier hour for a child to be asleep.

  "He can sleep in tomorrow. There is nothing to get up for,” she added grimly. “Major Morrison does not arrive till afternoon."

  This blatant and public admission that the only pleasure the morrow offered her was the arrival of another gentleman caused Mr. Beaudel to smile deprecatingly. I was sorry I had looked at him.

  "It is a pity Algernon decided not to join us for the spring holiday,” he said to her. “He would liven us up. We have great times when Algernon is here."

  This was easy to credit. A young man of twenty-odd years would be of definite interest to Stella, who was not above flirting with a six-year-old child, and her butler.

  "My brother is gone to visit Sacheverel for the holiday,” Lucien explained to me. “I wish he had taken me with him."

  "He is bound to drop in on his way back to Cambridge. It is hardly out of his way at all,” Beaudel consoled him.

  "He was here for Christmas,” Stella reminded them. “It is only right he spend some time with his maternal relatives as well."

  It struck me as decidedly odd she would not be more eager for the company of a young gentleman, but she sounded peevish at the very mention of his name. I wondered if she had come to cuffs with him.

  "It is hardly the same thing. Glanbury Park is his own home, it belongs to him,” Beaudel remarked.

  "Yes, he is not reluctant to remind us of it,” she answered sharply, confirming my suspicion.

  "Well, shall we have that cocoa?” Beaudel said heartily, to smooth over the incident.

  Lucien and I drank ours up quickly. The very mention of Algernon Beaudel had put Stella in a pucker, and she was poor company. But before we left, she roused herself to a smile.

  "Time you were in your bed, rascal,” she said, giving Lucien's cheek a pinch. “We don't want this guy's pretty complexion fading from late nights."