“Calculating eyes,” remarked Bradley.
“It’s a daddy of a whip he’s got.” The object of Malley’s admiration was a splendid curly affair, long enough for a team of six.
It was to the third picture in which Veronica appeared that Purbright paid closest attention. She was in a long evening gown and had been posed alone, inside the house, holding a champagne glass and a rigid smile. The photograph was headed: A TOAST TO THE FUTURE.
Its caption read: “Caught” in merry mood by our Photographer, Miss Veronica Mary Moldham was attired for dancing in the evening at Moldham Hall in this charming eau-de-Nil gown. The beautiful “collar” necklace of matched Russian emeralds was Miss Moldham’s twenty-first birthday gift from her parents, Major General Archibald Bruce Pordack Moldham, DSO, CBE, JP, and Mrs Moldham; and was supplied by Messrs Vacci and Benn, of London.
Purbright indicated the caption to Bradley. “They obviously thought they were emeralds in 1921. The local paper did, anyway.”
“And who,” asked Bradley, “were the Moldhams to correct so flattering an error?”
He looked carefully at the photograph. “One can’t swear to it, but I’d be willing to bet these now adorn the neck of Dr Gule’s young concubine.”
“Housekeeper,” Purbright corrected, gently. The large sergeant looked with mild amusement from one to the other and polished his pipe bowl against the side of his nose.
“What I cannot understand,” said Purbright, “is how this piece of very nice but not wildly valuable jewellery comes to have its present significance. When Whippy pinched it—as it is reasonable to assume he did—he had the perfectly comprehensible if unworthy motive of winning an extra perk from his employers. When Mrs Moldham-Clegg learned that it had not disappeared for ever but was going to come up for sale, she had a good motive for trying to get it back—sentiment, family loyalty, that sort of thing. She might even be forgiven for paying over the odds.
“Again, I can conceive of an inept little London thief following a tip and coming up here to make an easy pound or two.
“But burglary? Assaulting the police? Murder? Surely not for a handful of semi-precious stones.”
“Don’t forget,” said Bradley, “that they were considered worth purloining by an eminent consultant the moment he could safely get his hands on them.”
Malley grinned. “What, so that he could give them to his tottie? Young Myra wouldn’t know the difference between rubies and bicycle reflectors.”
“It does seem rather odd behaviour on Gule’s part,” said Purbright, thoughtfully.
“Oh, he’s not all that fussy,” Malley said. “I don’t mean he wouldn’t pinch them on the spur of the moment—just that he wouldn’t put himself out to please his girlfriend.”
“How would he have known about Whippy’s ill-gotten gains?” asked Bradley.
“According to Anderson,” said Purbright, “Gule spent an unusual amount of time with Whippy. Might he not have been pumping him, Bill?”
Malley blew doubtfully. “They reckon Gule knows how to do the old Svengali stuff if he wants. And Whippy wasn’t as fly as he liked people to think. He was a boastful old sod at times.”
Bradley picked up the plaster picture from Purbright’s desk and regarded it in silence for several moments. He turned it over. “The coachman’s nest egg,” he murmured. A pause. “His security...”
Suddenly Bradley swung round. “If our old nautical friend knew himself to be the beneficiary under Arnold’s will, why did he not make his claim immediately when Arnold died? Why, instead, did he write off to a London malefactor and a local lady bountiful, telling them about the sale of his own property?”
“The answer depends on whether Crutchy knew about the necklace,” said Purbright. “If he did, he might have preferred to leave others to bid for stolen property rather than handle it himself. He’ll doubtless get the money as soon as he produces the will.”
“And if he didn’t know?”
Purbright shook his head. “He must have known. And he must have known whose it was. Why else would he have written to her—as he all but admitted to us?”
“In what terms? Dear Mrs Moldham-thingummy, the necklace Whippy Arnold nicked off you is going to be sold by auction disguised as a picture, please tell your friends.”
Malley chuckled, then looked thoughtful. “I don’t reckon,” he said slowly, “that Whippy did pinch the thing. If he had—and I know the Moldhams—they’d have chucked him out just on suspicion. The rest of the servants as well, probably. There were plenty to be got in those days.”
“The pension,” said Purbright, suddenly. “Not only did he survive in his job, but was still being paid by the family after he’d retired.”
“That’s certainly hard to believe,” remarked the sergeant. He grinned and scratched the side of his jaw. “Old Moldy always said that wages were demoralizing, let alone pensions.”
“One begins to get the impression that Mr Arnold did somebody a favour at some time,” said Bradley. “A substantial favour, at that, and one whose value he knew. I think...” There was a pause. “I think that he was given that necklace. A sort of warranty, perhaps—or even as a down payment.”
“It’s an attractive idea, I suppose,” Purbright began. Then he looked aside. There had been a quiet knock on the door, which now was opening,
“We are somewhat in need of attractive ideas at the moment, Mr Purbright.” Mr Chubb closed the door as considerately as he had opened it and walked towards the window. He paused to look down at the open file of the 1921 Flaxborougb Citizen and to restrain with a gesture Sergeant Malley’s windy effort to rise from his too-small chair.
The photographs engaged Mr Chubb’s attention for nearly a minute. Then he looked intently and solemnly at Bradley.
“Very distressing, is it not, Mr Bradley, this business out at Moldham.”
Bradley was not sure how he was expected to reply; by his tone and aspect, the chief constable seemed to ascribe to his guest some measure of responsibility for what had happened. He said, simply: “Yes, very,” and left it at that.
Mr Chubb noticed the picture in Bradley’s hand. “Ah,” he said, more lightly, and glanced aside at Purbright, “the beginning of all our troubles, eh, Mr Purbright?” He held out his hand. “May I?”
Bradley relinquished the cottage, and the chief constable took it to the window. He viewed it closely in the light, held it at arm’s length, pouted, and declared: “Quite picturesque, really.”
Suddenly Bradley found himself being smiled at.
“And are you artistic, Mr Bradley?”
In such a manner might Mr Chubb have asked Oscar Wilde whether he supported the scouting movement.