The Adventure of the Deverill Diamonds

I will not upset you with the full gruesome details of my punishment. I was dragged away from Sam (who looked utterly confused) then I was taken upstairs to my room and thrown in. Where Sam went after that I did not know. Aunt Cordelia took great pleasure in doling out her punishment to me, her hits so forceful that her hair shook itself out of the tight bun it was in in seconds. I bit my lip and tried not to scream, but for the first time in a long time I cried in front of her. I had always tried to resist giving her the added pleasure of her bringing tears to my eyes with her brutality. On this occasion, sad to tell you, I failed miserably.

Mrs Gritton had offered her cretinous opinion of me throughout this beating - I was a “demon”, a “mongrel” and a “fiend.” For such a stupid woman she really did have a wide vocabulary of insults to hand when safely hidden behind a crazed woman wielding a cane.

I was locked in my room, Mrs Gritton’s key was snatched back from me, all the books were taken from my shelf (except, of course, the rotten Etiquette book). I was to have no fire in my fireplace. I was to have no food. Father would come and “talk to me” this evening I was told and tomorrow I would go with him and Aunt Cordelia to the grand ball and “try to behave like a lady.” The thought of my Father talking to me would have actually been appealing were it not for the fact that I knew it would never happen. My Father did not really talk to anyone, except his precious sister, and certainly not to me - his unwanted adopted child. In my presence he would pretend that I was not there and always talked over my head at the dinner table as if I were a bowl of cold soup or an empty salt cruet.

Once my beating was over, they left me to cry my unwelcome tears to myself until my eyes were blotchy and red. By this time it was nearly midday and the Spring sunshine poured in through my windows, almost seeming to mock my misery with its brightness.

For several minutes I laid on my side, my knees tucked up almost to my chin. My backside was too sore to sit on. I was thinking of just lying still for the rest of the day. I was thinking of simply giving in. I never wanted another beating like the one I had just received. Perhaps I should just do as I was told ? Perhaps I should just take my punishment, lie still, listen to my Aunt, go to the grand ball tomorrow and be obedient?

You will be glad to hear these thoughts did not last long. An anger, a resentment welled up inside me. Whatever I had done I knew I had not deserved my punishment. I had not hurt anyone. I had not committed murder. But someone had tried to. They had tried to murder Mr Deverill and I had no right to lie there feeling sorry for myself, whilst that person roamed the streets, free to try to kill again. Where these thoughts came from I do not know. Perhaps my real parents were brave, or courageous. Perhaps that is how I could try to forget the pain. Perhaps that is where I found the strength to lift myself up from the bed. That was the only explanation I could arrive at for I knew that I was not brave.

I looked around my room for a new way out. Knowing every nook and cranny of my prison I knew that this was a pointless exercise. There were only two ways out - the chimney or the windows. The chimney was, as far as I knew, full of soot and probably too small for me to climb through. One of my windows was far too small (like the window outside Mr Deverill’s doorway). The other overlooked the Thames, but was also at least twenty five feet above it.

I paced the room, wincing occasionally as pain hit me when I turned my body to change direction. I thought and thought. How could I get out of the room ? Could I somehow trick Mrs Gritton into coming in and then duck out ? No. She would have been on her guard, empty-headed though she was. I doubted she would even open the door.

After going through a wide array of plots and plans I stopped. The window was the only option I had. Facts had to be faced.

I stepped up onto my bed and pulled the top sash window downwards. It was stiff (having not been opened all Winter) but, with every effort I could muster, I eventually forced it open. I looked down at the river flowing by. Above my window was the roof edge and the cast-iron guttering. Perhaps I could jump down or jump into the river! But there were two problems with this plan - 1) I would be soaking wet for the rest of the day and 2) I would probably die of hypothermia. The river was freezing cold and the sun was not yet strong enough to dry me out. If I went up onto the roof I could get down into the street via the metal set of steps and ladders that took workmen up onto the roof to carry out repairs. The roof, though a more difficult route, seemed the better option.

Then a thought struck me. If I went up to the roof I could also examine Mr Deverill’s chimney. Was it big enough and clear enough for a child to get in and out of the rooms that way? Had little James Deverill, acting on his mother’s orders, got in through the chimney, attacked his great-uncle and then scurried back up the chimney with the diamonds in his hand? This was the way to find out, surely!

Using all the strength left to me I hoisted myself up to the open window. I was in mid-air, my hands pushing down on the window frame as I tried to keep my balance. With a great effort I brought one of my legs upwards trying to get my foot on top of the window frame. I had to move my hands and my whole upper body sideways to swing my left leg upwards. Having done so, I pulled myself up so that my leg was now outside the window frame and I was sat atop it. From there it was a case of swinging my other leg over so that both my feet rested on the small window-ledge which, with effort I eventually accomplished, and I was outside.

I made the foolish mistake of looking down. To most people, I am well aware, being twenty-five feet in the air would be a nothing (especially when the worst that could happen was a dunking) To me though it was a terrifying ordeal. Not because I could not swim, of course. On the contrary, I am an exceptional swimmer. But because of the distance between me and the water. My head span and my heart started pounding inside my chest. I quickly turned my head back around, grasping tightly onto the window frame as if my life depended on it.

For a full minute I clung there, unable to move. Eventually I plucked up the courage to look upwards. The guttering was a good three feet above the top of the open window. I would have to clamber upwards on the open window frame with nothing to cling to but tiny holes in the brickwork and then try to reach the gutter. Though fear clutched at me, making my breathing speed up and my heart pump, I knew the alternative was a life with Aunt Cordelia and her cane. And that was no alternative at all.

I pulled myself up so that I was crouched in the open part of the window frame, my fingers grasping the inside of the window frame inside the room and my feet balanced on the top of the sash. I looked like some sort of hideous goblin, waiting to leap into the room - a real life Rumpelstiltskin come to spin straw into gold for a captive girl.

Having got that far the next step was to reach up with one hand and try to find some hole in the brickwork to get purchase on. I reached up with my right hand, my left hand keeping me from falling. I fumbled right and left, feeling the scratches of the brickwork on my fingers. After some unsuccessful groping suddenly my fingers found a place where the mortar holding two bricks together had crumbled. I stuck three of my fingers in the gap as far as I could, until I was happy I could support my own weight with some success. Taking a deep breath, I pulled with all my might.

I was stood now, my left hand lying idle by my side (just as P.C. Burdon’s had been after knocking down the door). My heart was racing, a dizzy sensation crept over me at the thought of what I was doing and what I was risking. But for now, I was sturdy enough. I was stood, my feet on the sash, my right hand in the brickwork. I took a second to breathe - to compose myself.

“HHHUUUNNNNHHH!” The sudden sound behind me nearly made me lose my grip. I held on tight and went flat against the wall. The sound was a horn from a boat underneath me, that much I could guess. I did not dare look down again to see exactly who or what it was. Its engine was chugging slowly as I gripped onto the wall with my right hand.

“Y’alright, young miss!” shouted a man’s voice from behind me.

“Um… yes!” I shouted as loudly as I dared, fearful that Aunt Cordelia or Mrs Gritton might have heard the boat’s horn or the man’s voice.

“What the ‘ell are you playin’ at’?” shouted the voice.

“Errr…. Just going up to the roof!”

“You’re gonna break your bleedin’ neck!” came the man’s cry from below.

“Um.. No! I’ve done it before! It is quite alright, thank you!”

“We’ve got a rope over there, in Jessop’s boatyard! Want me to go and get it, ’elp you up to the roof?”

The offer was a good and kind one and, were it not being shouted so loudly, I probably would have taken the man up on it. As it was, every fresh shout from him made me more sure that any moment Aunt Cordelia or Mrs Gritton would hear and came rushing into the room to yank me back in for another thrashing. But the kind man was obviously not going to just stop offering help. There was nothing else for it. I was going to have to pretend to be rude.

“Look!” I said, putting on my best spoiled child voice, “I was perfectly alright before you arrived and started bellowing in your foul working class voice! I do not need the help of someone so far beneath me, both in social class and …literally…So kindly be about your business and let me be about mine!”

There was a brief pause.

“Please y’self..” murmured the man and I felt like the most wretched girl in the world. He was clearly rather hurt that his Good Samaritan turn had been met with complete ingratitude. The engine kicked back into full life and the sound of the boat slowly disappeared into the distance.

Although I felt guilty, I still breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sound from the room or from the house at all. My Aunt and the housekeeper were no doubt in another part of the house, complaining to one another about my outrageous behaviour and saying what a ‘bad lot’ I was.

I had been waylaid for long enough. It was time to make a reach for the guttering. I looked up, aiming and preparing as much as I could. In one motion I pushed up onto my tiptoes and swung my left arm upwards to reach the gutter. By a miracle my fingers reached the guttering and they closed fast around it. I pulled my fingers out of the hole in the brickwork and threw my right hand up to join its partner. As I closed the fingers of my right hand, my feet were lifted away from the sash window. They were dangling in mid-air and all my body weight was being supported by my hands. I honestly thought for a moment that my arms were going to come out of their sockets, leaving me to plummet into the water looking upwards at my disjointed hands still clinging onto the guttering.

Again, like some strange gargoyle, I kicked upwards with my feet, pushing against the wall and clambering upwards. It must have looked to anyone watching (which was hopefully nobody!) like a poorly choreographed circus act. Eventually my legs were high enough up to use my elbows to hoist myself up and to stop my entire weight being supported by my tired, scratched and aching hands.

I had my right elbow and both my legs up over the guttering. It was at that moment that I heard an ominous creaking noise. The guttering was starting to come away from the wall! I had only seconds to escape before it and I fell into the river below. As fast as lightning I pulled with all the strength I had, getting my whole body onto the roof. A split second later, with one final screech, that section of the guttering came loose from the wall and fell. It was so heavy that it fell in the water with quite a muted splosh, sinking, I assumed, straight to the bottom. ‘Thank Goodness!’ I thought, ‘that the kind man in the boat was not still beneath me!’

I lay on the rooftop for several seconds, my arms aching from overuse and my rear end in pain from being rolled on. I was panting and, not for the first time that day, completely out of breath. I forced myself to roll onto my front and, from there, up to a standing position.

I blew my dishevelled hair out of my eyes and looked around me. Thinking through a map of the building in my head I crossed the slightly sloped roof over to what I reasoned must have been Mr Deverill’s chimney.

The opening at the top was relatively small but, as I peered inside, I could see it widened out at several points down the stack, although at others it was very thin. I could see nothing but black at the bottom of the flue. Looking around me I saw a slightly dislodged roof tile and thought it would be just the thing to let drop down the chimney stack to see if it was blocked at all. I pulled at the tile with my red-raw fingers until I prised it loose. I pulled myself up so I was looking squarely down the chimney stack and let go of the tile. The instant I did a face I knew appeared at the bottom of the shaft.

“Sam!” I yelped, trying to warn him.

The tile only missed him by half an inch, smashing into pieces.

“Bloody ’ell!” he shouted, his voice echoing up the chimney stack.

“Sam! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” I whimpered.

“Esther?” he shouted.

“Yes!”

“Stay there!”

Looking around me I wondered briefly to myself where he thought I was likely to go.

“Alright!” I said, cupping my hands to either side of my mouth as people seem bound to do when they are shouting down something.

I kept looking down the shaft and could soon see Sam climbing up inside the chimney stack! He was pushing his weight against the walls to stop him from falling and was slowly ascending.

“Be careful!” I called, “Don’t get stuck!”

“I won’t! I’m not an idiot!” he yelled back, clearly annoyed at the thought of it. Sam was, no doubt, experienced at going up and down chimneys. He had probably been a chimney sweep himself, before he got the job sweeping the crossing. He had a wealth of experience and here was I, warning him against something he had clearly considered before beginning his climb!

He was halfway up the chimney stack when he suddenly stopped as if he had heard something behind him. Perhaps someone had come into the room! Worried that I would give the game away by speaking I stayed silent, watching Sam frozen in the flue. A full minute passed in total silence, my heart racing once more. And then :

“Esther…” His tone was odd, subdued.

“Yes..?” I asked, quietly, still concerned about someone being in the room below him.

Another pause.

“I’m stuck.”

I laughed. Partly at myself for getting worked up, partly at Sam for being stuck and partly out of relief that there was no-one in the room below. Sam was less than impressed.

“It ain’t funny!” he shouted.

“Oh, it is,” I replied, “It is a little funny.”

He fell silent. I took that to mean that he thought it was funny too, but did not want to laugh. and prove me right.

“You gonna ’elp then?” he asked after a full fifteen seconds of me giggling.

“What do you want me to do?” I enquired.

“Get a rope or summink!” he yelled back.

Thank Goodness, I thought once again, for the Good Samaritan. He had told me exactly where a rope was to be found. I clambered over to the other side of the roof, taking great care not to dislodge more tiles or, worse, fall. I found the series of ladders and rusty metal steps that led down to the street below. As these steps passed the windows on the other side of my own house, I took great care not to be seen by anyone inside, peeking around the window frames before scarpering past.

Eventually I made my way to the ground and raced straight to Jessop’s boatyard, a place I had seen from my window on a daily basis. The boatyard was deserted. I realised that the Good Samaritan must have been Mr. Jessop himself. Looking around and seeing no-one, I crept over to one of the small jetties where a long length of rope was lying, waiting to moor a boat. I curled the rope around my arm and ran as fast as I could back to the metal steps.

I followed the same precautions on the way up, my pace slowed with the weight of the rope. Finally I was back on the roof and clambered back over to the chimney-stack.

“What took you so long?” shouted Sam.

“It’s not easy to just ‘get a rope’ you know!” I snapped back, annoyed at his impatience. I had just gone to great lengths to get him the rope after all. “I’m going to wrap it around another chimneystack!” I added, so he understood that I had not just disappeared once more. I clambered over to another chimney, wrapping the rope around it and tying it into the best knot I could achieve given it’s weight and width. I pulled on it and decided that it was strong enough. I yanked the rest of the rope over to Mr Deverill’s chimney, yelled “ahoy there below!” in my best sailor’s voice, and threw the rope down the chimney.

The rope, at first slack, became taut as Sam heaved on it. I kept a watchful eye on the knot around the other chimneystack, making sure it did not start to come undone. Before too long Sam’s soot-covered face appeared out of the chimneystack. Not long after that his whole body followed and he was on the roof, panting for breath. It was like the house had given birth to a child born of fire. He was covered in ash and soot and resembled a misshapen lump of coal.

Mustering himself, and brushing his clothes with his hands, he murmured “Ta,” to me.

“My pleasure!” I said, trying not to smile too much at his predicament or his appearance.

“Laugh if you want to,” he said, noticing the smile I was trying to conceal.

“Alright,” I said, laughing.

He let out a small huff down his nostrils and his stomach bounced slightly. This was his “laugh” and it was a delight to see.

“What happened to ya?” he asked.

“Not much. My Aunt told me off a bit and that was that,” I replied.

He eyeballed me for the briefest of moments. He obviously knew it to be a lie, but he nodded as if I had told the absolute truth. I was grateful for that.

“What about you?” I said, rapidly changing the subject. “What were you doing down there?”

“I climbed in alright. Dunno how I managed to get stuck on the way out.”

“Gravity on the way down,” I said.

“Yeah. Guess so. I went in to see if I could find the diamonds.”

“The diamonds? But they were stolen!” I said, surprised.

“Out of a room what was locked with five big locks? Out of a room what’s got bars on all the winders?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, if they weren’t stolen, then what?” I asked.

“ ’E stashed ’em away somewhere, so he could get the insurance money,” came his reply. “ ‘E’s runnin’ out o’dosh, ’e’s got nuffink left, so ’e decides to ’ide the jewels somewhere, stage a break-in, cosh ’imself over the ‘ead, knowin’ that Burdon’ll be comin’ by in time to stop ‘im actually dyin’. Then ’e can claim the insurance. ”

This is the thing about Sam - he thinks of the most devious plots imaginable. That’s what comes of living by your wits on the streets I expect. The thought that Eugene Deverill might have done this to himself had never even occurred to me.

“My Goodness!” I exclaimed, adding excitedly, “So did you find the diamonds?”

Sam shook his head. “They ain’t there,” he sighed.

“So he didn’t do it to himself then?” I said after a disappointed pause.

“ ’Ow else could it have been done ? That’s the problem innit? No-one could’ve got in or out.” said Sam.

“But why make it look impossible? If he was going to steal his own diamonds he would have opened the door surely? To make it look like someone had broken in and attacked him?” I reasoned.

“S’pose,” admitted Sam.

“But Sam,” I said, feeling a thrill, “you just got in and out via the chimney! That must be how it was done! I was right! It’s Hettie Deverill’s son - the chimneysweep!”

“It’s possible..” he grunted, shooting my excitement down in flames.

An awkward silence fell between us.

Sam broke it. “So, what now?”

“You’re asking me? For advice?” I said, bewildered.

“Yep.”

“So does that mean….?” I ventured.

“We’re a team,” said Sam, finishing my thought.

I could have hugged him. Naturally I did not, as I did not want to make him feel embarrassed. I also did not wish to show just how grateful I was and become the eager puppy dog I had been this morning when I had practically begged to join his gang. We were working together again, on a brand new case! Inside my head I yelped a hearty “Hurrah!”

“Good-o,” was all I actually said our loud though, concealing my inner joy at being on the trail with Sam once more.

“Being a team means we do everyfing togevver,” Sam stated.

“Of course.”

“Where one of us goes the uvver one goes too.”

“Naturally,” I said, feeling I was being allowed into some sort of secret society and that I was taking the society’s most secret oath.

“No goin’ off on your own. No doin’ nuffink what the uvver one don’t know nuffink about.”

“I would not dream of it,” I said, ignoring all the double-negatives and placing my hand on my heart to make the whole thing a little less serious.

Sam glanced at my hand and did his faintest half-smile. That was two laughs/snorts/smiles in one day! Something of a record in my time with him.

“If one of us does somefink alone, then it’s over,” he added, getting all serious again. “We ain’t a team no more. We part ways.”

“Agreed!” I exclaimed.

I reached out my hand and he took it, giving it a firm shake.

“So? What now?” he asked, his hand coming back to rest by his side.

I thought for several moments. My first instinct was to go and talk to Hettie Deverill, to accuse her and her son of a murderous attack. I did not think Sam would go for this idea and, chewing it over, I realised I had absolutely no evidence (other than the letter and that did not really mean much on its own). Then a thought came to me. Several hours had passed. Perhaps Mr Deverill’s memory had returned? Perhaps he would be able to give us something more solid to go on? Perhaps he had remembered who attacked him?

I relayed all these ideas to Sam who agreed with me. Sam also said we should talk to Mr Deverill in case the “old codger was play-actin’ the memory fing’. I knew what he meant and we both agreed that speaking to Mr Deverill was to be the first step of our enquiry.

Sadly, this first step meant us having to think up a sneaky plan to achieve the following things:

1) We had to walk into a hospital room (where Mr Deverill had doubtless been taken) that we had no earthly right to be in.

2) We would have to get past the police guard that Inspector Wakefield was certain to have placed on the door of the hospital (in case the murderer tried to get in and kill Mr Deverill properly).

3) We had to talk to Mr Deverill and get as much information out of him as possible, even though he was laid in a hospital bed and concussed.

and

4) (Most importantly) We had to not get caught.

Luckily, thinking up sneaky plans to outwit grown-ups was something I was rather good at.