Page 53 of Marriage and Murder
“How did that work, incidentally?” Penelope asked. “With the aquamarines, you said you were selling them on commission. For him? If so, do you have some arrangement with him to pass on the proceeds?”
Perhaps Jacobs could arrange a meeting.
But Jacobs shook his head. “He always knew the approximate price of the stones he had me replace, and we’d agree on a total that I could reasonably expect to make on their eventual sale, then from that, I deducted my price for making the new matching piece plus my fee, then I’d pay him the rest up front.”
“So,” Stokes said, “he’s been in the habit of bringing you jewelry and essentially trading it for cash for years?”
Jacobs shifted on the chair. “I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but…yes, that’s more or less how we dealt.”
“How often did you do work for him?” Barnaby asked.
Jacobs shrugged. “He appears every four or five months with a new piece. All very different in style, but the same deal—replace the stones, make a matching piece, and give him the difference in cash.”
Barnaby exchanged a look with Penelope and Stokes, but there was nothing else they could think of to ask.
From his position by the wall, Mallard asked, “Do you have any idea where this Mr. Farmer lives?”
Jacobs started to shake his head, then stopped, and after a moment’s thought, offered, “Somewhere local, meaning somewhere around Salisbury. I’ve glimpsed him a few times over the years, walking in the streets.”
No one had any more questions. They pushed back from the table and rose.
Stokes glanced at Mallard and tipped his head toward Jacobs. “I take it you’ll be happy to arrange accommodation for Jacobs here?”
Mallard grinned like a shark. “It will be Salisbury City Police’s pleasure, Inspector.”
Jacobs deflated and slumped in the chair.
With Penelope and Stokes, Barnaby quit the interrogation room, leaving Mallard, O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price to escort Jacobs to a cell.
The three of them climbed the stairs, then gathered at one side of the foyer, exchanging glum and dispirited looks.
“We’ve hit a dead end, I fear,” Stokes rumbled.
“Of course the damned man used an alias!” Penelope looked disgusted.
“The interesting thing,” Barnaby observed, “is that he’s used the same alias for years. Possibly for more than a decade.”
Stokes growled, “This joker needs to be caught. There’s no telling how many other women he’s charmed out of their jewelry.”
Neither Penelope nor Barnaby disagreed. They stood and thought and searched for ways forward.
Eventually, Penelope sighed. “It feels as if we took a giant leap forward, but we didn’t land where we thought we would.”
Barnaby felt equally dejected, and Stokes’s expression said he felt the same.
And from Mallard’s, O’Donnell’s, Morgan’s, and Price’s faces as they slogged up the stairs and joined them, they felt just as flat.
Then Stokes turned to Mallard. “What was that information you had for us?”
“Oh yes.” Mallard perked up. “It’s about that cove, Pincer. I caught up with a few of the old-timers, and they remembered him. The whole family, really. Seems the Pincers were an old town family, gentry, and originally, well regarded and respected, but as the years rolled by, they fell on hard times, and the word is that the current Pincer is a layabout and a wastrel, a profligate who sweet-talks his way through life.”
Penelope looked intrigued. “Go on.”
Mallard obliged. “They said he was the sort who was forever hunting his fortune via some likely lass—he’s charming to the back teeth, apparently—but wise parents see through his blarney and steer their daughters well clear, and he never struck success by that route.”
“That fits with Madeline’s view of him,” Penelope said.
Mallard tugged at one earlobe. “The one strange thing is that your husband here said Pincer has been out of the country over the past years and only just got back, but the old-timers—and more than just one—say they’ve seen him here and about, just as always. They’re certain he’s been here all along, not away someplace else.”
