‘We’ll soon find out,’ said the commander, ‘because there’s one more job I need her to do. So let’s hope hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’
‘Do you know where that saying comes from?’ asked William, leaning back in his chair.
‘The Mourning Bride,’ said the Hawk, without missing a beat.
‘Written by William Congreve in 1697,’ added Paul.
‘A Restoration writer and dramatist who was educated at Trinity College Dublin,’ offered Rebecca.
‘Born in 1670 and died in 1729,’ said Jackie, stifling a yawn.
William threw his arms in the air and accepted he’d been set up.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Rebecca, ‘scorned or not, I think she’s still in love with Summers.’ After telling the team everything Nicky had told her over breakfast that morning, she produced a small leather box and placed it in the middle of the table. ‘She left this on the hall stand this morning before she went back to Romford.’
‘I presume it’s empty,’ said Paul, flicking open the lid.
‘Yes, but as I said, Nicky was no longer wearing the ring, so she clearly wanted me to find the box.’
William studied the gold lettering inside: House of Garrard, founded 1735. 24 Albemarle Street, London W1.
‘It’s often something small and unexpected that finally catches them out,’ said the commander. ‘Well done, Rebecca. However, I don’t consider it would be appropriate for you to follow up this particular lead. Leave that to DI Warwick. Now let’s all get back to work. We’ve only got a few days before Summers returns from Malaga, so remember, there’s no sleep—’
‘For the wicked,’ they all chorused.
William was standing outside the entrance of Garrard’s in Albemarle Street forty minutes later, only to be greeted with a closed sign. He checked the opening hours printed in neat black letters on the glass door: Mon — Sat 10–5. He had to agree with F. Scott Fitzgerald: the rich are different.
He decided to take a walk around the block to kill some time before the jewellers opened. As he passed the Royal Institution, he spotted a poster in the window: Visit Michael Faraday’s laboratory. It opened at nine o’clock.
He went inside, and joined a trickle of visitors as they descended the stairs that led to the laboratory of the great nineteenth-century scientist. William marvelled at the genius of the man who’d first turned electrical power into mechanical motion, and vice versa. It amused him to read what Sir Robert Peel had said at the time, ‘But tell me, Faraday, what’s the point of it?’ To which Faraday had replied, ‘What’s the point of a newborn baby, prime minister?’
It was only after the clock struck ten that William reluctantly stepped back into the twentieth century. He made his way upstairs and headed back to Garrard’s. Running through his mind were the questions he’d prepared on the Tube to Green Park earlier that morning. He remembered that Beth had once told him she would happily strangle anyone who even thought about stealing her engagement ring.
A uniformed guard opened the door for him as if he were a customer about to spend thousands of pounds on a bauble. He walked across to one of the counters and presented his warrant card to a young woman.
‘Would it be possible to speak to the manager?’
The woman picked up a phone, pressed a button and passed on the message. After a brief pause she put down the phone and said, ‘Please follow me, inspector.’
She led him up an elegant spiral staircase to the first floor, where the manager was waiting for him.
‘Good morning, inspector. My name is Paul Gumbley.’
They shook hands, and Gumbley opened a door that led into an inner sanctum where kings, maharajahs, presidents, and the occasional dictator were invited to view treasures mere mortals would never see.
‘How may I be of assistance, inspector?’
‘I’m investigating the theft of an engagement ring which was purchased here,’ said William, as he handed over the little leather box bearing the Garrard’s insignia.
‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can tell you from this,’ said the manager. ‘I don’t suppose you have the receipt?’ William shook his head. ‘Have you any idea how long ago it would have been purchased?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said William.
‘Oddly enough, one of your colleagues visited me some time ago, and asked about the theft of some jewellery.’ He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a diary and began to turn back the pages.
Tell me his name was Summers, prayed William.
‘Ah, yes, here it is,’ said Gumbley, after turning several pages of his diary. ‘An Inspector Prescott from West End Central. He came in to enquire about some jewellery that had been stolen from a house in Mayfair. Although I’m unable to reveal the name of the customer concerned, I can confirm that an engagement ring was among the items stolen.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said William. ‘Just out of interest, how much did the ring cost?’
‘A little over three thousand pounds,’ said Gumbley casually.
‘Then you’re never going to meet my wife,’ said William, with a smile.
Gumbley accompanied him back downstairs. ‘I hope you find the man who stole the ring,’ he said, as he opened the shop door.
‘He’s not the one I’m after,’ said William, leaving a puzzled look on the manager’s face.
Once he was back on Albemarle Street, he immediately headed for West End Central police station in Savile Row. He passed several art galleries on the way that he would have liked to drop into and browse for an hour or two, but not today.
When he reached the nick he went inside and presented his warrant card to the station officer, who checked it before taking a second look at him and asking, ‘How can I help, inspector?’
William wondered how old he’d have to be before other officers didn’t look surprised by his rank. ‘Is Inspector Prescott on duty?’ he asked.
‘I saw him go up to his office earlier this morning. I’ll give him a bell.’ He picked up the phone and said, ‘I have an Inspector Warwick at the desk, sir. He wondered if you could see him.’
‘Send him up!’ barked a voice.
‘Top of the stairs, first door on the right, sir,’ said the desk sergeant.
William thanked him, climbed the stairs and knocked on the first door, waiting until he heard the command, ‘Come!’ before entering.
William was greeted by a colleague who was clearly nearing the end of his career. A lined and crumpled face that had experienced a life of crime. He shook William warmly by the hand and said, ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m following up a burglary in your manor. The theft of an engagement ring, among several other expensive pieces of jewellery. The manager of Garrard’s told me that you visited him about it.’
‘Mr and Mrs van Haeften,’ said Prescott. He got up from behind his desk, walked across to a filing cabinet and flicked through several files, before extracting one.
‘Mr van Haeften reported the theft last year,’ he said as he returned to his desk. ‘They’d only been married a few months, and Mrs van Haeften left me in no doubt that she wanted her engagement ring back, and I should drop every other case I was working on until I found it.’
William began to turn the pages, occasionally pausing to make a note and to sip from a mug of foul coffee. ‘Thank you, inspector,’ he said finally, handing back the file.
‘Do you know who was responsible for the burglary?’ asked Prescott.
‘No. But I’m pretty sure I know the thief catcher who stole the ring from the thief.’
Inspector Prescott knew when not to press for more information. ‘Please give my regards to the Hawk,’ he said.
‘You know my boss?’