And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

  Jeremy had a feeling that Mr. Crombie might just have delivered that line before. “No doubt there’s a quite unique price to go with it.” He handed the ring to Crombie, who placed it back in the box.

  “Eight hundred and fifty-four thousand pounds,” he said in a hushed voice.

  “Do you have a loupe?” asked Jeremy. “I’d like to study the stone more closely.” Arabella had taught him the word diamond merchants use when referring to a small magnifying glass, assuring him that it would make him sound as if he regularly frequented such establishments.

  “Yes, of course, sir,” said Crombie, pulling open a drawer on his side of the table and extracting a small tortoiseshell loupe. When he looked back up, there was no sign of the Kandice Diamond, just a gaping space in the top row of the box.

  “Do you still have the ring?” he asked, trying not to sound concerned.

  “No,” said Jeremy. “I handed it back to you a moment ago.”

  Without another word, the assistant snapped the box closed and pressed the button below his side of the table. This time he didn’t indulge in any small talk while he waited. A moment later, two burly, flat-nosed men who looked as if they’d be more at home in a boxing ring than De Beers entered the room. One remained by the door while the other stood a few inches behind Jeremy.

  “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to return the ring,” said Crombie in a firm, flat, unemotional voice.

  “I’ve never been so insulted,” said Jeremy, trying to sound insulted.

  “I’m going to say this only once, sir. If you return the ring, we will not press charges, but if you do not—”

  “And I’m going to say this only once,” said Jeremy, rising from his seat. “The last time I saw the ring was when I handed it back to you.”

  Jeremy turned to leave, but the man behind him placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and pushed him back down into the chair. Arabella had promised him there would be no rough stuff as long as he cooperated and did exactly what they told him. Jeremy remained seated, not moving a muscle. Crombie rose from his place and said, “Please follow me.”

  One of the heavyweights opened the door and led Jeremy out of the room, while the other remained a pace behind him. At the end of the corridor they stopped outside a door marked PRIVATE. The first guard opened the door and they entered another room which once again contained only one table, but this time it wasn’t covered in a velvet cloth. Behind it sat a man who looked as if he’d been waiting for them. He didn’t invite Jeremy to sit, as there wasn’t another chair in the room.

  “My name is Granger,” the man said without expression. “I’ve been the head of security at De Beers for the past fourteen years, having previously served as a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police. I can tell you there’s nothing I haven’t seen, and no story I haven’t heard before. So do not imagine even for one moment that you’re going to get away with this, young man.”

  How quickly the fawning sir had been replaced by the demeaning young man, thought Jeremy.

  Granger paused to allow the full weight of his words to sink in. “First, I am obliged to ask if you are willing to assist me with my inquiries, or whether you would prefer us to call in the police, in which case you will be entitled to have a solicitor present.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” said Jeremy haughtily, “so naturally I’m happy to cooperate.” Back on script.

  “In that case,” said Granger, “perhaps you’d be kind enough to take off your shoes, jacket, and trousers.”

  Jeremy kicked off his loafers, which Granger picked up and placed on the table. He then removed his jacket and handed it to Granger as if he was his valet. After taking off his trousers he stood there, trying to look appalled at the treatment he was being subjected to.

  Granger spent some considerable time pulling out every pocket of Jeremy’s suit, then checking the lining and the seams. Having failed to come up with anything other than a handkerchief—there was no wallet, no credit card, nothing that could identify the suspect, which made him even more suspicious—Granger placed the suit back on the table. “Your tie?” he said, still sounding calm.

  Jeremy undid the knot, pulled off the old Etonian tie and put it on the table. Granger ran the palm of his right hand across the blue stripes, but again, nothing. “Your shirt.” Jeremy undid the buttons slowly, then handed his shirt over. He stood there shivering in just his pants and socks.

  As Granger checked the shirt, for the first time the hint of a smile appeared on his lined face when he touched the collar. He pulled out two silver Tiffany collar stiffeners. Nice touch, Arabella, thought Jeremy as Granger placed them on the table, unable to mask his disappointment. He handed the shirt back to Jeremy, who replaced the collar stiffeners before putting his shirt and tie back on.

  “Your underpants, please.”

  Jeremy pulled down his pants and passed them across. Another inspection, which he knew would reveal nothing. Granger handed them back and waited for him to pull them up before saying, “And finally your socks.”

  Jeremy pulled off his socks and laid them out on the table. Granger was now looking a little less sure of himself, but he still checked them carefully before turning his attention to Jeremy’s loafers. He spent some time tapping, pushing, and even trying to pull them apart, but there was nothing to be found. To Jeremy’s surprise, he once again asked him to remove his shirt and tie. When he’d done so, Granger came round from behind the table and stood directly in front of him. He raised both his hands, and for a moment Jeremy thought the man was going to hit him. Instead, he pressed his fingers into Jeremy’s scalp and ruffled his hair the way his father used to do when he was a child, but all he ended up with was greasy nails and a few stray hairs for his trouble.

  “Raise your arms,” he barked. Jeremy held his arms high in the air, but Granger found nothing under his armpits. He then stood behind Jeremy. “Raise one leg,” he ordered. Jeremy raised his right leg. There was nothing taped underneath the heel, and nothing between the toes. “The other leg,” said Granger, but he ended up with the same result. He walked round to face him once again. “Open your mouth.” Jeremy opened wide as if he was in the dentist’s chair. Granger shone a pen-torch round his cavities, but didn’t find so much as a gold tooth. He could not hide his discomfort as he asked Jeremy to accompany him to the room next door.

  “May I put my clothes back on?”

  “No, you may not,” came back the immediate reply.

  Jeremy followed him into the next room, feeling apprehensive about what torture they had in store for him. A man in a long white coat stood waiting next to what looked like a sun bed. “Would you be kind enough to lie down so that I can take an X-ray?” he asked.

  “Happily,” said Jeremy, and climbed onto the machine. Moments later there was a click and the two men studied the results on a screen. Jeremy knew it would reveal nothing. Swallowing the Kandice Diamond had never been part of their plan.

  “Thank you,” said the man in the white coat courteously, and Granger added reluctantly, “You can get dressed now.”

  Once Jeremy had his new school tie on, he followed Granger back into the interrogation room, where Crombie and the two guards were waiting for them.

  “I’d like to leave now,” Jeremy said firmly.

  Granger nodded, clearly unwilling to let him go, but he no longer had any excuse to hold him. Jeremy turned to face Crombie, looked him straight in the eye and said, “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.” He thought he saw him grimace. Arabella’s script had been flawless.

  The two flat-nosed guards escorted him off the premises, looking disappointed that he hadn’t tried to escape. As Jeremy stepped back out onto the crowded Piccadilly pavement, he took a deep breath and waited for his heartbeat to return to something like normal before crossing the road. He then strolled confidently back into the Ritz and took his seat opposite Arabella.

  “Your coffee’s gone cold, darling,” she said, as if he’d just been to the
loo. “Perhaps you should order another.”

  “Same again,” said Jeremy when the waiter appeared by his side.

  “Any problems?” whispered Arabella once the waiter was out of earshot.

  “No,” said Jeremy, suddenly feeling guilty, but at the same time exhilarated. “It all went to plan.”

  “Good,” said Arabella. “So now it’s my turn.” She rose from her seat and said, “Better give me the watch and the cufflinks. I’ll need to put them back in Daddy’s room before we meet up this evening.”

  Jeremy reluctantly unstrapped the watch, took out the cufflinks, and handed them to Arabella. “What about the tie?” he whispered.

  “Better not take if off in the Ritz,” she said. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. “I’ll come to your place round eight, and you can give it back to me then.” She gave him that smile one last time before walking out of the morning room.

  A few moments later, Arabella was standing outside De Beers. The door was opened immediately: the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, the Balenciaga bag, and the Chanel watch all suggested that this lady was not in the habit of being kept waiting.

  “I want to look at some engagement rings,” she said shyly before stepping inside.

  “Of course, madam,” said the doorman, and led her down the corridor.

  During the next hour, Arabella carried out almost the same routine as Jeremy, and after much prevarication she told Mr. Crombie, “It’s hopeless, quite hopeless. I’ll have to bring Archie in. After all, he’s the one who’s going to foot the bill.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  “I’m joining him for lunch at Le Caprice,” she added, “so we’ll pop back this afternoon.”

  “We’ll look forward to seeing you both then,” said the sales associate as he closed the jewel box.

  “Thank you, Mr. Crombie,” said Arabella as she rose to leave.

  Arabella was escorted to the front door by the sales associate without any suggestion that she should take her clothes off. Once she was back on Piccadilly, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Lowndes Square. She checked her watch, confident that she would be back at the flat long before her father, who would never find out that his watch and cufflinks had been borrowed for a few hours, and who certainly wouldn’t miss one of his old school ties.

  As she sat in the back of the taxi, Arabella admired the flawless yellow diamond. Jeremy had carried out her instructions to the letter. She would of course have to explain to her friends why she’d broken off the engagement. Frankly, he just wasn’t one of our set, never really fitted in. But she had to admit she would quite miss him. She’d grown rather fond of Jeremy, and he was very enthusiastic between the sheets. And to think that all he’d get out of it was a pair of silver collar stiffeners and an old Etonian tie. Arabella hoped he still had enough money to cover the bill at the Ritz.

  She dismissed Jeremy from her thoughts and turned her attention to the man she’d chosen to join her at Wimbledon, whom she had already lined up to assist her in obtaining a matching pair of earrings.

  When Mr. Crombie left De Beers that night, he was still trying to work out how the man had managed it. After all, he’d had no more than a few seconds while his head was bowed.

  “Goodnight, Doris,” he said as he passed a cleaner who was vacuuming in the corridor.

  “Goodnight, sir,” said Doris, opening the door to the viewing room so she could continue to vacuum. This was where the customers selected the finest gems on earth, Mr. Crombie had once told her, so it had to be spotless. She turned off the machine, removed the black velvet cloth from the table, and began to polish the surface; first the top, then the rim. That’s when she felt it.

  Doris bent down to take a closer look. She stared in disbelief at the large piece of chewing gum stuck under the rim of the table. She began to scrape it off, not stopping until there wasn’t the slightest trace of it left, then dropped it into the rubbish bag attached to her cleaning cart before placing the velvet cloth back on the table.

  “Such a disgusting habit,” she muttered as she closed the viewing-room door and continued to vacuum the carpet in the corridor.

  THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY TELEGRAM*

  2

  Her Majesty the Queen sends her congratulations to Albert Webber

  on the occasion of his 100th birthday, and wishes him many more

  years of good health and happiness.

  Albert was still smiling after he’d read the message for the twentieth time.

  “You’ll be next, ducks,” he said as he passed the royal missive across to his wife. Betty only had to read the telegram once for a broad smile to appear on her face, too.

  The festivities had begun a week earlier, culminating in a celebration party at the town hall. Albert’s photograph had appeared on the front page of the Somerset Gazette that morning, and he had been interviewed on BBC Points West, his wife seated proudly by his side.

  His Worship the Mayor of Street, Councillor Ted Harding, and the leader of the local council, Councillor Brocklebank, were waiting on the town hall steps to greet the centenarian. Albert was escorted to the mayor’s parlor where he was introduced to Mr. David Heathcote-Amory, the local Member of Parliament, as well as the local MEP, although when asked later he couldn’t remember her name.

  After several more photographs had been taken, Albert was ushered through to a large reception room where over a hundred invited guests were waiting to greet him. As he entered the room he was welcomed by a spontaneous burst of applause, and people he’d never met before began shaking hands with him.

  At three twenty-seven P.M., the precise minute Albert had been born in 1907, the old man, surrounded by his five children, eleven grandchildren, and nineteen great-grandchildren, thrust a silver-handled knife into a three-tier cake. This simple act was greeted by another burst of applause, followed by cries of speech, speech, speech!

  Albert had prepared a few words, but as quiet fell in the room, they went straight out of his head.

  “Say something,” said Betty, giving her husband a gentle nudge in the ribs.

  He blinked, looked round at the expectant crowd, paused, and said, “Thank you very much.”

  Once the assembled gathering realized that was all he was going to say, someone began to sing “Happy Birthday,” and within moments everyone was joining in. Albert managed to blow out seven of the hundred candles before the younger members of the family came to his rescue, which was greeted by even more laughter and clapping.

  Once the applause had died down, the mayor rose to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his black and gold braided gown, and cleared his throat, before delivering a far longer speech.

  “My fellow citizens,” he began, “we are gathered together today to celebrate the birthday, the one hundredth birthday, of Albert Webber, a much-loved member of our community. Albert was born in Street on the fifteenth of April 1907. He married his wife Betty at Holy Trinity Church in 1931, and spent his working life at C. and J. Clark’s, our local shoe factory. In fact,” he continued, “Albert has spent his entire life in Street, with the notable exception of four years when he served as a private soldier in the Somerset Light Infantry. When the war ended in 1945, Albert was discharged from the army and returned to Street to take up his old job as a leather cutter at Clark’s. At the age of sixty, he retired as Deputy Floor Manager. But you can’t get rid of Albert that easily, because he then took on part-time work as a night watchman, a responsibility he carried out until his seventieth birthday.”

  The mayor waited for the laughter to fade before he continued. “From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers’ home game, and indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member. Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor, and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the town’s pub championship.

  “I’m sure you will all agree,” concluded the mayor, “that Alber
t has led a colorful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,” said the mayor, turning toward Mrs. Webber, “that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.”

  “Hear, hear,” said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

  After several other dignitaries had said a few words, and many more had had their photograph taken with Albert, the mayor accompanied his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting Rolls-Royce, and instructed the chauffeur to drive Mr. and Mrs. Webber home.

  Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.

  By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they retired to bed.

  The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, “Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can celebrate your hundredth together.”

  “I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,” she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

  Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life-threatening, and the birth of their first great-great-grandchild, Jude.

  When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s Rolls-Royce.