The Adventure of the Deverill Diamonds

Aunt Cordelia was deathly pale, her eyes wide and her breath ragged. Her arms arced backwards as she tried desperately to wrench away the black band from her throat.

“HELP!” I shouted as loudly as I could to the houses around me.

The dark, hooded figure stopped, then turned to face me. The hood was pulled too far down for me to distinguish the features of my aunt’s assailant, but the strangler was certainly thin of face, I could determine that much.

Upon seeing me, the murderer dropped my aunt to the ground, releasing the grip upon her throat. She fell, writhing and grasping at her throat in the relief of oxygen hitting her lungs once more.

Without warning, the cloaked figure lunged at me. I had time to shout another loud “HELP!” into the air before the strangler was upon me, had grappled me into their arms and thrown the band around my neck, squeezing it ever tighter with those gloved hands.

I kicked and flailed with my arms but to no avail. This was it! Having avoided death at the hands of the Red Razor Gang it was finally coming to meet me. The vision I had had in the hospital was coming true. The cloaked, hooded figure of Death was upon me, crushing my windpipe, sending me to meet my long-dead parents. My eyes started to close. I could feel that the moment was nearly upon me. No way out! Nothing I could do!

“What the devil is going on here!”

I was dropped. Air flooded back into my chest and I fell to my knees on the cold hard wood of the jetty. I heard the sound of running footsteps. The murderer was getting away, but I had no strength and no inclination to give chase. I sucked three good gulps of air into my lungs before I looked around to find out whose voice had interrupted the attacker.

He was there, crouched over the supine body of Aunt Cordelia. My father - Chief Constable Ulysses Morstan-Eyre. Behind him, the fat, rosy-cheeked face of Mrs Gritton scowled in my direction.

“Cordelia! Cordelia! Are you alright?” he yelled, terror in his voice.

My aunt wheezed and spluttered, before answering, “Yes, yes… I am alright now…”

“Mrs Gritton! Fetch the police! Can I take you inside, dearest?”

Slowly, my Father helped his sister to her feet, showing her every care and tenderness he could on the way up. Mrs Gritton continued to glower with those pig-like eyes in my direction as I too rose unsteadily to my feet (No assistance for me, naturally) before she turned and lumbered off in search of a police officer.

My Father turned Aunt Cordelia towards the house. From behind she really did look like me. The pink dress, the same height and the same hair (if mine had been brushed and looked after for the last few days). They had taken several steps towards the house when, quite suddenly, Aunt Cordelia stopped them all in their tracks and turned to look at me.

“Esther..” she croaked. “She… She saved my life..”

My Father turned to face me.

“Thank you, Esther,” said my Father after a short pause. “Please, come inside with us.”

I looked at the side of the house and my stomach did a somersault. The thought of going back inside those walls filled me with horror and I knew that I would not, could not enter.

“No, thank you,” I said, my voice hoarse, “but I need to talk to you. Here will do. It’s important.”

My Father slowly nodded his assent, thrown by the certainty in my husky voice, and I took several steps towards him, rifling through all the suspects in my mind, trying to see who the cloak fitted. I knew who I thought it had been, but, just in case it wasn’t, it was worth warning them of the dangers.

“I’m afraid I have got myself into trouble. Serious trouble,” I went on, speaking becoming gradually easier as I did, “Danger. And I have put Aunt Cordelia in danger tonight. This attacker may have come here this morning to kill me.”

“Why would he want to kill you, Esther?” he enquired, not with concern, but merely with interest.

“Last night, I was captured by the Red Razor Gang.”

My Father’s jaw dropped fractionally.

“Eddie Holloway said that he would come to get me. To kill me. It might have been one of his men that he sent here, ‘Snorky’ I think he was called, to finish me off. I had told them who I was, you see? And that I was related to you.”

“Simon Hawkins,” he said, nodding, “Otherwise known as ‘Snorky’. How do you know it was him?”

“I don’t know for certain, but the attacker was thin; very thin, and Snorky was the thinnest of Holloway’s men.”

I held back my true thoughts, that the gauntness of the arms and the bone structure of the face I had glimpsed had little to do with thinness, and more to do with gender.

“Aunt Cordelia was wearing my dress, is my height and has the same colour hair that I do. In the dawn light she was mistaken for me. As soon as I arrived on the scene the attacker dropped her and turned their attentions on me. The point is, that you need to be careful. All of you. Aunt Cordelia needs to be kept safe. You all do. I’m sorry.”

“Why on earth were you taken by the Red Razor Gang, Esther?”

“It’s a long story and not one that makes much sense at the moment. But she must stay inside for now when she can and not go out unaccompanied. You need to promise me you’ll do that. And you need to promise to tell the police what’s happened here. Tell PC Burdon. He knows some of it anyway. Promise.”

“I promise,” said my Father, grimly. “But… why were you here at all, Esther? What made you come back here? I thought you had run away.”

I did not answer. The truth is I did not really understand it myself. I had fled from Sam’s because something inside me told me to, I had run here because I knew that this was the place where I wanted to be, I had stood and wept as I looked at the house because I needed to stand there and weep. He would never have understood any of that, so I moved on.

“I am sorry that I lost you your job.”

“I am sure you are not,” came his curt reply.

“No. I am not,” I confessed.

“When this is all settled, Esther, you will come back to this house. I am your guardian. It is the law.”

“I won’t be coming back, Father. Not today. Not ever.”

“The law is the law, child. You are my property and you will live under this roof.”

The Ulysses Morstan-Eyre of old was back. This was truly him. Gone were the pleasantries; gone was the gratitude that I had saved his sister’s life; gone was the momentary dropping of his contempt for me.

“Look after her,” I said, turning my eyes on Aunt Cordelia, still struggling for support in her brother’s arms.

She looked back to me and our eyes locked for a moment. In them I thought I could see a glimmer of gratitude and the faintest trace of remorse, but it was much too little, and far too late.

I ran away from them as fast as I could and down the jetty in the direction the attacker had taken. Behind me I could hear their steps walking back into the house. I felt that this was it and that, truly, I would never see any of them again. I was (as I always seem to be when it comes to this) completely wrong.

I reached the river and looked up and down all of the jetties I could see. My lungs were still adjusting to the fresh air and my chest ached as I turned from side to side scouring the riverbanks. There was no sign of a cloaked figure. Only bargemen and stevedores going about their everyday business. Over in Mr Jessop’s boatyard, sails were being tacked ready for their day’s work. The attacker had disappeared into the dawn.

But I knew who it was. With arms that thin and cheeks that sallow, it could only have been a woman, I reasoned, despite me warning them about Snorky. A woman in a hooded cloak was a sight that I had seen very recently. There was no question in my mind.

It was Hettie Deverill.

Hettie Deverill, whose beautiful face I had dreamed of, had just tried to choke me to death.

As I made my way back down the jetty and into the main street, to my surprise and shame, Sam ran up to me, panting for breath. His hand was bandaged up and he had evidently discovered my disappearance and immediately run out again to find me.

“I thought you’d come ’ere!” he gasped.

“I’m sorry, Sam…” I said, my cheeks flushing, “I don’t know why I ran again…Or why I ran here…”

“I do,” he stated simply and I knew that he did. That he had seen into my head and understood why his emotions over the loss of his father had triggered me to impulsively run here. He understood my actions better than I did.

We stood there in silence, uncertain of what to say next.

“I’m sorry. About your father,” I said, after a gargantuan pause.

“We’re both sorry. Sorry about lots of fings. But we’ve been sorry enough I reckon, don’t you?” he replied.

I nodded and smiled.

Another silence fell between us. But this silence was different. It was the silence of two people who understood each other a little better; who would not raise certain subjects unless the other one raised them first; who had reasons for sorrow but who knew that the other person forgave them and consoled with them. It was, now that I am thinking about it, the silence of the best of friends.

“Sam! Listen! Something’s happened!” I exclaimed, catching him completely off guard with my sudden excitement.

“Oh? What?”

And I told him about the attack on Aunt Cordelia. Then I told him about the attacker turning their attentions on me. I told him what the attacker had been wearing and this led to my telling him all about that encounter with the cloaked figure in the hospital. I went on to tell him all about my encounter with the Red Razor Gang, what Leland Deverill and Kakana had been up to, and about my visit to Ned Burdon’s house. I saved the identity of my cloaked assailant until last, trying to delay the moment where I would have to admit that I had got the case completely wrong. And that Sam had been right.

“Hettie Deverill?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “But I thought…”

“I know! I know I’ve always maintained she’s innocent, but… but I think I might have made a mistake..”

He was not smug or self-satisfied thankfully. He simply nodded and moved on.

“You might be right. Hardly Eddie Holloway’s style is it? His gang don’t go around disguising themselves. They just sneak up on ya and do the deed. Bold as brass. And that’s the only reason for the cloak innit? Disguise? ’Cause it’s someone whose face you’ve seen?”

I agreed. This did not mean that the Red Razor Gang was not looking for me or that my warning concerning Aunt Cordelia was for naught. It was simply the only logical reason for a cloak to have been worn - to stop anyone being recognised in the act of strangling me. And the only person I had ever seen wearing a cloak was Hettie Deverill. I could not help but feel the nagging sensation that I had seen another cloak somewhere, but I could not call where to mind no matter how hard I tried, so Hettie it was.

We made our way together towards the Britannia Theatre, our previous silence broken as we batted ideas about the case back and forth, Sam made me laugh and I made the corner of his mouth raise slightly in a half-smile. It was as if nothing had happened between us and we were just two detectives back on the scent once more. My throat was a little sore but my voice was less hoarse now and Sam and I talked a heck of a lot more than we had the last time we had been at the theatre on the lookout for Hettie Deverill.

We arrived at the theatre as all the actors and actresses were arriving for the day. Among their colourfully dressed number Hettie Deverill, in her black hooded cloak, stood out like a sore thumb. At the sight of her my stomach did somersaults. But it was revulsion this time, not admiration. She had, after all, just tried to strangle me.

She made her way into the stage door, the burly Figgis watching her as she passed, (no doubt as bewitched by her beauty as I had been.) She petted his dog - Killer - on the head as she passed and he tilted his head in pleasure. She had even charmed the dog into submission with those smouldering grey eyes for Heaven’s sake!

Amidst all these people entering the stage door it was too dangerous to approach her and try and wheedle any kind of confession out of her. We decided to wait until rehearsals were over and she came out for food before the evening show. The day ticked by happily, what with Sam and I swapping stories (admittedly it was mostly me talking), my laughing when Sam said something that he knew to be amusing with his deadpan delivery and our hatching a plan for when Hettie Deverill left the building. The plan we arrived at involved Sam more than me, as Hettie knew my face well (and possibly, lest we forget, wanted to kill me!) Sam managed to procure us some food too, (I did not ask how as I was worried the answer would not please me), and we ate and we talked and I laughed. The laughter when it came was like a balm, soothing and comforting, even making me forget that I had had the tiniest amount of sleep.

At 5 o’clock in the afternoon we finally got our chance. From behind a large cart we saw Hettie Deverill leaving the stage door, accompanied by a man in a bright, chequered suit that was far too big for him, wearing a derby on his tiny head and swinging a small cloth bag by his side. Figgis let them out with a bow and shut the door behind him.

We hid behind the cart and listened in to their conversation as they walked down the alleyway towards us. They spoke covertly, in whispers.

“Do you have them, Joe?” enquired Hettie.

“Yeah, Het. I’ve kept ’em safe for ya.”

The diamonds! They were talking about the diamonds!

“I didn’t want James to cotton on,” Hettie continued, “I wanted it to be a surprise for him.”

“No more chimney work eh? Done his last job?” asked the man.

“He’s never going up a chimney again. Not after today. He’s out for good. I’m taking these back to Wavel Mews for him. Don’t worry, we’ll both be back for the show tonight.”

She had hidden the diamonds in the cloth bag, asked this man to look after them for her and now she was going to take them home! Sam looked puzzled by what he had just heard but I was sure this was the clue we had been waiting for!

“What did you think of them?” Hettie asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“Very bright and sparkling, Hettie. Beautiful to see. Here y’are.”

My heart skipped a beat. Bright and sparkling! The diamonds! What else could it be?

“Thanks, Joe,” said Hettie, evidently taking the cloth bag from him.

“My pleasure, Het. You’ve been dealt a bad hand. And if that old miser wouldn’t ’elp you out then you’ve every right to take matters into your own ’ands and try and change your fortunes yourself. I’ve put the bill in there for ya. And the lad’s good, Het. Very good.”

Very good at climbing chimneys and coshing great uncles over the head at any rate! I looked at Sam in excitement, but his face was contorted in confusion, his brow furled and his eyes unfocussed. I nudged him gently, but he did not move. I dug him less than gently in the ribs with my elbow and he sprung into life, running out from behind the cart to halt the progress of Hettie and this man.

“Miss Deverill?” he exclaimed, and, through the cracks in the wood of the cart, I saw Hettie and her companion stop in their tracks.

“Yes..?” Hettie asked tentatively, eyeing up Sam’s bedraggled appearance and the bloodied bandage on his hand.

“It’s me, miss. Jo!” said Sam, holding out his bandaged hand, which she did not take. (I had selected the name of Jo for Dickensian reasons, but hidden this fact from Sam.)

“Jo?” she enquired, perplexed.

“Yes, miss! I’m the crossing-sweep down in St. John’s Wood, where your uncle lives! You walk past me when you go to see ’im!”

“Oh.”

“I saw ya this mornin’! Don’t you remember? When you come to St. John’s Wood in your cloak?”

A moment of uncertainty and suspicion, and then she replied, “You must be mistaken, Jo. I was nowhere near my uncle’s house this morning. I was taking my son to his work. In Hampstead.”

So much for that ploy. Although she was hardly likely to confess to strangling a woman and a child in St John’s Wood this morning, we had thought she might at least confess to having been in the area, especially to an innocent crossing-sweep with big, blue eyes and (slightly sweaty) blond hair.

“If you’ll excuse us, young man,” said the man, a tinge of annoyance in his voice, “We’re on a dinner break, this lady ’as to get back ’ome to eat before she returns for the evening show.”

The man took Hettie’s arm and both of them made an effort to move on, but Sam sidestepped into their path.

“Could I get an autograph?” he asked chirpily.

Hettie and the man exchanged looks at one another. Clearly this was something they were frequently asked at the stage door and they were prepared. All of a sudden, the man had drawn a playbill and a pen from the inside pocket of his gaudy suit. He handed them to Hettie Deverill who looked enquiringly at Sam.

“Is it to you? Or to someone else?” she asked politely.

“To me. Jo. J.O.” (I had told him the spelling).

“Like the crossing-sweep in Bleak House?”

For the briefest of moments Sam hesitated, chewing his upper lip as the realisation that I had hoodwinked him into Dickens hit him.

“Yes. That’s right,” he answered through gritted teeth, and I had to suppress a small giggle.

Hettie Deverill began to write on the playbill and Sam turned his attentions to the man in the suit.

“It must be great to act alongside Miss Deverill, mister. I loved the show. You were very good in Hands Across The Sea.”

“I’m not in Hands Across The Sea, sonny,” responded the man, evidently irritated.

“Oh! No! ’Course you ain’t! You’re… You’re….”

“I am a comic,” said the man with a sudden air of grandeur in his voice.

“Yeah, ’course.. Could I get your autograph too mister?”

“Of course,” said the man, still irked.

He took the pen and the playbill from Hettie, who had just finished writing and scrawled his own message as hurriedly as he could, eager to get away from Sam as quickly as possible.

“There ya go,” he said, thrusting the playbill at Sam, who took it and scanned his eyes over it. Of course, he was completely unable to read it, so he tried to bluff his way through with, “Thank you, Mr…”

“Mr. Colverd! You got no idea who I am ’ave ya?”

“No, of course. Mr Colverd! You’re one of me favourites Mr Colverd, A pleasure to meet you! And lovely to get your autograph!”

“Well, from one Joe to another,” said the man, faking a smile as he linked arms with Hettie Deverill.

“Oh, is your name Joe?” asked Sam in surprise.

The man did not answer. Instead he just looked thoroughly peeved and practically dragged Hettie Deverill away with him, complaining as he went about the ignorance of the ‘general public’ and how they did not appreciate true artists.

Sam waited until they were out of sight, before walking around the cart to greet me by thwacking me playfully on the arm with the playbill.

“Bloody Dickens!” he yelped. “You couldn’t resist it, could ya!”

“You were very good in the role,” I laughed, adding, “but why on Earth did you get their autographs?”

“Two reasons. I’m sure, if you thought about it for a minute, you could figure ’em out yaself.”

I pondered the problem and, in much less than a minute, I had the answers.

“The first reason,” I began, “- to find out who the man was. To find out the name of the man who had been keeping the mysterious cloth bag with the sparkling contents safe for Hettie Deverill?”

He nodded approvingly as if he was a headmaster and I was passing a particularly fiendish exam question.

“The second,” I continued ignoring his look of superiority, “must have been related to the letter we found?” He did not respond, so I assumed I was right and went on, “To check that the handwriting on the playbill matched the handwriting on the letter! To check that the incriminating letter had definitely been written by her!”

He half-smiled and I knew for certain that I had hit upon the truth. He handed me the playbill.

“Well? Does it match?”

I scanned the playbill and read aloud the short message that Hettie had written for Sam : ’To the ‘not yet dead Jo’, from Hettie Deverill.’

“Sounds like a threat!” exclaimed Sam, slightly alarmed.

“It isn’t,” I said, “it’s from Bleak House. “Jo lives - that is to say, Jo has not yet died.” She’s just quoting Dickens.” (Ignoring Sam’s eyeball rolling I went on), “But I think the writing matches the letter we saw and the signature is absolutely identical. So the letter was written by her. And the man with her was Jovial Joe Colverd - the Comic Vocalist. He’s obviously rather keen on her and has hidden the diamonds for her.”

“Mmmm…” murmured Sam uncertainly.

“Oh don’t do that!” I said, exasperated, “She said that James was never going up a chimney again! She said he was out for good! She thanked Colverd for keeping the diamonds safe for her!”

“She also said that she didn’t want James to ‘cotton on’ and that it was a surprise for ’im.”

“So?”

“The theory is that the only way Hettie Deverill coulda got the diamonds was to send James down and back up the chimney to get ’em, right?”

“Yes..” I said, beginning to see where Sam was heading with this.

“So… How the ’ell could it ’ave been a surprise to ’im? If ’e stole the bloomin’ fings, how did ’e not know what ‘e was stealin’ ’em for?”

Sam’s logic hit me squarely in the gut and I was flummoxed. I had to concede that Sam had a point. But I still maintained that it was Hettie Deverill that had attacked Aunt Cordelia and myself. Whatever was wrong with the idea of how she acquired the diamonds, Hettie Deverill had them in that cloth bag of hers. I knew it. ’Very bright and sparkling,’ Colverd had said. It was the diamonds! How she had got them didn’t matter for now!

I conveyed all this to Sam, who chewed his cheek occasionally, eventually conceding that I also had a point and that the conversation we had just overheard was fishier than a shark who had just consumed three hundred and seventy-two mackerels.

Hettie Deverill was about to make her way home to Wavel Mews (in Hampstead she had said when I had met her at the hospital), present the contents of her cloth bag to her son, and then both of them were coming back to the Britannia Theatre for the evening show. So, after seven o’clock, Hettie Deverill’s house would be completely empty.

Except it wouldn’t be empty.

Because Sam and I were going to find her home, break into it under cover of darkness and take back the Deverill Diamonds.