The Pearl Thief

Unbelievable, unbearable gloom descended on Strathfearn House.

Mother was hardly ever there that week. She launched a one-woman assault on His Majesty’s Prison in Perth, seeing to it that Solange was supplied with every comfort a prisoner was allowed, even attempting to send her armfuls of roses (they had to sit in the prison office). Many telephone calls were made to Father in Craig Castle, and to Mémère’s sister in France, concerning lawyers. Mémère kept up her stoic folding of hankies with Colette in attendance, and Jamie and I worked with Sandy and Ellen to pull together the catalogue for the Murray Collection. We weren’t allowed to visit Solange and the catalogue had to be completed regardless of the Murray and Beaufort-Stuart household’s emotional state.

‘The Strathfearn Murder’ (it was officially murder now) was shouted in all the papers every day. For a few days it was relegated to the inside pages, but the inevitable post-mortem revealed that the killing was utterly horrific. The poor fellow wasn’t just garrotted. Perhaps he was like Rasputin and simply wouldn’t die? He was so battered that now ‘the examining doctor has not been able to determine the actual cause of death’.

There was a great hole in the back of his head where his skull was bashed in and also – ugh – his throat had been cut.

How could they possibly believe it was Solange! Surely the Water Bailiff was the most likely suspect when it came to brutal violence?

But even I could see that he had no motive. If he’d known about the pearls, he’d have taken them away weeks ago and we’d never have found them. And Solange had admitted to striking Dr Housman. She’d admitted to a fight. She’d admitted to winning. And no one had seen either one of them that afternoon except me, and everything I’d seen suggested that she could have come along to finish the job. She was even intimate enough with him that she could have hidden his clothes.

Eventually the papers printed pictures of all the wounds. Not photographs, which I suppose would have been too lurid even for the Mercury. They were just pencil drawings.

‘They’re not as good as yours,’ I told Ellen when I showed her.

‘That’s not what the rope looked like at all. They’ve made it look like something you’d lead a pony with. It was bonnier than that.’

‘Bonnier! What, you mean, prettier?’

She scowled. She had been fearsomely crabbit, even for Ellen, since Henderson smeared her with his mucky paws.

‘Aye, prettier than that, all right, Lady Julia? Like a … a dressing-gown cord.’

‘Decorative, you mean?’

‘Stop telling me what I mean!’

I thought she was angry that I had had to come to her rescue. Not that I did – she’d been glad to be rescued – but that I had to. She couldn’t have saved herself and we both knew it. And it was the good fortune of my being ‘Lady Julia’ that let me do it. It was embarrassing to both of us.

I also had an argument with Sandy. Of all people.

It was my own stupid fault, especially as I’d already remarked that he was ready to take on anyone. It started innocently enough, when we were all having rare drinks on the terrace on the Thursday after Mother came home from visiting Solange. We were just all so tired of being miserable that Mémère started pouring sherry.

‘And, Jamie, take one to Monsieur Dunbar,’ she said magnanimously. ‘It is awkward him always sitting at work there with his terrace doors standing open.’

I sat quiet, pointedly pretending I hadn’t heard and didn’t care. I had been very cautious all summer long about not letting Mother or Solange know about my crush on Frank Dunbar. But it was not a secret that Frank was so at home in his office adjoining the morning room that it had become a little den.

Jamie disappeared next door with a sherry glass and came back a minute or so later commenting, ‘That man is in desperate need of a housekeeper. There’s cheese parings and a half-eaten loaf of bread going stale among his blueprints.’

‘Am I going to be remembered for leaving a legacy of mice to this house!’ Mémère exclaimed.

I bit my lip. I couldn’t possibly leap to Frank’s defence without giving myself away.

Mother sighed. ‘We really ought to have been more thoughtful of him since this trouble started. He could have certainly joined us for soup or cold meats from time to time. I suppose we should ask Mary to join us more often too.’

‘I do ask her.’ Sandy, who’d been standing at the stone railing gazing out over the grounds of his lost realm, joined in the conversation unexpectedly. ‘I asked her to come round tonight. But there’s a lecture at the library – “Victorian Angling” – and she has to be there to serve sandwiches.’

Sandy paused, then turned around deliberately to face us all. ‘And I’ve asked her to come along to the shoot with me on Opening Day,’ he announced a little defiantly. ‘Perhaps I’ll even let her take the gun a time or two. She shoots rather well.’

He sat down on the railing. I went and sat down next to him.

Sandy turned to me. He looked as tired as Mother. He said to me in a low voice, ‘I didn’t ask her to the Menzies’ party after the shoot because I thought you should do that yourself, Julie. It being your birthday.’

‘Oh!’ I hadn’t thought about it. ‘Am I allowed to ask people? But Mary never goes to parties.’

‘She might if she were asked. She’s a great deal more of an explorer than you might think. She’s giving Miss Ellen McEwen a good second thought.’

‘Yes, she is.’ I had to admit she was doing that. I wondered if I could ask Ellen to the party too. But I didn’t quite dare. It wasn’t really my party. I didn’t want to offend or upset Mrs Menzies, or indeed Mémère herself.

I sulked, feeling cowardly and Victorian.

‘I want Mary to get out more,’ Sandy confessed. ‘She’ll have to, if I marry her.’

‘Sandy!’ I teased. ‘Would you really?’

‘Well, why not?’

‘But what if she wants children?’

He stared at me as uncomprehendingly as if I’d spoken in cant. ‘What if she does?’

‘They might be like her. Isn’t it risky?’

‘They might all be as beautiful as you,’ he said coldly, ‘which would be riskier.’

I felt truly slapped.

Sandy took a swallow of his sherry.

‘They’d be your nieces and nephews, in any case,’ he added. ‘So get used to the idea.’

I thought about it and felt so ashamed of myself I wanted to weep.

O brave new world that has such people in’t!