The Adventure of the Deverill Diamonds

I burst in through the front door and saw P.C. Burdon standing at the top of the first flight of stairs, pounding on the door to Mr Deverill’s room with his right fist and shouting, his truncheon swinging from his belt like a demented pendulum as he rapped on the door with terrific force.

“Mr Deverill! Open up! Mrs Gritton! Miss Esther! Come and ’elp!”

I ran up the stairs as quickly as I could.

“What is it, Mr Burdon?” I asked, still trying to get my breath.

He did a double-take on seeing me coming from the stairs below, rather than the stairs above (where he naturally expected me to come from). He was a very thin man in his early thirties, with a pinched nose, sallow cheeks and hollowed out eyes. Those sunken eyes looked even more sunken than normal in fear of what might be going on behind Mr Deverill’s door and his brow was dripping with sweat.

“It’s Mr Deverill, miss. It’s my weekly visit so he should know I’m comin’! He won’t answer the flamin’ door!” he said, panic in his voice.

He rapped again on the door with his right fist, his left arm hanging down by his side.

“Is he in?” I asked. “Let me try the handle!”

I walked forwards, my hand outstretched, ready to try the door handle. Mr Burdon stopped me in my tracks, holding up his right hand.

“No, miss! It’s no use. I’ve tried it. It’s locked. All five locks.” he remonstrated. You will remember I told you that Mr Deverill was a miser. The only thing he ever spent money on was locks. The door seemingly had five, according to Mr Burdon. All the windows were barred. There was no way in or out of the room, other than through that securely locked door.

“I’ll have to smash it open,” stated Mr Burdon. “Step back, miss.”

I did as he asked. Mr Burdon took two large steps backwards, aimed his shoulder at the door, went into a lunge then ran with all his might at the door. Police officers are a rare breed in my experience with a great knowledge and experience of breaking down doors, and much more strength than you would have credited them with on first appearance. The door give way with a crack as he charged into it.

I ran into Mr Deverill’s rooms, past Mr Burdon who, poor soul, was nursing his left arm in the doorway. He was holding it very straight and he had obviously done himself a mischief in breaking down the locked door.

“Bravo Mr Burdon! Are you alright?” I enquired.

“Hurt me arm, young miss. That’s all,” came his reply through gritted teeth. I was worried the arm was broken. He had really charged pell-mell at the door and his left hand was clenched tight into a painful looking fist.

“Can you bend it, Mr Burdon? Let me see,” I said, approaching him gingerly.

“No!” he said with sudden force (evidently in great pain and desperate for no-one to touch him and make matters worse), adding in a gentler tone, “Thank you. I’ll be quite alright, miss.” I doubted this, as his arm was surely broken but, knowing the police officer’s tendency to show toughness in the face of trouble, I let it pass.

Moving my attention away from Mr Burdon I looked around the room. Having often wondered what lay behind the door of Mr Deverill’s rooms, I must say I had never imagined anything quite like the sight that greeted my eyes. Cobwebs hung from every corner, as spiders scurried down onto the floor or onto one of several chairs scattered around the room. The chairs and Mr Deverill’s desk were obviously from a bygone age with brown, faded upholstery that was frayed and tattered, and wood that had not seen polish since the end of the Napoleonic Wars. The room reminded me of Pip’s first glimpse of Satis House (where Miss Havisham lives). It was like a room frozen in time. The windows were barred, with thick, stained curtains blocking out almost all natural daylight. A mantelpiece in the corner of the room held a fireplace that had not felt the warmth of a fire for quite some time. That this was the room of a man who was wealthy was unbelievable to me.

I looked around and saw a small table with a spirit stove resting on it. Beside the table, a pile of food sat, meats and vegetables. This was evidently his food store and he cooked his own meals on this small stove. There was an open door which led to a small bathroom. His life was completely self-sufficient. He depended on no-one else for anything and, other than fleeting visits to the grocer or the butcher he lived the life of a pearl inside a shell. Rich, but with no exterior show of wealth. My eyes scanned around this room, trying to take in every small detail like a real detective would. And then, I saw it.

Mr Deverill’s “crack-proof” safe. It was in the opposite corner of the room from the fireplace and it was wide open. Not only was it wide open, but it was empty. Without taking my eyes off the safe I cried :

“Look, Mr Burdon. The safe! His diamonds!”

There was a short silence. Then Mr Burdon broke it in an ominous voice that sent a shiver down my spine.

“There’s worse than that, miss…”

I turned around, alarmed by his tone. He was holding up an empty jewellery case in his right hand which had evidently once contained the diamonds. This he must have picked up from the desk. But it was not the jewellery case that he had made his voice alter. He was looking at the space behind the desk in horror. I slowly walked over to where he stood, terrified, yet quietly exhilarated, by what I might see.

It only took a few steps to see what Mr Burdon was staring at with those wild, hollowed eyes. The form of Eugene Deverill lay face-down on the floor behind the desk, blood streaming from several wounds on the back of his head and forming a dark pool beside him. It was a gruesome sight. He had evidently been sitting at his desk and had been attacked from behind. I knelt down beside his body, wanting to check for signs of life, but too afraid to touch him.

“Is he dead, Mr Burdon?” I asked, a tremble in my voice.

“Yes, miss. I’m afraid ’e is,” he replied. Then “Quick miss! Run and get ’elp!”

“But Mr Burdon,” I said, standing up quickly at his command, “how did it happen? The windows are all still barred! The door was locked with five locks!”

“Never mind that now! Run miss! Run and get ’elp!” His tone was urgent and I ran for the door as quickly as I could. Jumping down the stairs two at a time, I raced through the front door, which I had left open. I would find a constable out on the street to come to our aid. Or I would hunt for Inspector Wakefield!

The problem was, of course, that this was Mr Burdon’s beat and so no other policeman was to be found, try as I might. I ran around in circles, looking down every street, every alley, into every nook, every shop window and found no-one. After five minutes of trying in vain I ran back to the house ready to tell Mr Burdon about my lack of success. I hared around the corner leading into my road in a blur, exhausted from all the running I had done already that day. Looking sideways down an alley as I did so I did not see the person standing completely in my way, looking up at my house, I ran straight into them at speed and both of us ended up in a bewildered heap on the road.

“I am so sorry,” I said as soon as I had recovered my breath. I clambered up to my feet so that I could assist the poor soul I had knocked to the floor.

“’S’alright,” said the ‘poor soul’. As soon as I heard the first syllable I knew exactly who it was - Sam Wiggins. He got to his feet, readjusting his cloth cap over his tousled blonde hair, pulling his waistcoat straight and fixing me square in my hazel eyes with his bright blue ones.

“What on Earth are you doing here?” I asked, in something of a fluster.

“Come to find ya,” was his brief reply.

“Why?” I asked, somewhat taken aback.

He looked down at his shoes and shrugged his shoulders. You will remember I told you that Sam was emotionally awkward. These simple gestures, this look and shrug was his way of saying “I felt bad about what I said to you. I felt guilty about mistreating you with my friends and I came to apologise and see if we could still be friends.” I knew him well enough to know that. He would not have come from Soho to my house for any other reason. Naturally, I felt no inclination to let him off so easily.

“Not playing “kick the stone” anymore then?” I asked, sarcastically.

“I didn’t play it anyway. They carried on. I come to find you even though they took the mick. But you wasn’t ’ere,” he said, each small sentence punctuated by pauses.

This was as guilty as I had ever heard him sound. It was as close to an apology I thought as I was ever likely to get. It was still not quite enough to stop me from feeling hurt, but this, I decided, could wait. For now, there was a mystery to solve and here I was wasting time on my own feelings.

“Something’s happened, Sam,” I said, suddenly changing the subject.

“Oh,” he said, looking up, slightly relieved that his interrogation was possibly over, “what?”

“Something impossible…” I said, laying great stress on the last word.

“You what?”

“Come inside!” I said, grabbing his hand and yanking him in through the front door.

I ran up the stairs, still holding Sam, who stumbled up behind me. As I reached the top of the stairs my attention went to the tiny window opposite the entrance to Mr Deverill’s room. I had not noticed before, such was my hurry to help Mr Burdon, but this little window was not quite shut. The handle that closed it was hanging loose. My first thought (a stupid one) was that this was the way the assassin had come and gone. For a moment I was excited by the thought that I had noticed the one tiny detail that would crack the case. And then the reality hit me. 1) The window was so small that, unless the killer was the size of a malnourised kitten, they could not have climbed in that way and 2) the window was outside the door that Mr Burdon had had to break down to gain entrance to Mr Deverill’s room. What a dolt I was! Pushing the window from my mind I pulled Sam into Mr Deverill’s room where Mr Burdon stood in front of one of the barred windows, evidently examining its security. He looked up as Sam and I fell into the room.

“Who the ’eck is this?” asked Burdon, perplexed.

“This is.. my help,” I replied, slightly awkwardly.

“I meant a policeman! Or a doctor! Blimey! I’ll go and fetch one! You stay ’ere!” he shouted, exasperated by my stupidity. I felt pretty embarrassed I don’t mind saying.

He ran out of the door at great speed. A second later, he thrust his head back around the door frame, his left hand pushing against the open door.

“Don’t touch ANYTHING!” And with that, he was gone.

Sam looked at me, his expression completely confused.

“His arm is better,” I said, almost to myself.

“You what?”

“P.C. Burdon hurt his arm breaking the door down. I was worried it was broken. But he is using it again, thank goodness!”

“Right.” A pause. “Esther?”

“Yes?”

“What the ‘ell is goin’ on?”

And so I told him the full facts of what I excitedly called ‘the case’. Together we looked behind the desk at the body of Eugene Deverill. Sam, of course, took it in his stride (or appeared to), as if the battered head of a dead man was a daily occurrence in his life. I told him of how I had chanced upon Mr Burdon, the breaking down of the door, the bars on all the windows, the sheer impossibility of the situation. He nodded at each fresh revelation, chewing his inside cheek occasionally and furrowing his brow.

“Five locks, Sam!” I said, pointing over to them.

“Mmmmm,” he murmured, wandering over to the door frame. He touched the broken locks in turn, splintered wood jutting out from each. The door had been solidly locked. There was no question of that. He stared at them in silence for several seconds.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

Not answering he replied “What about the winders?”

“All barred.”

“Bog?”

“Bog?” I repeated, confused.

“Lavatory,” he said in a mock upper-class voice.

“I don’t know.”

Sam walked over to the bathroom, went inside it and knocked on all the walls, lifted the toilet seat looking down inside it, kicked the bath, all to no avail. Meanwhile, I had gone over to Mr Deverill’s desk to look at the papers on there. Perhaps they might give us some idea of who he had been meeting or dealing with on the rare occasions he left the house. Within seconds I found something that thrilled me! I expect it will thrill you too! (Or at least pique your interest a smidge!)

“Sam! Look! A letter,” I said, holding up a sheet of paper, “from Hettie Deverill. That’s his niece! She works in the music halls. I see her from my window when she comes to visit. She always wears a black cape with a hood.”

Sam came out of the bathroom and walked over to me. For a moment (and like a fool) I completely forgot myself for a moment and offered the letter to Sam for him to read. He did not move to take it and it was then, too late, that I realised my mistake.

“Sorry, Sam,” I said, feebly. Trying to move on without embarrassing Sam more than I had done already I began to read the letter aloud :

“My dear Uncle,

My situation has reached a crisis as I sink into more and more debt. You are the only relation I have left that I can rely on and have more money than you need to get by. PLEASE for the sake of your dear niece and her son reply with the promise of an advance of my inheritance.

Things are so bad that I’ve had to send my poor young James into the chimney-sweeping business, just to make ends meet.

If you do not send me money soon our situation will get worse and I will have to take serious action.

Your niece,

Hettie Deverill”

That was it! The chimney! That was how the murderer came and went! It was this boy - James Deverill! I said as much to Sam. He grunted.

I ran over to the chimney and looked up it, talking all the while.

“That must be how it was done, Sam! Someone came and left through the chimney, taking the diamonds with them! This Hettie Deverill is in debt, the uncle refuses to help, she decides to take matters into her own hands - “serious action” she says in the letter! She gets her son, James, to climb down the chimney, cosh the uncle on the head and steal the diamonds! What do you think, Sam ? …. Sam?”

I pulled my head back out of the fireplace and looked behind me. Sam had vanished. I was completely bewildered. Where on Earth could he have gone? Was this another astonishing disappearing trick? Had Sam figured out the mystery of the disappearing killer already and gone where they had?

Suddenly Sam’s head appeared around the door frame.

“I’m out ’ere.”

“Oh..” I said, feeling a complete ninny for working myself up.

His head disappeared again. I left the room to find him staring at the tiny window I had noticed on my way up the stairs, the window opposite the entrance to Mr Deverill’s room. Sam was on tiptoes, holding the window open with the handle and staring down into the river below.

“Well?” I enquired.

“No way up there,” he said, pulling his head back in.

“What are you talking about? The door was locked! What’s the point in looking out of this window?” What a hypocrite I was! Racing up the stairs my thoughts had gone exactly the same way as Sam’s.

“There’s a way down tho’,” he said, uninterested in my outburst.

“Yes,” I said, a sarcastic drawl in my voice. “Doubtless, after the assassin had got themselves through one of the keyholes, they were just the right size to squeeze through the window and jump into the river below. Except they couldn’t,” I went on letting my pent-up anger from this morning’s encounter get the better of me, “because they’d break their legs as on this side of the building the river is shallow. On my bedroom window’s side it is deep. Can you please focus ? There is a man lying in there who is DEAD!”

Sam, totally non-plussed, met my angry gaze. I was ready to continue now, my blood was up and I was going to tell him everything he had done to upset and annoy me. He was going to stand there and take the full bent of my rage.

Except he wasn’t, because at that moment a groan came from inside Mr Deverill’s room. Both of our expressions changed to disbelief, our eyebrows rising.

“He’s not dead!” I yelped. “Oh my giddy goodnight!”

We ran back into the room as fast as we could, pelting over to the desk. We arrived to see Eugene Deverill sitting up very slowly, holding his head. His half-moon spectacles lay by his side, bent out of shape, his African hat at an almost comical (if it hadn’t been so gruesome) angle. Blood still poured from the wound and started running down onto his shabby clothes as he sat up. He looked frail and weak, his skeletal features more fragile now than frightening.

“Wha…what happened…?” he mumbled in a groggy voice.

“You were attacked, sir,” I said, holding his arm to steady him as he swayed slightly.

“You got coshed on the ’ead, in fact,” added Sam.

“Did I…?” he asked, a look of utter confusion on his face.

“Yes, Mr Deverill,” I responded in my best, caring, bedside voice.

He looked into my face for the first time, trying to understand, trying to piece together something in his mind. I slipped my arm around his back, scared he would fall unconscious again and hurt his head in his plummet to the floor.

“Who?” he asked eventually after a moment’s confusion.

Now it was my turn to be confused. “Who what, sir?” I asked, unsure what he meant.

“Who is Mr Deverill?” he asked woozily. It was like someone who was the worse for wear for drink - like Mrs Gamp in Martin Chuzzlewit in fact.

“It’s you,” stated Sam, less puzzled by it all than I was. Or possibly just less patient.

Mr Deverill seemed to take this in for a moment, then his eyes went lifeless as all remembrances and logical thoughts left him again.

“Where am I…?” he croaked.

“This is your house, sir,” I answered. “Do you not remember what happened to you?”

“I don’t…. I can’t….” he burbled. And then his voice trailed away to nothing, his eyes once again vacant, his expression motionless.

I gazed up at Sam, uncertain what to do for the best. Should we press him for more information? Ask him more questions? Was he in shock? Is that why his memory was failing him? Was it best to leave him to come around himself in the hope that his memory would recover?

I was about to say all this to Sam when P.C. Burdon and Inspector Wakefield ran into the room, both out of breath. They ground to a halt almost in perfect synchronisation, their mouthes wide open at Mr Deverill sitting upright, whilst I supported him with my arm.

“You’re alive!” exclaimed Mr Burdon, disbelief written all over his face.

“You said he was dead, Burdon!” remonstrated Inspector Wakefield.

“Oh my Gawd…” was all that P.C. Burdon could say, looking very pale as the realisation that he had called his superior officer over town, and away from keeping tabs on Eddie Holloway and the Red Razor gang for a simple assault, sunk in.

“He can’t remember anything, Mr Burdon,” I told them both.

“Not his name or nuffink,” added Sam.

“I thought ’e was dead, sir,” said Burdon, a tremble in his voice.

“Well, he patently isn’t!” barked Wakefield. “And what are these children doing here?”

I could tell, and so could he, that Mr Burdon was in trouble. He had run away from a crime scene leaving two children to roam free, possibly disturbing evidence, dragged his superior officer across town to assist with a murder only to arrive to find the corpse was alive. I toyed with the idea of telling the Inspector that my father was Chief Constable Morstan-Eyre and that Sam and I were very able detectives but, judging from the red in his cheeks and the fury in his nostrils, the Inspector did not seem to be in the mood to hear such things. His handlebar moustache was quivering slightly as if about to leap from his upper lip in a bid to fly across the room and strangle us both.

Sam, being Sam, evidently thought this was the moment to try his luck. He walked forwards, holding out his hand to Wakefield as if they were just casually meeting at a house party, saying “Sam Wiggins, sir. Nice to meet ya.”

Wakefield did not take his hand. Through gritted teeth he hissed “Get rid of them, Burdon.”

P.C. Burdon, still shaken and bewildered, snapped himself out his thoughts, lunging for Sam, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him over to the doorway. I cried out to stop him.

“Blimey ! You was right, Esther! His arm is better!” said Sam as he was thrown out of the door. I ran after him, not wanting P.C. Burdon to do the same to me.

“You need to read the letter,” I threw backwards at Wakefield as I joined Sam on the small landing outside Deverill’s room. We stood there, looking back into the room, our eyes on Mr Deverill as Mr Burdon closed the door in our faces. He wedged the door with something to stop it re-opening and he and Wakefield began to talk. All we could hear was muffled conversation and occasional groans from Mr Deverill.

I turned to Sam, more excited than I had been for quite some time. “We have a case, Sam! Attempted murder and robbery! And an impossible locked room mystery!”

Sam, frustratingly, merely nodded, saying “ ’Is shoes were odd.”

“Mr Deverill’s?” I asked, bewildered by this sudden change of subject and Sam’s inability to share my excitement.

“They’d been resoled. More ’an once an’ all.”

“I didn’t notice,” I said, thrown by Sam’s introduction of a completely irrelevant piece of information. I mean, what had Mr Deverill’s shoes got to do with anything? I was just about to ask more questions, to talk to Sam about the case in depth, to begin our trail to find our culprit when I heard a shrill voice that could only belong to one person.

“Esther! What are you doing out of your room!”

We turned our heads in perfect unison to see a furious face glowering at us. The glower and the face were both Aunt Cordelia’s, back early from shopping. She was snorting down her nostrils in outrage. I knew I was in for much more than the whack this time.