Page 2 of The Locked Room

‘And to you,’ Harry said. ‘Did you have an enjoyable Christmas?’

Patrick nodded. ‘I did, thank you. Took the family to the circus over East London and had an elegant time.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Harry replied warmly.

She glanced towards the other doorman, Danny, but he kept his chin tucked inside the black woollen scarf that swathed his neck and lower face as he mumbled an unintelligible greeting. Harry supposed she could hardly blame him; it was thanks to her that his face and hands were stained purple with gentian violet, although he’d brought it on himself by breaking into her office several weeks earlier and triggering the trap she had laid. The dye would eventually fade, she’d reassured him when he’d confronted her after the crime. She imagined his shame would take longer to disappear.

At the door to her office, Harry paused the way she now did every morning to assess the rudimentary burglar alarm she set upon leaving. The golden hair caught between the door and its frame was still in place. Satisfied, she fitted the key into the lock and entered. If Danny’s intrusion had taught her anything, it was that she could not be too cautious in hiding her efforts at detective work. Both the Longstaff family and John Archer had been glad of her help but the men in charge of the bank would take a very dim view of her initiative. Danny had broken in on the orders of Simeon Pemberton, who was desperate to find a reason to dismiss her, and the doorman’s confession had shown Harry she needed to cover her tracks more thoroughly. The true correspondence she had exchanged with Esme Longstaff and Archer was no longer kept in her office, but safely hidden away at home. Anyone who went rifling through the filing cabinets that contained the original letters would find the same standard response Harry sent to every other supplication received – that Mr Holmes had retired to Sussex, where he now kept bees. Even so, she set a hair in place when she left the office each day. She was confident that Danny himself would not attempt another break-in but it would be interesting to see if anyone else did.

She had been settled at her desk for perhaps an hour when the faint squeak of a wheel in the corridor heralded the arrival of Bobby. He rapped on the door, poking his head inside when she called out a greeting. ‘Got a bumper post bag for you today, Miss White. It seems Christmas is quite the time for murder and whatnot.’

‘Alleged murder,’ Harry corrected, not quite able to hide a smile at his irrepressible conviction that every letter written to Holmes concerned a real crime. ‘But I imagine it’s simply that people have more time on their hands and let their imaginations run riot.’

Bobby sighed as he retrieved several thickly bundled packages of envelopes from the brass trolley and handed them to Harry. ‘You must wonder about some of them.’

This was a well-worn conversation and one Harry was always at pains to nip in the bud. She liked Bobby immensely but she couldn’t afford for him to hit upon anything close to the truth. ‘As I have pointed out more than once, these letters are written by people who believe Sherlock Holmes is a living detective who will answer their cry for help. They may not have the strongest grip on what is real and what is not.’

She felt a twinge of guilt as she spoke. While it was true that the majority of the letters were far-fetched and fanciful, she had never felt inclined to laugh or poke fun at those who had written them. In some cases, Holmes was appealed to as a last resort, when the police had failed to show an interest, or procure a satisfactory solution. In others, as in the case of John Archer and his unfortunate uncle, a more discreet investigation was sought. And notwithstanding the detective’s fictional status, Harry could almost understand the reasoning that drove so many people to write to him. Sherlock Holmes had an impressive success rate. Nothing got past his gimlet gaze. But there was another reason that ensured Harry treated every letter with respect and compassion. It was that she herself had bought into the pretence that Holmes was real, when she had replied to Esme Longstaff and John Archer, and agreed to investigate the mysteries they laid out before her.

Bobby sniffed. ‘They can’t all be loopy. I bet there are more crimes going unpunished than you’d think.’ He nodded at the bundles of letters. ‘It’s a shame Sherlock Holmes don’t exist. He’d make a fortune out of that lot.’

In the stories, Holmes had never been motivated by money, often charging a minimal fee or sometimes nothing at all. Harry had followed his example, refusing payment for her own investigative efforts. To do otherwise would have felt very wrong. But once again, Bobby’s innocent musings were scratching at a door she needed to keep firmly locked. She fixed him with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid I really should get on. Was there anything else?’

As ever, he didn’t seem to take the dismissal personally. ‘Fair enough, Miss White. See you tomorrow, I expect.’

Once he had gone, Harry turned her attention back to her typewriter and continued with the tedious work of typing the same letter she had produced so many times before. She tried not to think about the cluster of envelopes Bobby had left for her. The job was never ending, a mind-numbingly dull task that would surely have driven even the legendary Sisyphus to throw up his hands in despair. But that had been Simeon Pemberton’s goal. He couldn’t have sacked Harry without the danger of a scandal, so his revenge had been relegation to a role she would find intolerable. But Harry’s doll-like appearance hid a steel spine, something Pemberton might have suspected had he been aware of Harry’s true status in life. The Abinger family motto was SUIS STAT VIRIBUS – ‘He stands by his own strength’ – and she had always been taught to hold her ground when it mattered. The fact that she had not been the only victim of Pemberton’s lustful nature only made Harry more determined not to show any sign of dissatisfaction with her work. Tea helped, as did a selection of excellent biscuits from Fortnum and Mason, and the occasional deviation from the standard reply to the letters she read. It was a little depressing that Oliver had made her promise not to do so again.

The rest of her working day passed without incident. She took her lunch break in Regent’s Park, enjoying the faded blue skies above the spindle-fingered trees in spite of the bitter chill in the air. When it was time to go home, she set her trap in the frame of the door and made her way to Baker Street. The temperature had fallen along with dusk; people hurried along the darkening pavements, heads down against the wintry wind. Few paused at the newspaper sellers but their cries rang out in an effort to tempt them. ‘Read all about it! Priceless diamond stolen from locked room. Read all about it!’

Harry almost stopped in her tracks, which caused irritated exclamations to ring out behind her. She ignored the muttered complaints, staring at the newspaper board upon which the headline was emblazoned in bold black print. ‘I wonder,’ she muttered, frowning as she rummaged in her purse for a coin to pay the seller. A moment later, she stood in the lee of the nearest building, squinting at the newsprint with avid interest. It was exactly as the headline proclaimed – the priceless Sora-Sora diamond had been stolen from a seemingly locked room in a Mayfair town house. The theft had been discovered that morning and the police were said to be baffled. Harry read the entire article twice, then lowered the newspaper, staring absently at the trundling traffic. Could this be the impossible crime referred to in Moriarty’s advertisement in yesterday’s edition of The Times? Was there a chance it might be a serious challenge after all?

2

The first thing Harry did upon reaching the sanctuary of her apartment was to remove her hat and coat and stow them neatly, ready for the morning. She set the kettle on the hob to boil, then took out the clipping she had snipped from the newspaper before leaving Abinger Hall that morning. It had been sandwiched between the pages of the Dorothy L. Sayers novel she was reading and she had all but forgotten it was there until she had seen the jewel theft headlines. Now she read it again, seeking a hidden meaning or subtle clue that would tell her whether she was leaping to a fantastical conclusion rather than assessing the facts. According to Conan Doyle, Moriarty was fond of the occasional chess reference or cypher but if there was a secret message in this real-life challenge to Holmes, Harry could not discern it. Frustrated at her own dim-wittedness, she set about lighting the fire. The apartment had been empty since before Christmas and a musty chill hung in the air, causing the living room to feel drab and unwelcoming after the warmth of Abinger Hall’s many fireplaces. Of course, that household was managed by an army of domestic staff and Harry had no one but herself. Perhaps she ought to look into taking on a maid, someone who could visit daily and undertake the small housekeeping tasks Harry herself found it difficult to fit in around her working life, but it seemed awfully extravagant when it was only her. She couldn’t offer accommodation, either, so it would need to be a local girl. And what would she think of an employer who kept drab clothes and down-at-heel shoes under the bed in case they needed to disguise themselves? Harry shook her head. The risk was too great. She would simply have to put up with laying the fire and changing the bedlinen herself.

Once the tinder had begun to crackle in the fireplace, Harry turned her attention to another necessary comfort: the kettle had begun to whistle. Using a little of the boiling water to warm the teapot, she set the tray. But no sooner had she measured the tea leaves into the pot than the telephone rang.

‘Mayfair 831,’ she said into the receiver.

‘Have you seen the evening headlines?’

The clipped voice belonged to Oliver and he did not sound pleased. Harry didn’t need him to elaborate. ‘The diamond theft. Yes, I saw it. Do you think it’s connected to Moriarty’s letter?’

He grunted. ‘It’s certainly an impossible crime. I’ve spoken to a contact at Scotland Yard and they have no idea how the theft happened. The room was locked, there was a guard on the door to ensure no one went in or out, and the safe is the latest top-of-the-range model from Compton and Wendell – installed last year, secreted in the wall and supposedly unbreakable.’

Harry recalled the front page, which had been full of sensation but scant on detail. The Sora-Sora gemstone was an exceptionally rare red diamond – one of only ten or so in the known world – and currently occupied pride of place in a magnificent, many-jewelled tiara belonging to the Crown Prince of Rangier. Its presence in the Berkeley Square house was perhaps the most baffling thing of all: the prince and his wife were visiting London ahead of a state dinner with His Majesty King George V but they had been widely reported as occupying the lavish Royal Suite at the Savoy Hotel. Harry could understand why such a precious item might not have been entrusted to the hotel’s safety deposit box but the Savoy was only a stone’s throw from Coutts Bank on the Strand, where she assumed Crown Prince Rupert must have an account. How had the Sora-Sora diamond come to be in a private residence in the first place?

‘The house belongs to Lord Delaware,’ Oliver said, when Harry voiced her puzzlement. ‘He was a diplomatic attaché to Rangier for years and apparently became firm friends with the Crown Prince. I imagine that has something to do with it but I don’t know more at present.’

Harry nibbled thoughtfully at her lip. Just north of Piccadilly, Berkeley Square sat in the heart of Mayfair. Its four rows were made up of a mixture of grand town houses, newer apartments blocks and discreet businesses, all of which faced onto the leafy, oval-shaped public gardens. It was an extremely desirable address, traditionally occupied by the wealthiest of residents, and she was sure there were plenty of valuables stored within the properties overlooking the elegant gardens. It wasn’t a surprise that there should be a heavy-duty safe in Lord Delaware’s house but it was astonishing that a priceless royal diamond should be stored there. ‘I assume the household staff are under suspicion,’ she said.

‘Naturally,’ Oliver replied. ‘But Lord Delaware is adamant they knew nothing of what was being kept in the safe. Prince Rupert’s own man sat guarding the door and only Delaware held the key. Yet when he and the guard unlocked the door to retrieve the tiara, the safe lay open and the Sora-Sora diamond was missing.’

‘Only the diamond?’ Harry pressed. ‘Not the entire tiara?’

‘Apparently not,’ Oliver said. ‘Which is remarkable in itself.’

‘Remarkable indeed,’ she mused. ‘What kind of thief goes to so much trouble and only takes one jewel?’