Page 33 of Marriage and Murder
“Bad news?” Stokes asked before she or Barnaby could.
Portentously, Mallard nodded. “Turns out the jewels in both bracelet and necklace are paste. But Swithin swears that the last time he saw the bracelet, the stones were very much the real thing. That was a couple of years back when Miss Huntingdon brought the piece in for cleaning. I didn’t know you cleaned jewelry, but apparently, you do.”
“Most definitely,” Penelope declared. “And aquamarines are tricky to clean.”
“Where is Swithin?” Stokes asked, his gaze going to the area deeper inside the station.
“I had to let him get back to his shop,” Mallard said. “He insisted he couldn’t leave his assistant alone the whole day. But he said he’d be there for you to speak with. Mind you, he didn’t seem to know anything about Miss Huntingdon being murdered, and I didn’t tell him.”
Stokes nodded in approval. “Where is Swithin’s shop?”
“Go to the opposite corner of the marketplace,” Mallard said, “then on a few steps along Silver Street. Swithin’s Jewelers. You can’t miss it.”
Stokes thanked him, and with nods all around, they left the building.
Morgan had waited outside with Phelps and the carriage. Penelope walked straight to the carriage door, which Connor held for her. She climbed up, and after giving Phelps directions, Barnaby and Stokes joined her.
She and they waited with suppressed impatience while Phelps guided the carriage back around the marketplace. They passed the market cross and turned onto Silver Street. Penelope peered out of the window, squinting ahead. “There it is—Swithin’s Jewelers.”
The carriage drew smoothly into the curb, and Stokes opened the door and got down. Barnaby and Penelope followed. They paused on the pavement to take stock of the establishment.
Swithin’s Jewelers showed the world a well-kept storefront, with two large bow windows on either side of a white-painted door. The glass in the windows was spotless and the surrounds swept scrupulously clean. Blue-velvet-covered trays displayed earrings, rings, bracelets, necklaces, and all manner of jewelry, artfully arranged to make the best of the light that struck through the leaded glass panes.
The door was half glazed, and a bell above it tinkled when Stokes turned the brass knob and led them inside.
The shop had counters running along the side and rear walls, beneath some of which were glass-fronted cases, and more such cases displaying everything from clocks to jeweled combs filled the walls behind the counters. Completing the rather spacious layout, in the center of the shop sat a delicate gate-legged table with three matching chairs, one behind and two in front. The table’s highly polished surface supported two small brass-mounted mirrors on stands, the arrangement inviting customers to sit and examine and try on selected pieces.
Prosperous gentility all but hung in the air.
As with Barnaby beside her, Penelope followed Stokes deeper into the shop, she tipped her head toward Barnaby and murmured, “This wouldn’t be out of place in Hatton Garden.”
“Hmm.” Then he murmured back, “Perhaps not Hatton Garden—not enough diamonds—but maybe the lower reaches of Ludgate Hill.”
Penelope glanced around, then whispered, “At least there are no customers here at the moment.”
She followed Stokes to where, behind the rear counter, an older man stood with the practiced smile of an experienced shopkeeper on his face. He wore a tweed suit that somehow complemented his bountiful whiskers, and the creases in his face marked him as a cheerful sort. But his gaze was as acutely assessing as any shopkeeper’s, and as he took in Stokes’s rather grim visage, the man’s welcoming smile faded into a more tentative look, but then he saw Penelope and Barnaby, and that look grew distinctly confused.
Stokes halted before the counter and, understanding the man’s uncertainty, explained, “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, and these are Mr. and Mrs. Adair, who are acting as consultants on this case. Mr. Swithin, I presume? I believe Superintending Constable Mallard warned you to expect us.”
“Oh yes. Well, he told me an inspector would call.” Swithin looked vaguely alarmed. “I must say, I hadn’t expected Scotland Yard to investigate such a relatively minor incident. I’m not even sure Miss Huntingdon yet knows that her jewelry has been stolen.”
Stokes gravely said, “I’m sorry to have to inform you, Swithin, that Miss Viola Huntingdon was murdered in her home last Thursday afternoon.”
Swithin paled and clutched the counter. “Oh, good God! Dear me!” He drew in a steadying breath, then went on, “The poor lady! Murdered, you say?”
When Stokes nodded, Swithin continued, “What a dreadful thing.” He frowned, then focused on Stokes and earnestly said, “I do hope it wasn’t anything to do with the jewels being, well, effectively stolen?” His frown deepened. “Possibly twice. The stones first and then the pieces themselves.”
“As to that, we can’t yet say,” Stokes replied, “but we’re grateful to you for bringing the bracelet and necklace to us and reporting the attempt to sell them to you. We understand that Miss Huntingdon brought the bracelet and necklace to you last Wednesday.”
Swithin nodded. “She brought the bracelet, and she was wearing the necklace, which had been made to match. Not by me, I should add. The catch on the bracelet had come loose, and as I had crafted the piece and she and her family were longtime customers of mine, she brought it to me to fix. Which I did. However, I couldn’t help but see that the stones, which had been quite a fine set of aquamarines, had been replaced with paste. I debated whether to mention it, but I knew she was reasonably well-off, so I very gently inquired, and she was quite taken aback. She immediately had me examine the necklace, and I had to tell her that those stones, too, were paste. Quite good imitations, mind—they would have fooled most people—but they were fake, nonetheless.”
“How did she take the news?” Penelope asked.
Swithin looked uncomfortable. “I fear I had given her a terrible shock. It was plain that she hadn’t known of the substitution, which didn’t surprise me.”
Barnaby asked, “Did she mention who she suspected of replacing the stones?”
Swithin shook his head. “But I could tell from her expression and the way she pokered up that she knew who it must have been, and the realization quite floored her. Indeed, I venture to say she was devastated, but of course, a lady like her, she drew it all in, put on her best face, glossed over the moment, and soldiered on. Her sort always do.”
