The Adventure of the Deverill Diamonds

The man blocking my exit from the hospital room was over six feet tall, with a wide, almost square face. He was muscular and well-built, so much so that his body took up almost the entire doorframe. He had a slightly bent nose, under which sat a scruffily-waxed moustache. He wore a sailor’s uniform, a dark blue tunic, with a striped neck-scarf and a seaman’s cap, on which the word ’AURORA’ was written in faded gold. He had pale, grey, soulless eyes, which stared at me with menace in them.

Having screamed in fright at his sudden appearance in the doorway I tried to get a hold of myself. It was not easy with those pale eyes boring into me but eventually I managed to speak.

“Hello, sir..”

“Where’s the copper?” asked the man, his voice deep and stern.

“Sorry?”

“The copper. They told me there was a copper on the door.” His eyes opened even more as he looked at me and he gave me the impression that if I did not give him a good enough answer he might do me a mischief.

“He went, um, chasing after a thief,” I stammered.

“Thief?!” he suddenly shouted, looking around him frantically.

“Um.. yes. He stole my bag. A filthy street urchin!”

The sailor turned his square face back to mine very slowly and, once again, those grey eyes glowered into mine, waiting for answers.

After what felt like an eternity he whispered in the most threatening way :

“And just who might you be?”

I opened my mouth to speak, unsure of what I would say, when a feeble voice came from behind me.

“She’s Agnes…. My Granddaughter….”

I spun my head round to see Mr Deverill reaching up his hand from where he lay as if to try and calm the situation. Thank goodness for him I thought. He was trying to help me, albeit by repeating the terrible lie I had made him believe. It might calm the sailor down if he realised that I was part of the family I thought, so I carried the lie on.

“Yes,” I said, turning my head back around to face the hostile sailor and trying to smile, “that’s right. I’m Agnes. Mr Deverill’s Granddaughter.” I held my hand out to him, hoping he would believe the lie and shake it.

The sailor looked down at my hand in contempt, then slowly stepped into the room (checking down the corridor one last time as he did) and shut the door firmly behind him. The moment the door was shut, without any warning, he lunged at me, grabbing me by the hair and dragged me over to the window. The pain in my head was almost unbearable as my hair felt like it was being torn out from the roots. I screamed in agony. This made Mr Deverill scream too, in his hoarse rasp.

“Shut it, Uncle!” shouted the sailor at Mr Deverill. “I said ‘SHUT IT!’”

The sailor pointed a threatening finger at Mr Deverill with his spare hand and Mr Deverill immediately fell silent.

“Another squeak outta you and it’s curtains!” he said pointedly. He then turned his attention to me.

“Now then, Agnes, we got a problem! Stop whining! Stop or I’ll make you stop!” he said, twisting my hair even more.

I bit into my lip to make sure I did not make any more noise, even though every fibre I had in my body wanted to yell out in pain and shock.

“Now then Agnes, like I said, we got a problem. You see, you reckon you’re his Granddaughter. Only trouble is, I’m his nephew see? And I know he ain’t got a Granddaughter! So who are ya? Who sent ya? Was it Eddie?”

“Eddie…? I don’t know any Eddie…” I whimpered, my voice a whole octave higher than normal.

“Don’t play games with me! Who sent ya?”

“No-one sent me!”

“You lie to me, girly, and I’ll cut your pretty neck! WHO SENT YA?”

Suddenly he had one arm around my throat and he had pulled out a wooden-handled knife, which he held out in the other hand for me to see.

“Cough up, Agnes ! Who are ya? I mean it! You’re in the right place for a throat-cuttin’! Not far to go to get ya to the MORGUE! Was it Eddie? If it was you can tell ’im I got the goods!”

He brought the knife to my throat, digging its blade slightly into my flesh to let me know he meant business. I was so terrified that I could not speak or think straight.

At that moment, the door swung open suddenly again and there, before both of us, was the Grim Reaper himself! A black cloak reaching all the way to the ground, a dark hood hiding the face beneath. All that was missing was Death’s scythe. I knew that Death had come for my soul - to take me to Hell for lying to the nun! Death’s hands reached up to his hood to pull it down and reveal the hideous face beneath… This was the end for me!

In a flash the hood was pulled down and it revealed… the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. She had chestnut brown hair that fell in waves down to her chest. She had an elegant, Roman nose which led down to a small, perfectly-formed mouth. Her chin had the tiniest of dimples in it and her cheekbones were high and strong. Her eyes were, I noticed, almost exactly the same shade of pale grey that the sailor had. In his head they were frightening and cold, in hers they were like two precious diamonds that glimmered with warmth and compassion. I had seen her before, I realised, kicking myself for being such a fool and thinking she was Death! I really was a prize chump sometimes! I had seen her from my window and always with her hood up, obscuring half of her attractive face. It was Hettie Deverill - the victim’s niece.

“Let go of her, Leland,” she said, in a soft, musical voice. “I mean it. Let go of her.”

The sailor thought for a moment, then loosened his grip and moved the knife slowly away from my neck. I fought my way free of him and ran towards Hettie Deverill.

“She was ’ere when I got ’ere, Het!” complained the sailor. “I thought she was up to no good!”

“My goodness!” she said to me, taking me by the hands. “It’s… Esther, isn’t it? My uncle’s neighbour?”

“Yes, Miss Deverill,” I croaked, my voice returning to me, becoming more sure that my brush with death was over.

“Yes. I’ve seen you in the window when I have come over from Hampstead to see him. He has told me about your family.”

“Yes, miss.”

“What on Earth are you doing here, Esther?” she asked, kindly.

“I was worried about Mr Deverill. I heard he had been attacked and came to check on him,” I said. Though Hettie Deverill’s beautiful eyes made me want to tell her everything, something inside me made me keep some things back - the fact that it was I who had discovered his body with Mr Burdon for one. That I was on the track of his would-be killer for another.

“Oh, bless you, Esther!” she said, pulling me towards her into a warm, loving embrace. I had not been held like that since my adopted mother had died and the memories of her warmth and her love swept over me as well as relief, so much so that a tiny spring of tears welled up in my eyes.

“You see, Leland ?” said the divine Hettie, in a telling-off-a-child sort of voice as she held me, “Esther means no harm to Uncle. She is here to see if he is quite alright.”

“If ya say so, Het,” Leland Deverill said, in a more childish tone. He was obviously the younger of the two and always gave in to his older sister.

“The thing is Esther,” continued the beautiful Hettie, fixing me with those dusky eyes, “Grandfather is only meant to be visited by family - like Leland and myself. That is why Leland attacked you, you see? He was worried you meant Grandfather harm, weren’t you Leland?”

“Yeah. That’s right. Sorry, girl.” He tucked his knife back into his belt and pulled his tunic over it.

I nodded at Hettie to show that I believed this story (although, in truth, I did not).

“The policeman on the door has obviously been taken ill or called away,” she said.

I nodded again, unwilling to tell her the truth about Sam’s decoying the policeman away.

“But you really should not be in here just now. I am so grateful that you came to see Grandfather, to enquire into his health, and I promise I will let you know if anything changes. Would that be alright, Esther?”

“Yes,” I said, a frog in my throat. Frankly, I would have said ‘yes’ to anything Hettie Deverill said, so perfect was her voice and so soothing her tone.

She put her arm around me and led me to the door, showing me through it.

“Thank you again, Esther.” Without a moment’s pause she leaned forwards and kissed me lightly on the forehead.

I managed to look one last time on the silent form of Eugene Deverill, his boney mouth tight shut in fear, and back to the hypnotic grey eyes of Hettie Deverill before the door was shut gently in my face.

I stood there stunned for a moment, before walking away down the corridor.

As I walked I could hear the voices of Leland and Hettie Deverill, raised in some sort of argument. Had I been a better detective I would have returned and put my ear to the door. As it was, I was shaken, my scalp still hurt from Leland pulling my hair and I wanted to leave the building as quickly as possible and find Sam.

It was only when I left the hospital that several questions popped into my head. 1) If Leland Deverill had attacked me because he loved his Grandfather so much then why had he said to him “Another squeak out of you and it’s curtains!”? 2) Why had Leland been so convinced that someone called “Eddie” had sent me? and 3) Who on Earth was Eddie?

I roamed the streets trying in vain to find Sam. I visited his usual haunts. I even made it all the way to Beak Street, where a frustrating conversation with Noah Cartwright ended with him announcing “I ain’t seen ’im and, if I ’ad, I wouldn’t tell you!” Sam had obviously gone to great lengths to rid us of the policeman. He was, I knew, far too smart to have been caught and was doubtless leading the policeman a merry dance somewhere. I would find him in the morning in Beak Street once more and we would set off on the next stage of our adventure, whatever that might be.

The skies were darkening as I made my way out of Beak Street. The air was getting colder and my thin dress was no comfort at all. My feet were slowly becoming like blocks of ice. My head was still sore and my legs ached with fatigue. I had absolutely no idea where I would stay that night, but I knew for certain that, no matter how cold or hungry I was, I was not going back to St. John’s Wood and Aunt Cordelia.

I was passing a run-down pawn shop (where people go to raise money by selling or leaving their valuables for a while) at the end of the road when a man left the shop at speed and bumped straight into me.

“So sorry!” he said, then “Esther!”

I looked up and saw - Police Constable Ned Burdon! Those hollowed eyes looked even more hollow than before. He honestly looked like he had not slept for a week!

“Mr Burdon!”

“What in blazes are you doin’ down this neck o’ the woods, Esther?”

“I was.. I was looking for a friend.”

I hung my head down. A brief pause followed and then Mr Burdon’s finger gently lifted my chin again as my teeth chattered from cold.

“Well, Esther, I should say that you’ve found one, wouldn’t you?”

Fifteen minutes later I found myself in front of a small, but welcome fire inside Mr Burdon’s parlour. We were sat in two sturdy wooden chairs, either side of the fireplace. A small kettle swung over the fireplace, a small wooden clock ticked on top of the mantlepiece and a table sat in the corner of the room, covered in a variety of knick-knacks. It was a humble house, but much more a home than any place I had known before. I stretched my legs out in front of me, onto the shabby hearth rug, warming my feet and eating some bread and butter that Mr Burdon had given me.

“Good?” he asked me.

“Very,” I said through a mouthful of bread.

He nodded, content. A silence fell between us and then his softened voice asked :

“Esther ?”

“Yes, Mr Burdon?”

“Please. Call me Ned.”

“Yes, Ned?”

“What were you doin’ in Beak Street, Esther ? And what the ’eck’s ’appened to ya?”

I stopped eating.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, to be frank….you look like you’ve been dragged through an ’edge backwards.”

I laughed down my nose.

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“So, what’s the reason?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“You’ve met my Aunt, Ned.”

“Indeed I ’ave.”

“Well, we shall just say she is not all she appears. She can be… cruel. We had an argument and I just ended up wandering the streets.” I knew that, if I told him the truth, he would discourage me from getting involved in a criminal investigation so I told a white lie. Thankfully, he believed me.

“I see,” he said after a pause, seeming to understand that I wanted to say no more.

“How is your investigation going?” I asked, swiftly changing the subject.

“Badly. Inspector Wakefield gave me a mouthful for lettin’ you into the crime scene. We read the letter like you said but it seemed fairly harmless. Just a plea for money. Lots of rich blokes get ’em from their poor relations.”

“Yes, I am sure you are right,” I said. Having met Hettie Deverill I was now convinced that she could not possibly be the culprit. She was too pure, too kind, too utterly, utterly perfect.

“Deverill’s got a nephew tho’. Did you know?”

“No,” I lied. “Really?” I added, trying to sound just the right level of interested, as if I had not just had my life threatened by Deverill’s nephew.

“Leland’s his name. Right nasty piece o’ work. A sailor on the Aurora. Hasn’t been in port for a coupla years. Back now tho’ for a short shore leave. Could easily have done it.”

“Oh?”

“Sailor in’t ’e? Good at climbing up ropes, swarming up masts. No-one coulda done it but an acrobat or a sailor! Trust me, if anyone could have got in that ‘ouse without goin’ in the front door, it’s ’im!”

“Yes, of course,” I said, thinking it all through in my mind. Of course! Leland Deverill was a sailor! Used to climbing - agile and strong. Just right for scaling the walls and rooftops. The only problem I saw with this solution was that Leland Deverill was far too wide to have fitted down the chimney. I did not mention this to Mr Burdon however. He seemed pleased with his theory and, as he had taken pity on me and started a fire to warm me, I did not feel like shattering his explanation. Also, if I had done, I would have had to explain how I knew the width of Leland Deverill’s torso and that was a story I did not wish to tell.

“What did you think of Mr Deverill?” I asked, changing the subject.

He thought for a moment before he responded.

“ ’E was a rum cove. An odd beggar. Every week, regular as clockwork, I ’ad to turn up at ’is ’ouse. I’d knock on the door and announce myself. Every week ’e’d give me a new password - this week’s was ‘swordfish’. He’d unlock all the locks on the door and I’d go in the rooms (which were always in a state), ’e’d walk over to ‘is safe, makin’ me turn me back while he opened it, then ’e’d walk over to the desk with the jewellery, open up the case and I ’ad to count the diamonds and verify they was all there.”

“But how could he get you to do it every week?”

“’E’d paid someone off. High up. Top brass. The Inspector said it was part of me duties.”

I nodded sympathetically.

“How many diamonds were there?”

“Fifteen in all. Rough. Not polished diamonds. Just the way they was when ’e’d dug ’em up. But they was beautiful. And worth a King’s ransom.”

“How much were they worth?”

“It’s ’ard to say. About £100,000 all told.”

My jaw dropped. A hundred thousand pounds!

“And yet, the old man never sold none of ‘em. Lived in squalor. Gave nothin’ to ’is relations. That’s what I mean by ‘rum’. Odd. A mystery. Tight-fisted and unpleasant. Never said ‘thank you’ to me, neither. Just expected me to do it out of kindness.” His voice sounded a little bitter at this last statement.

“Which you did,” I added.

“Yep. Which I did,” he said, his mood lifting again.

A silence fell between us. He looked around the room for a moment, clearly thinking of what to say to me next. Eventually he arrived at a subject he thought fit for discussion and his eyes met mine once more.

“So, Esther…” he began. But, just as he did, a wail came from the next room. It was a woman’s voice and she sounded terrible. I jumped in my seat, shocked by the noise.

Mr Burdon half-smiled at me and held up a hand to say ‘don’t worry’.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his cheeks reddening. He stood, clearly embarrassed, then left the parlour closing the door behind him with a “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

I was naturally curious as to where the wail had come from, but Ned Burdon had looked after me and I laid aside my detective’s instincts once more. Instead I looked around the parlour awaiting his return.

My eyes fell first on several pictures framed on the wall - of Ned’s parents in old age I assumed. From there to the corner of the room where a coat stand held a bevy of coats ; from a police jacket to a long black, hooded cloak to a raggedy fur coat. I passed on to the fire, which mesmerised me for several seconds, as glowing embers sparked and flickered in the grate.

I looked from the fire to the clock, to a small photograph of a younger Ned with a woman, to the table on the other side of the room. My eyes then fixed on something curious.

It was a newspaper. Nothing curious there, I hear you cry! But wait dear reader! This newspaper - was pink. A pale, pastel pink newspaper. I had never seen anything like it before. I rose from my chair and wandered over to the table. I did not want to move anything too much in case Mr Burdon would think me a snoop, but I gently tugged at the newspaper until its title was revealed. The Racing Times. I would have to ask Sam exactly what it was and why on Earth it was pink!

I nudged the oddly pink newspaper back where it had been and my eyes scanned the table for more interesting objects. At the front of the table I saw a small saw, a drill, some screws and a scattering of sawdust. Mr Burdon obviously indulged his hobby for carpentry on the long evenings and had no other place to enjoy his pastime but this parlour table.

Next to the woodwork tools sat his trusty truncheon, with a slight covering of sawdust. The sight of it took me back to the morning, when it had swung like a pendulum as Mr Burdon had rapped on the door of Mr Deverill’s rooms. Had it really only been this morning? So much had happened in the meantime!

I heard his footsteps coming back towards the parlour and ran back to my chair, sitting myself down as if I had not moved.

He entered the parlour looking worn down with cares. I smiled up at him. He walked over to his chair and slumped down into it, looking sadder than I had ever seen him.

“You’ll be wondering what that noise was…” he said, his voice full of melancholy.

“…No.”

He let out a small laugh at my obvious fib.

“I know you better than that, Esther. You see, the truth is, my wife…”

This was obviously difficult for him to say. I kept my mouth shut and let the silence pass, letting him pluck up the courage to speak again.

“She’s a drinker, Esther. A drunk.”

“I am so sorry, Mr Burdon…” I said.

“Ned, Esther. Ned. You see, she drinks ’erself stupid all day then, at night, comes ’ome and falls into bed. From time to time she wakes up from ‘er nightmares, screamin’ or wailin’. I ’ave to go and comfort ’er. Sometimes I have to pour more drink down ‘er neck. She can’t stop it, you see ? The drinkin’. If she does, she feels twenty times worse.”

“I am so very sorry,” was all I could think of to say. Poor Mr Burdon! He lived up to his name I thought. He truly carried a terrible burden! A drunkard wife who he had to look after. No wonder his eyes were always hollowed with lack of sleep!

“This evenin’, I run out o’ money for the drink, Esther. That’s why I was down at the pawn shop. I pawned some old cufflinks. They gave me a few shillin’s for ’em. So I can go and buy ‘er some more booze, even tho’ it’s killin’ ’er…”

“Oh, Ned…” I felt awful. And I thought I had a tough life. It was nothing compared to this.

He rose from his chair with a dread in his eyes.

“I better go and buy it, Esther. She needs it.”

“Of course. I shall leave.”

“Straight ‘ome, mind! No more wanderin’. Back to your aunt and your old man.”

“Straight away.” Another lie. ‘How many lies had I told today?’ I wondered. More than my usual at any rate.

Moments later I was back out in the cold and Ned was gone. Off to ‘help’ his wife with her horrible addiction.

I walked the streets in the general direction of Beak Street. I had absolutely no intention of going home. They would not miss me anyway. They were better off without me and I without them.

The streets were more full than I had expected. But not full of street vendors and people on their way to work this time. Instead they were full of beggars, of the poor, of ladies of ill-repute, of drunks and of criminals. Mr Dickens took walks every night throughout his life through these streets, through these people. It was why he was able to write with such compassion about them. Some of the people he saw on these walks became fully-fledged characters in his novels.

I, on the other hand, had no thoughts of literary ambitions. I felt no compassion. I was freezing cold, my arms all gooseflesh and my teeth chattering in my frozen skull. After hours of pointless walking trying to find somewhere to lay my head, my legs gave way and I collapsed into an empty doorway. I sheltered myself behind its wall and curled my legs up under me.

My head was full of too many thoughts. Leland Deverill the sailor. Able to swarm up ropes, to climb up masts….I would find Sam and we would go to talk to him together tomorrow… He would not hurt me if Sam was there…. Mr Burdon thought he was the culprit and that meant Inspector Wakefield thought so too…. I thought of Ned Burdon…. I thought of his wife… imagining her face… and then her face became the face of Hettie Deverill…. the cascading brown hair, the petite mouth, the small dimple in the chin, the high cheekbones… and those eyes…. those bright, glistening grey eyes… Then the eyes became diamonds…. The Deverill Diamonds sending out light from every surface…

My eyelids drooped… Then shut… And I was asleep, dreaming that I was wrapped in a warm embrace once more…