He took another sip of stout and glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. The pub owner, anxious to close up, was already stacking up glasses and darting impatient looks at his customers. Trott was about to call it a night when the pub door opened.
A young policeman walked in. He sauntered to the bar where Trott stood and called for an ale. A few moments went by, no one saying a word. Then the policeman spoke.
“Been some excitement around ’ere tonight,” he said to no one in particular.
“What sort?” asked the bartender.
“’Nother robbery, over at Under’ill. Guy Delancey’s.”
“Thieves gettin’ bloody cheeky these days, if you ask me,” the bartender said. “Goin’ for the same ’ouse twice.”
“Aren’t they, though?” The policeman shook his head. “Makes you wonder what’s become of society these days.” He drained his mug. “Well, I best be gettin’ ’ome. ’Fore the missus gets to worryin’.” He paid the tab and walked out of the pub.
Trott left, as well.
Outside, in the road, the two men met. They walked across the village green, stepping in and out of shadows.
“Anything stolen from Underhill tonight?” asked Trott.
“The butler says just one item was taken. Antique weapon of some sort.”
Trott’s head lifted in sudden interest. “A dagger?”
“That’s right. Part of a collection. Other things weren’t touched.”
“And the thieves?”
“There were two of them. Butler only saw the woman.”
“What did she look like?”
“Couldn’t really tell us. Had some sort of black grease on ’er face. No fingerprints, either.”
“Where were they last seen?”
“Escaped through the trees. Could’ve gone in any direction. I’m afraid we lost ’em.”
Then Clea Rice had not left Buckinghamshire, thought Trott. Perhaps she was right now in this very village.
“If I ’ear more, I’ll let you know,” said the policeman.
Their conversation had come to an end. Trott reached into his jacket and produced an envelope stuffed with five-pound notes. Not a lot of money, but enough to help keep a young cop’s family clothed and fed.
The policeman took the envelope with an odd reluctance. “It’s only information you’ll be wantin’, right? You won’t be expecting more?”
“Only information,” Trott reassured him.
“Times are…difficult, you see. Still, there are things I don’t—won’t—do.”
“I understand.” And Trott did. He understood that even upright cops could be tempted. And that for this one, the downhill slide had already begun.
After the two men parted, Trott returned to his room in the inn and called Victor Van Weldon.
“As of a few hours ago, they were still in the area,” said Trott. “They broke into Delancey’s house.”
“Did they get the dagger?”
“Yes. Which means they’ve no reason to hang around here any longer. They’ll probably be heading for London next.”
Even now, he thought, Clea Rice must be wending her way along the back roads to the city. She’ll be feeling a touch of triumph tonight. Perhaps she’s thinking her ordeal will soon end. She’ll sense hope, even victory whenever she looks at that dagger. The dagger she calls the Eye of Kashmir.
How wrong she will be.
The sounds of London traffic awakened Clea from a sleep so heavy she felt drugged. She rolled onto her back and peered through slitted lids at the daylight shining in through the ratty curtains. How long had they slept? Judging by her grogginess it might have been days.
They’d checked in to this seedy hotel around six in the morning. Both of them had stripped off their clothes and collapsed on the bed, and that was the last she remembered. Now, as her brain began to function again, the events of last night came back to her. The endless wait at the station for the 4:00 a.m. train out of Wolverton. The fear that, lurking among the shadows on the platform, was someone who’d been watching for them. And then, during the train ride to London, the anxiety that they’d be robbed, that they’d lose their precious cargo.
She reached under the bed and felt the wrapped bundle. The Eye of Kashmir was still there. With a sigh of relief she settled back on the bed, next to Jordan.
He was asleep. He lay with his face turned toward her, his bare shoulder tanned a warm gold against the linen, his wheat-colored hair boyishly tousled. Even in sleep he looked every inch the aristocrat. Smiling, she stroked his hair. My darling gentleman, she thought. How lucky I am to have known you. Someday, when you’re married to some proper young lady, when your life has settled in according to plan, will you still remember your Clea Rice?
Sitting up, she stared at her own reflection in the dresser mirror. Right, she thought.
Suddenly depressed, she left the bed and went to take a shower. Later, as she inspected her latest hair color—this time a nut brown, courtesy of Monty’s bottle of hair dye—she felt resentment knot up in her stomach. She was not a lady, nor was she proper, but she damn well had her assets. She was bright, she could think fast on her feet and, most important, she could take care of herself. What possible use did she have for a gentleman? He’d be a nuisance, really, dragging her off all the time to soirees. Whatever those were. She’d never fit into his world. He’d never fit into hers.
But here, in this room with the mangy carpet and mildewed towels, they could share a temporary world. A world of their own making. She was going to enjoy it while it lasted.
She went back to the bed and climbed in next to Jordan.
At the touch of her damp body, he stirred and murmured, “Is this my wake-up call?”
She answered his question by sliding her hand under the covers and stroking slowly down the length of his torso. He sucked in a startled gasp as she found exquisitely tender flesh and evoked the hoped-for response.
“If that was my wake-up call,” he groaned, “I think it worked.”
“Maybe now you’ll get up, sleepyhead,” she said, laughing, and rolled away.
He caught her arm and hauled her right back. “What about this?”
“What about what?”
“This.”
Her gaze traveled to the distinct bulge under the sheets. “Shall I take care of that for you?” she whispered.
“Seeing as you’re the reason it’s there in the first place…”
She rolled on top of him, fitting her hips to his. He was at her mercy now, and she intended to make him beg for his pleasure. But as their bodies moved together, as she felt him grasp her hips in both hands and pull her down against him, it was she who was at his mercy, she who was begging for release. He gave it to her, in wave after glorious wave, and through the roar of her pulse in her ears she heard him say her name aloud. Once, twice, in a murmur of delight.
Yes, I’m the one he’s making love to, she thought. Me. Only me.
For these few sweet moments, it was enough.
Anthony Vauxhall was a starched little prig of a man with a nose that always seemed to be tilted up in distaste of mere mortals. Jordan had met him several times before, on matters relating to his late parents’ estate. Their conversations had been cordial, and he hadn’t formed much of an opinion of the man either way.
He was forming an opinion of Anthony Vauxhall now, and it wasn’t a good one.
It was nearly 4:00 p.m., and they were seated in Vauxhall’s office in the Lloyd’s of London building on Leadenhall Street. In the past hour and a half Jordan and Clea had managed to purchase decent clothes, grab a bite to eat and scurry downtown to Lloyd’s before the offices closed. Now it appeared that their efforts might prove futile. Vauxhall’s response to Clea’s story was one of obvious skepticism.
“You must understand, Miss Rice,” said Vauxhall, “Van Weldon Shipping is one of our most distinguished clients. One of our oldest clients. Our relationship goes back three generations. For us to accuse Mr. V
an Weldon of fraud is, well…” He cleared his throat.
“Perhaps you weren’t listening to Miss Rice’s story,” said Jordan. “She was there. She was a witness. The loss of the Max Havelaar wasn’t an accidental sinking. It was sabotage.”
“Even so, how can we assume Van Weldon is responsible? It could have been another party. Pirates of some kind.”
“Doesn’t a multimillion-dollar claim concern your firm?”
“Well, naturally.”
“Wouldn’t your underwriters want to know if they’ve paid out to a company that staged its own losses?”
“Of course, but—”
“Then why aren’t you taking these accusations seriously?”
“Because—” Vauxhall took a deep breath. “I spoke to Colin Hammersmith about this very matter. Right after I got your call earlier today. He’s in charge of our investigations branch. He’d heard this rumor a few weeks back and his advice was, well…” Vauxhall shifted uneasily. “To consider the source,” he said at last.
The source. Meaning Clea Rice, ex-con.
Jordan didn’t need to look at her; he could feel her pain, as surely as if the blow had landed on his own shoulders. But when he did look at her, he was impressed by how well she was taking it, her chin held high, her expression calm and focused.
Ever since that long red hair had been cut away, her face had seemed even more striking to him, her sculpted cheeks feathered by wisps of brown hair, the dark eyes wide and gamine. He had known Clea Rice as a blonde, then a redhead and now a brunette. Though he’d found each and every version of her fascinating, of all her incarnations, this one he liked the best. Perhaps it was the fact he could actually focus on her face now, without the distraction of all that hair. Perhaps it matched her personality, those elfin tendrils wisping around her forehead.
Perhaps he was beyond caring about details as inconsequential as hair because he was falling in love with her.
That’s why this insult by Vauxhall so enraged him.
He said, none too civilly, “Are you questioning Miss Rice’s integrity?”
“Not…not exactly,” said Vauxhall. “That is—”
“What are you questioning, then?”
Vauxhall looked miserable. “The story, it just appears—Oh, let’s be frank, Mr. Tavistock. A slaughter at sea? Sabotage of one’s own vessel? It’s so shocking as to be—”
“Unbelievable.”
“Yes. And when the accused is Victor Van Weldon, the story seems even more farfetched.”
“But I saw it,” insisted Clea. “I was there. Why won’t you believe me?”
“We’ve already looked into it. Or rather, Mr. Hammersmith’s department did. They spoke to the Spanish police, who assert that it was most probably an accident. An engine explosion. No bodies were ever found. Nor did they find evidence of murder.”
“They wouldn’t,” said Clea. “Van Weldon’s people are too clever.”
“And as for the wreckage of the Havelaar, it went down in deep water. It’s not easily salvageable. So we have nothing on which to base an accusation of sabotage.”
Throughout Vauxhall’s almost disdainful rebuttal, Clea had maintained her composure. She had regarded the man with almost regal calm. Jordan had watched in fascination as she took it all without batting an eyelash. Now he recognized the glimmer of triumph in her eyes. She was going to unveil the evidence.
Clea reached into her purse and withdrew the cloth-wrapped bundle that she’d so carefully guarded for the past sixteen hours. “You may find it difficult to take my word,” she said, laying the bundle on his desk. “I understand that. After all, who am I to walk in off the street and tell you some fantastic tale? But perhaps this will change your mind.”
Vauxhall frowned at the bundle. “What is that?”
“Evidence.” Clea removed the cloth wrapping. As the last layer fell away, Vauxhall sucked in an audible gasp of wonder. A jeweled scabbard lay gleaming in its undistinguished bed of muslin cloth.
Clea slid the dagger out of the scabbard and laid it down, razor tip pointed toward Vauxhall. “It’s called the Eye of Kashmir. Seventeenth century. The jewel in the hilt is a blue star sapphire from India. You’ll find a description of it in your files. It was part of Victor Van Weldon’s collection, insured by your company. A month ago it was being transported from Naples to Brussels aboard a vessel which, coincidentally, was also insured by your company. The Max Havelaar.”
Vauxhall glanced at Jordan, then back at Clea. “But that would mean…”
“This dagger should be on the ocean floor right now. But it isn’t. Because it was never aboard the Havelaar. It was kept safely in storage somewhere, then sold on the black market to an Englishman.”
“How did you get it?”
“I stole it.”
Vauxhall stared at her for a moment, as though not certain she was being serious. Slowly he reached for his intercom button. “Miss Barrows,” he murmured, “could you ring Mr. Jacobs, down in appraisals? Tell him to come up to my office. And have him bring his loupe or whatever it is he uses to examine gems.”
“I’ll ring him at once.”
“Also, could you fetch the Van Weldon company’s file for me? I want the papers for an antique dagger known as the Eye of Kashmir.” Vauxhall sat back in his chair and regarded Clea with a troubled look. “This puts a new complexion on things. Mr. Van Weldon’s claims, if I recall correctly, were in the neighborhood of fifteen million pounds for the art collection alone. This—” he waved at the dagger “—would call his claims into question.”
Jordan looked at Clea and recognized her look of relief. It’s over, he read in her eyes. This nightmare is finally over.
He took her hand. It was clammy, shaking, as though in fear. Of all the frightening events this past week, this moment must have been one of the most harrowing, because she had traveled so long and hard to reach it. She was too tense to smile at him, but he felt her fingers tighten around his. When this is over, he thought, well and truly over, we’re going to celebrate. We’re going to check in to a hotel suite and have all our meals delivered. And we’re going to make love day and night until we’re too exhausted to move. Then we’ll sleep and start all over again….
They continued to cast knowing looks back and forth even as Vauxhall’s secretary entered to deliver Van Weldon’s files, even as Mr. Jacobs arrived from appraisals to examine the dagger. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman with a full mane of silver hair. He studied the Eye for what seemed like an eternity. At last he looked up and said to Vauxhall, “May I see the policy appraisal?”
Vauxhall handed it over. “There’s a photo, as well. It seems to be identical.”
“Yes. It does.” Mr. Jacobs squinted at the photo, then regarded the dagger again. This time he focused his attention on the star sapphire. “Quite excellent work,” he murmured, peering through the jeweler’s loupe. “Exquisite craftsmanship.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to call the authorities?” asked Jordan.
Vauxhall nodded and reached for the telephone. “Even Victor Van Weldon can’t argue away the Eye of Kashmir, can he?”
Mr. Jacobs looked up. “But this isn’t the Eye of Kashmir,” he said.
The room went absolutely silent. Three pairs of eyes stared at the elderly appraiser.
“What do you mean, it’s not?” demanded Vauxhall.
“It’s a reproduction. A synthetic corundum. An excellent one, probably made using the Verneuil method. But as you’ll see, the star is rather more pronounced than you’d find in a natural stone. It’s worth perhaps two, three hundred pounds, so it’s not entirely without value. But it’s not a true star sapphire, either.” Mr. Jacobs regarded them with a calm, bespectacled gaze. “This is not the Eye of Kashmir.”
Clea’s face had drained of color. She sat staring at the dagger. “I don’t…don’t understand….”
“Couldn’t you be mistaken?” asked Jordan.
“No,” said Mr. Jacobs. “
I assure you, it’s a reproduction.”
“I demand a second opinion.”
“Certainly. I’ll recommend a number of gemologists—”
“No, we’ll make our own arrangements,” said Jordan.
Mr. Jacobs reacted with a look of injured dignity. He slid the dagger to Jordan. “Take it to whomever you wish,” he said, and rose to leave.
“Mr. Jacobs?” called Vauxhall. “We hold the policy on the Eye of Kashmir. Shouldn’t we retain this dagger until this matter is cleared up?”
“I see no reason to,” snapped Mr. Jacobs. “Let them keep the thing. After all, it’s nothing but a fake.”
Eleven
Nothing but a fake.
Clea clutched the wrapped bundle in both hands as she and Jordan rode the elevator to the first floor. They walked out into the fading sunlight of late afternoon.
Nothing but a fake.
How could she have been so wrong?
She tried to reason out the possibilities, but her brain wouldn’t function. She was operating on autopilot, her feet moving mechanically, her body numb. She had no evidence now, nothing to back up her story. And Van Weldon was still in pursuit. She could change her name a hundred times, dye her hair a hundred different shades, and still she’d be looking over her shoulder, wondering who might be moving in for the kill.
Victor Van Weldon had won.
It would almost be easier just to walk into his office, meet him face-to-face and tell him, “I give up. Just get it over with quick.” She wouldn’t last much longer, anyway. Even now she was scarcely aware of the faces on the street, much less able to watch for signs of danger. Only the firm guidance of Jordan’s hand kept her moving in any sort of purposeful direction.
He pulled her into a taxi and directed the driver to Brook Street.
Gazing out dully at the passing traffic, she asked, “Where are we going?”