Randall Tremain entered and padded silently across the room to stand between the two men. He stared at Gareth — the sort of stare a security guard or a bouncer might give you, he thought. The atmosphere in the room fell decidedly chillier.
‘We understand the brooch was in the possession of a young woman,’ Tremain said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you describe her?’ he asked.
‘Why? For all we know she came into possession of the brooch quite legitimately.’
‘Of course,’ said Lambert-Chide, ‘a great deal of time has passed since my father had the jewellery stolen. But how can we make up for the poor woman’s loss? Humour me, Gareth. What did she look like? Her height, hair colour, her age? Perhaps we can trace her.’
Under their dual intense stare Gareth grew increasingly uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said. ‘I think we’d best leave it to the police, eh?’
‘It is important,’ said Tremain stiffly and Gareth caught Lambert-Chide throw him a warning glance. He put his hands behind his back and softened his expression but his eyes remained marble-cold.
‘Evidently it is,’ said Gareth. ‘Like I said, medium build, medium height. It’s all a little hazy now. I didn’t pay her much attention,’ he lied.
‘You spent a good deal of time with her,’ said Tremain. ‘You visited her in hospital.’
‘You seem to know a lot about my movements,’ said Gareth.
‘Did she say where she was headed, the merest mention of a destination?’ asked Lambert-Chide. ‘Please think back; as Tremain says, it is important to me.’
‘Sorry, nothing doing. Why would a complete stranger tell me those kinds of things? This does feel a little like an interrogation,’ he said, ‘and I’ve already told the police all I need to. Do you question all your guests in this manner?’
Lambert-Chide regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Why you, Gareth? Why did she come to you?’
‘Why do you suppose she was coming to me? It was an accident. These things happen.’
Tremain’s face gave away the fact he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘It’s almost as if she knew you,’ he said. ‘Searching you out.’
‘Is this about the brooch or the woman?’ he returned.
‘Both,’ said Lambert-Chide evenly. ‘Then he smiled. ‘Forgive me again, I forget my manners. There’s the reason you’re here.’ He signalled for Tremain to fetch him something. He returned from a cabinet with a chequebook and pen. ‘Your reward: shall we say two thousand pounds?’
‘I don’t want the money,’ said Gareth. ‘I’m not here for that.’
‘So what are you here for, Gareth?’ he asked.
‘Curiosity, I guess.’
Lambert-Chide’s fingers drummed on the arm of the chair. ‘Let me make you an offer: if you are able to tell me anything of her whereabouts, anything at all that would give us the tiniest of leads, I will up my reward to ten thousand pounds.’
Gareth whistled. ‘Ten thousand pounds? That sounds like desperation, David. Why would anyone pay that much?’
‘I have my reasons, Gareth,’ he said. All warmth had vanished. ‘There are still many outstanding items of jewellery that amounts to quite a haul. It’s still missing. I want to find it. The woman may be able to help trace other items, that’s why she’s important to me.’ He coughed lightly. ‘Anyhow, I’ve kept you long enough. Dinner will be ready. Please, go ahead; I’ll join you presently. Randall will show you the way.’
As if on cue Tremain went to Gareth’s side and he rose from his seat. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’
Lambert-Chide was looking away and acknowledged him with a peremptory flick of the hand. ‘If you should remember anything…’ he said.
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ he said.
Tremain led Gareth swiftly away, down a maze of corridors and finally to a small but reasonably furnished dining room. A large mahogany table sat in its centre laid out for three people. Helen Lambert-Chide was already there and greeted him warmly.
‘So, now you’ve met David what do you think?’ she asked as someone flashed out of nowhere to pull back a chair for Gareth.
‘He’s interesting,’ he replied.
Someone offered to pour wine out for her but she took the bottle and waved him away. She slopped it into her glass, filling it and then offered the bottle to Gareth. He declined. Behind the makeup, the pretty mask, she looked quite a sad young woman, he thought. She chatted aimlessly for a while, already looking the worse for wear; she’d already been at the bottle it seemed. Gareth turned the conversation round to the brooch.
‘Why the big interest?’ he asked. ‘I mean, he can afford to buy God knows how many more brooches and pieces of jewellery. It has been over seventy years now. Maybe time to let the thing rest.’
‘You’ll never work out what David is thinking, I’m afraid,’ she replied. ‘The jewellery does seem to mean a lot to him, and especially the brooch. He’s been searching for it long enough.’ She lifted her glass to her lips, the wine wetting them seductively. ‘The story goes David’s father met a young woman called Evelyn Carter shortly after the death of his wife. He falls head over heels for her and they plan to get married. Two days before the wedding day she does a runner taking quite a few thousands of pounds of his property along with her. Quite a haul, they say. It was known as the Gattenby Hoard at the time.’
‘So what happened to Evelyn exactly? Did they ever find her?’
‘Apparently not. The brooch is the only piece ever to turn up in eighty years or so. A mystery to this day. David’s old man never recovered. They say he died of a broken heart and all that old baloney.’ She swigged down the wine and poured another glass. Her alcohol-induced happiness was close to slipping into the morose. ‘It caused one hell of a stink at the time, as you can imagine. It happened just before war broke out; they were hot on the family pride-thing at that time. The shame of it rang for years afterwards — all those society tongues wagging away. I suppose that’s why he never let the matter drop. He’s been searching for the jewellery’s return ever since, maybe to put the affair to bed. Who knows what’s in his sly old head.’
At that point Randall Tremain entered the dining room. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lambert-Chide, Mr Davies; Sir Lambert-Chide gives his apologies — he has been unexpectedly detained and will not be joining you for dinner. He expresses his wish that you enjoy your meal, Mr Davies.’ He left without saying another word.
‘Was it something you said?’ Helen grinned mischievously, a spark in her drunken eyes.
‘I think he’s had what he needs from me,’ he returned, picking up his napkin. ‘Or perhaps he didn’t get what he wanted.’
‘Yes, he can be like that,’ she observed. ‘I’m famished. Let’s eat.’
In the morning, before breakfast, Gareth stood at his bedroom window, taking in the grand vista in daylight and thinking about the night before. He bent forward, looking down to the gravel drive below. He caught the sight of Randall Tremain. He was engrossed in some conversation with a man who had his back to Gareth. Does his face ever alter, Gareth thought. But it was only when the conversation was over and both men parted company that Gareth realised who Tremain had been talking to; it was the man from the hospital, the same guy who, if the Cavendish sisters were right, had also said he was a newspaper reporter asking for his whereabouts.
Gareth was taken aback at seeing the man at Gattenby House. He hurriedly got dressed, found his way downstairs and stepped outside.
‘Can I help you, Mr Davies?’ said Tremain at his back.
‘I saw you from upstairs, speaking to a man just now. Who was he?’
‘A nosy reporter,’ he said shortly. ‘Given Sir Lambert-Chide’s importance we get a lot of them sniffing around. The press is a necessary nuisance.’
‘Which publication is he from?’
He shrugged. ‘I cannot remember. He has gone now. And you, Mr Davies, when are you planning on leaving? I can have a car ready in less than an hour.’