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Authors: Beryl Matthews
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He was past middle age, Stan guessed, tall and with a shock of white hair.
He didn’t waste time. ‘May I ask what your interest is in this item?’
‘We’re trying to trace a missing person, and the necklace belongs to her.’
‘I would have to see it before I could make a positive identification, but according to our records, a necklace similar to this design was made here.’
‘When?’ Stan took out a police notebook Reg had given him.
‘December 1900. But I couldn’t say for sure this is ours without examining the workmanship.’
‘Twenty years ago? Can you tell me who might have bought one like this?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, Sergeant Crawford. Our transactions are confidential.’
That was only what Stan expected, and he had no power to push for answers. But he’d try one more question. ‘If this is the real thing, is it valuable?’
‘If it is one of ours then the setting would be platinum, diamonds of the finest quality, and it would be worth a considerable amount.’ The owner hesitated, then continued, ‘But unless the missing lady is from – shall we say – a fine family, then it is unlikely to be genuine.’
‘Have you ever made a copy?’
‘No, Sergeant! Our jewels are exclusive.’ The man looked offended.
He drank the tea in two mouthfuls and replaced the cup on the tray, then he stood up, knowing that he had all the information he was going to get. The necklace in Dora’s possession must be a fake, but the mystery of Harriet Bentley deepened.
Resting on his crutches, he nodded to the two jewellers. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you for your time.’
He had arranged to meet Reg for lunch in the cafe opposite the police station. His brother-in-law was already there, and surged to his feet when he saw Stan. ‘Good Lord, man, come and sit down before you fall down.’
Slumping into a chair, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to let the pain flow out of him. There had been times during the journey when he’d doubted he was going to make it. This was the most he had tried to do since he had been injured, and it made him aware of the poor state he really was in. Sweat was pouring down his face, and he was having difficulty focusing.
‘Give this to him, Reg.’
Dragging his eyes open, Stan saw the cafe owner by the table with a glass in his hand.
‘Cheers, Len.’ Reg took the glass and wrapped Stan’sfingers around it. ‘Knock that back. It’ll revive you.’
Stan had to use both hands to bring the glass to his mouth. He was shaking nearly as badly as that poor devil on the train. That scared him, and he gulped down the brandy. The fiery liquid did its job and jolted him back to life.
‘Thanks, Len.’ He handed back the glass, relieved to see that his hands were almost steady again. ‘That’s strong stuff.’
Len winked. ‘I keep it for emergencies. What you need now is a good meal. I’ve got a steak and kidney pudding. That should put a bit of strength back in you.’
As the cafe owner went away to get their meals, Reg was clearly concerned and furious with himself. ‘I shouldn’t have let you do that journey today. You frightened the life out of me when you came in, Stan. You were grey and you could hardly stand. Thank God you had the sense to use crutches.’
‘Sorry about that. I didn’t realise just how hard it would be.’ Stan pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, hating to appear so weak. He had always been strong and vigorous, excelling in many sports. Now he was just a shadow of his former self, and it was hard to take. In his mind he was still that fit active person, but his body didn’t agree. Not only had his leg been shattered, but they’d also spent days digging bits of shrapnel out of his back, and even that was hurting now. In fact, he couldn’t find a part of him that wasn’t sore.
‘You’ve got a bit of colour back now.’ Reg was studying him intently. ‘For goodness sake
He didn’t waste time. ‘May I ask what your interest is in this item?’
‘We’re trying to trace a missing person, and the necklace belongs to her.’
‘I would have to see it before I could make a positive identification, but according to our records, a necklace similar to this design was made here.’
‘When?’ Stan took out a police notebook Reg had given him.
‘December 1900. But I couldn’t say for sure this is ours without examining the workmanship.’
‘Twenty years ago? Can you tell me who might have bought one like this?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, Sergeant Crawford. Our transactions are confidential.’
That was only what Stan expected, and he had no power to push for answers. But he’d try one more question. ‘If this is the real thing, is it valuable?’
‘If it is one of ours then the setting would be platinum, diamonds of the finest quality, and it would be worth a considerable amount.’ The owner hesitated, then continued, ‘But unless the missing lady is from – shall we say – a fine family, then it is unlikely to be genuine.’
‘Have you ever made a copy?’
‘No, Sergeant! Our jewels are exclusive.’ The man looked offended.
He drank the tea in two mouthfuls and replaced the cup on the tray, then he stood up, knowing that he had all the information he was going to get. The necklace in Dora’s possession must be a fake, but the mystery of Harriet Bentley deepened.
Resting on his crutches, he nodded to the two jewellers. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you for your time.’
He had arranged to meet Reg for lunch in the cafe opposite the police station. His brother-in-law was already there, and surged to his feet when he saw Stan. ‘Good Lord, man, come and sit down before you fall down.’
Slumping into a chair, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to let the pain flow out of him. There had been times during the journey when he’d doubted he was going to make it. This was the most he had tried to do since he had been injured, and it made him aware of the poor state he really was in. Sweat was pouring down his face, and he was having difficulty focusing.
‘Give this to him, Reg.’
Dragging his eyes open, Stan saw the cafe owner by the table with a glass in his hand.
‘Cheers, Len.’ Reg took the glass and wrapped Stan’sfingers around it. ‘Knock that back. It’ll revive you.’
Stan had to use both hands to bring the glass to his mouth. He was shaking nearly as badly as that poor devil on the train. That scared him, and he gulped down the brandy. The fiery liquid did its job and jolted him back to life.
‘Thanks, Len.’ He handed back the glass, relieved to see that his hands were almost steady again. ‘That’s strong stuff.’
Len winked. ‘I keep it for emergencies. What you need now is a good meal. I’ve got a steak and kidney pudding. That should put a bit of strength back in you.’
As the cafe owner went away to get their meals, Reg was clearly concerned and furious with himself. ‘I shouldn’t have let you do that journey today. You frightened the life out of me when you came in, Stan. You were grey and you could hardly stand. Thank God you had the sense to use crutches.’
‘Sorry about that. I didn’t realise just how hard it would be.’ Stan pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, hating to appear so weak. He had always been strong and vigorous, excelling in many sports. Now he was just a shadow of his former self, and it was hard to take. In his mind he was still that fit active person, but his body didn’t agree. Not only had his leg been shattered, but they’d also spent days digging bits of shrapnel out of his back, and even that was hurting now. In fact, he couldn’t find a part of him that wasn’t sore.
‘You’ve got a bit of colour back now.’ Reg was studying him intently. ‘For goodness sake
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