The Adventure of the Deverill Diamonds

- CHAPTER ONE -

The Prison

The day Sam and I found Mr Deverill’s body was a cold, crisp Monday in the middle of November. The skies were a bright, cobalt blue with barely a wisp of cloud in them. Autumn sunlight streamed in through both my windows that morning and the world felt like a place in which no such evil deed could possibly be committed. That is how I felt anyway, but, in less than two hours, I was soon to be led out of Pimlico and into an adventure that would take me right to the heart of the slums and opium dens of London in pursuit of a murderer.

Aunt Cordelia stood before me, flexing her precious cane. I sometimes felt that the cane was an extension of her, so frequently was she to be seen holding it. Without it, her right arm would have been incomplete somehow. I knew a thwacking was coming my way.

Aunt Cordelia, despite being a lot older than me, is about my height and, although we are not related by blood, we share certain characteristics that always make strangers point out our similarities as proof of our non-existent blood-relation. She is stick-thin. So am I. She has brown hair, so do I. She has hazel eyes, so do I. She wears her hair in a bun, as do I (when I can be bothered to). She wears rather bright, shiny, satin dresses and so, at her behest, do I. The worst of it is that, although she is old, she is the same height as I am and so we share dresses. Think about one of your Aunts and, however much you love her, ask yourself the next time you see her if you would like to be seen dead wearing her dresses.. If your answer is yes, then you are a luckier girl than I, with a more stylish aunt than I possess.

Esther, you will wear what I tell you to wear, snarled Aunt Cordelia, moving steadily towards me, her hooked nose locked in a scowl, And today I wish you to wear one of my dresses.

It is not that I don’t like the dress. It is just that I do not want to get it dirty if I go out today.

An utter lie that I did not like the dress. I loathed it. The garment in question was made of crinoline and was a shocking shade of pink. I know that girls are supposed to like pink in all its forms. I am the exception. I hate pink. Not only was it pink but it was also trimmed in lace. Lace for Heaven’s sake! What self-respecting detective ever wandered the streets of London hunting for clues in a pink, lacy dress? None!

Let us get one thing clear between us, child she spat. (Aunt Cordelia has never once called me Esther, always child). While you are under our roof you will obey my instructions. If you do not, then…

She swished the cane through the air at great speed. It made a very familiar noise, the noise it always made as it swept its way down to my backside, the backs of my legs, or my hands. I am not more brave than you I am sure, and the noise struck fear into me, despite my best efforts not to show it. It was not fear of Aunt Cordelia, but fear of the pain.

I was up early this morning to make sure the dress was ready for you, she added, a smile playing about her lips as she saw me twitch in terror. Aunt Cordelia being up early was nothing new. She is, perversely, a lover of nature and a committed Christian. Every morning, without fail, at dawn, she will walk down the jetty at the side of our house and watch the sunrise or, as she puts it, The Breaking of God’s Light across the World. How such a godly woman can be such an ungodly tartar I do not know, no more than you do I dare say.

If you don’t want the whack then you will wear this dress, she stated, swishing the vile thing once more.

It is just that I was hoping to play today. To be out with… I began.

You will not be playing! she snapped. "You will be studying. Reading the new book I have acquired for you. And you will certainly not be involving yourself in any more rash and improper associations with that wretched street-child!"

But..

This tiny syllable was one too many for her. Without hesitation she lunged forwards and tightly gripped my face with her right hand. Her thumb dug into my right cheek, her fingers dug into the other. I could feel the inside of my cheeks pressing in hard on my teeth and the rest of my body froze in the hope that, if I stood still, nothing worse than this would happen.

Do NOT answer me back, child! she bellowed.

I knew that resistance was pointless. I stood still, said nothing and let her shout in my face, watching the pleasure she took in it, the relish with which she framed every syllable in her ugly, wrinkled mouth.

Your Father and I took you under our roof! And this is how you repay us! I offer you one of my finest gowns and you sneer and turn your nose up at it! You will learn gratitude, child! I will see to that!

There was a long silence between us. She was awaiting a pert response from me so she could begin the business of thrashing me (the moment she was always keen to get to). My silence foxed her. She did not move her fingers from my cheeks and I did not flinch. For a long ten seconds we stood like that, at checkmate. And, then, I relented, nodding my head as well as I could with her vice-like grip on my face.

She had won. Or so she thought. She let go of me and I turned slowly around to face the wretched dress. I picked it up, slipping it slowly over my underclothes. The material was smooth and plush. If I had been planning on attending my first vomit-inducing coming-out ball, or going to the annual Dress As A Frilly Flamingo dance it would have been the perfect thing to wear. I pushed my arms through the sleeves and the dress was on.

Aunt Cordelia, I said in my most cowed voice, before you lock me in for the day might Mrs Gritton be able to come and help me with the ties at the back of the dress, please?

For the briefest of moments I saw suspicion flash into her face. It was not like me to be so obedient and, denied the pleasure of whacking me, she was on the lookout for something afoot. I gave her my best innocent look, even working in a faint angelic smile. She was seemingly calmed and the expression of doubt passed from her face reluctantly.

She shouted for Mrs Gritton who, reeking of the wash house and the kitchen at one and the same time, her rounded cheeks red and blotchy, bustled into the room moments later. I would like to tell you that Mrs Gritton is the Peggotty to my David Copperfield. She isn’t. She is always squarely on Aunt Cordelia’s side, even if it is plainly the wrong side. Her husband died quite a long time ago, I suspect, just to get away from her.

Mrs Gritton was wearing her apron and my heart gave a faint leap inside my chest at the sight of it, knowing what she kept in its left pocket. This was what I had been hoping for.

Mrs Gritton, could you assist the child with the ties on this dress, please? Aunt Cordelia asked, a wisp of exasperation in her voice. I have no desire to go near her. (A fact I had also been counting on).

She been playin’ you up agin, the little brute? Mrs Gritton asked.

When isn’t she? huffed Aunt Cordelia.

Young varmint! bellowed Mrs Gritton and she clipped me around the head. Mrs Gritton always has a different insult to offer me. All of them offensive and unkind but they do, at the very least, make a change from being called child.

Ignoring the pain in my head, I turned on the spot, the back of the dress open, awaiting Mrs Gritton’s assistance. Oh, if only she would carry on with her verbal attack on me, then every noise I might make would be concealed under her loud voice! I could hear her steaming over to me, fury in her steps. She came close to me and stood between me and Aunt Cordelia. Luck was on my side as the moment she started tying me into the dress she began the assault. With her blocking the view there was no way that Aunt Cordelia would see what I was about to do.

You young barbarian! When I fink of all the gifts what you’ve been given in this ‘ouse! Fink of all the time what’s been wasted on ya! You ungrateful little beast! Master and Mistress should’ve left you on the streets ya nasty little gargoyle!

And so it went on as she tied each strip of material, slowly fastening me into the dress. I, naturally, was paying no attention whatsoever to what she was saying. My attention instead was fixed on slowly reaching behind me with my left hand and delving into her left apron pocket - the pocket in which I knew she kept the spare key to my room. The snag was that, as she tied each tie, she did it with such force that it moved my arm backwards slightly. As she reached the third tie I had managed to reach the pocket and my hand was about to go inside when, with a jolt, my hand was pulled back. Luckily, Mrs Gritton was so wrapped up in her ranting that she failed to notice what my hand was doing.

I moved once more into the pocket and, in a second, had my hand around the key. Another tie was tied with force and my hand shot out of the pocket, holding the mortice key tightly. I felt certain that the game was up and that she would notice my hand holding the key. She did not, thank goodness. All she thought of was the next insult she would hurl at the wretched monster whose dress she was fastening. Six more ties and I was bound into the dress. I would not be able to take it off without help, so tight were the ties binding me.

Mrs Gritton spun me around. I put my hands behind my back and thrust out my chest in mock pride of being in the blasted thing at last, all of this to conceal the fact that I was clasping the key to my room in my left hand as if it were the most precious treasure on Earth.

There! puffed Mrs Gritton.

Thank you, Mrs Gritton I simpered.

Yes, thank you, Mrs Gritton echoed Aunt Cordelia, surprised that I had beaten her to it.

Is that all, miss? Mrs Gritton asked.

Yes, thank you, my aunt replied.

I’ll be gettin’ back to the kitchens then. Away from this ungrateful devil! she exclaimed, turning on her heel and leaving the room at pace.

Study, child said Aunt Cordelia, with great emphasis. She reached out to the mantelpiece and thrust a book in my face. I took it carefully with my right hand. The cover read: Routledge’s Book of Etiquette for Ladies. My bookshelf was stocked with very few things; a Dictionary, the Bible and the complete works of Charles Dickens (whom I adore). Did I really now have to add this ghastly book to it? I’m not sure that Mr Dickens would take the addition kindly.

"Perhaps one day we might make you presentable, hissed Aunt Cordelia. Read the book and learn some manners. At least, we may make you presentable enough by tomorrow evening."

Tomorrow evening? I asked.

Your Father’s grand ball, as I have already told you! I advised him not to take you, but he said it would make for bad appearances if you weren’t in attendance. What you have done to deserve such a thoughtful and kind Father I am sure I do not know. Do you?

No, Aunt, I replied in all honesty. I had no idea what I had done to deserve him. If I were his real daughter, I think it would be different, but I’m not, so it isn’t.

She, as if in honour of Mrs Gritton’s exit, also turned on her heel, left the room (shutting the door behind her) and turned her own key in the lock. Her steps sounded down the corridor and soon she was gone.

I threw the boring Book of Etiquette onto the bed and unclenched my left hand to look at the key. Astonished that my rather obvious ruse had worked I gazed at the key in wonder. I had now to wait a few minutes until Aunt Cordelia left for the day, unlock my door (checking for Gritton’s tread) and then I was free for the day. Of course, my theft would be uncovered, I would be punished and would face the cane but, I reasoned, I was facing it anyway and I had at least managed to bag myself one day of escape.

The minutes passed slowly, but pass they did. I heard the sound of Aunt Cordelia descending the stairs past Mr Deverill’s quarters and then the front door closing behind her. I watched her walk down our road and out of sight. This was the moment.

I slowly put the key in the lock and turned it. The lock made a loud metallic clunk which made me wince. I gingerly pulled the door open a crack and looked out to the corridor. Nothing.

I tiptoed out of the room closing the door as quietly as I could behind me. I walked down to the end of the corridor and out of the door leading to the stairs. My last dread was that Mr Deverill would leave his rooms and catch me making a hasty exit.

A silly thought as the only people I’ve ever seen coming in or out of Eugene Deverill’s door (apart from himself on rare occasions) are his niece - Hettie Deverill - and the local police constable - P. C. Edward Burdon (or Ned as he likes to be called). P.C. Burdon visited Mr Deverill every Monday at 9.30am to check the diamonds in the safe were still present and correct and to check on the security of the rooms in which Mr Deverill lives. He had bars on all the windows, lots of locks on the door and rarely left his rooms, so I do not quite understand how the diamonds could have disappeared in the space of a week, but old people are funny, aren’t they? Mr Deverill certainly was.

Mr Deverill had acquired his diamonds and wealth through years of mining in Kimberley in South Africa. Why, you will be asking, (if he is so fabulously rich) does he live in the rooms below my family’s?  Well, put simply, Eugene Deverill was a miser. He hated to part with money unnecessarily. He hoarded his money and he kept his diamonds in a tightly locked, crack-proof (Sam’s word), safe. He was, if you like, very similar to Ebenezer Scrooge - the miser from Mr Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’. But I can hear Sam’s voice in my head telling me off for bringing Dickens into it, so on I go…

Mr Deverill was 60-something years old, but looked much older. Greed had withered his face and tightened his skin fast to his bones, giving him the look of a laboratory skeleton who, on a whim had put on some ill-fitting, grubby clothes, a pair of half-moon spectacles and a once-exotic -but now dusty and faded - African hat.

On the few occasions I had spoken to Mr Deverill I had found him to be a little frightening. He had a peering expression, which made him gaze at me as if I had just uttered the stupidest words ever uttered by humankind when all I had offered up was a jolly good morning!  He was not a kind man, certainly not to what remained of his family, and he was even less tolerant of strangers or, in my case, nodding acquaintances on the staircase.

As I tiptoed down the stairs I hoped that that stretched, skeletal face would not peep out and catch me in the act of escape. Remembering that I would hear the sound of five locks being thrown back before he got anywhere near opening his door, I calmed myself down and told myself in no uncertain terms to stop being a twit.

I crept down the stairs and made it to the front door. I opened it and felt the golden sunshine hit my face, the chilly November wind making my skin goose-flesh immediately. But what did I care about the cold! I was outside. The day was beautiful and it was all mine. I closed the door behind me and ran as fast I could to find Sam. Little did I know at that moment, of course, that I was leaving behind a house that was soon to be the scene of a terrible crime.

- CHAPTER TWO -

The Hiding To Nothing

The streets were teeming with lots of people. Sellers plying their wares, businessmen on the way to their important City jobs, all classes of people heading to the factory or the office. I ran past them all as fast as I could in the restrictive dress; past the one-legged song pedlar at the end of our road, down long avenues where elegant ladies could not help but gape as I streaked past them. Every morning Sam was always to be found sweeping his crossing on Beak Street in Soho and I pelted there as fast as I could.

I am not the most athletic person and, I must say, by the time I reached Soho I was out of breath and panting like an ancient, but still eager, spaniel who had seen happier days. As I ran into Beak Street I stopped running, spying Sam in the distance with his friends - Peter Simpson (a tiny boy with a high-pitched voice and more breathing problems than I was currently having) and Noah Cartwright (a slightly older boy and, in my opinion, something of a bully).

They were playing a game which seemed to involve kicking a sizeable stone to one another. Walking towards them, struggling to catch my breath, I could see that Noah was not just kicking the stone to poor little Peter, but at him. Boys, I thought to myself, are strange. This kind of game, which would occupy a girl