The Clock Strikes Twelve

Chapter 43

Mr. Harrison arrived very punctually at half past two. At a quarter to three precisely he opened James Paradine’s safe. The original intention had been that Mark and Richard Paradine should be present, but in view of recent developments it was decided that as many of the family as were in the house should be invited to attend. Miss Silver was there, and so was an inconspicuous Mr. Jones, sent up by Birleton’s leading firm of valuers. Miss Paradine raised her eyes at him and, leaning towards Mark, enquired in a low voice whether he was Mr. Harrison’s clerk. On receiving a negative reply she appeared faintly surprised, but asked no further.

Mr. Harrison, having opened the safe, stepped back and made way for Superintendent Vyner, who proceeded to lift out and lay upon the writing-table the faded red leather cases which Mr. Paradine had handled on the night of his death. He took hold of them with a carefully gloved hand, and as he set each one down he touched the spring and threw back the lid.

“We’ll just check up on these before we go any further, Mr. Harrison.”

Mr. Harrison produced a list and read from it:-

“Diamond tiara-valued three years ago, £4,000.

Diamond solitaire earrings-ditto £1,000.

Solitaire diamond ring-£500.

Diamond cluster ring-£200.

Diamond marquise ring-£150.

Diamond half-hoop ring-£200.

Pair diamond bracelets-£1,000.

Corsage ornament-£2,000.

Diamond bar brooch-£100.

Diamond sunburst-£400.

Diamond butterfly-£150.

Diamond trefoil brooch-£200.”

“All present and correct,” said Vyner. He glanced over his shoulder in a casual manner. “Mr. Jones, will you be so good-”

Everyone had been looking at the diamonds. Grace Paradine had not seen them for twenty years. Strange to think of them shut up like that in the dark, keeping their beauty and their brilliance as they had kept their value. Clara’s diamonds-the thought went through her mind slightingly. She had never really liked Clara. They took Frank Ambrose back to the last time he had seen his mother wear them. She had looked ill and frail. Over their glitter her eyes had been tired, and faded, and kind. Richard, Lydia, Phyllida, and Elliot Wray had never seen them before except in the portrait above the mantelpiece. Mark had both seen and handled them. His look passed over them without interest. He was wishing only that all this formal business should be over, for then he would know whether they were going to arrest him or not. The diamonds had for him at the moment about as much allure as chips of gravel. Albert Pearson, who might have been supposed to take a professional interest, appeared almost as indifferent. And yet that was perhaps not quite the right word. Hesitating on the outskirts of the group about the table, he seemed to experience some embarrassment at being there at all. As a relation he would hardly have a claim. As James Paradine’s secretary then? But he was not being called upon for any professional duty. He blinked once or twice behind his thick lenses and pushed sweating hands deep into his pockets.

Mr. Jones said “Allow me-” and stepped past him.

Sitting primly upright at the far side of the table, Miss Silver watched him come. She was not knitting. Her hands rested in her lap. Her eyes were bright and very intent. They watched Mr. Jones-a little man, fair-skinned and indeterminate, with old-fashioned pince-nez sitting rather crooked, and a set of gleaming artificial teeth which imparted a slight lisp to his speech. He came right up to the table, bent over the cases, looking into each with an effect of painstaking scrutiny, and said in his gentle, lisping voice,

“You are aware, I suppose, Mr. Paradine, that some of these stones are copies?”

Shocked into immediate interest, Mark straightened up, came forward a step, and standing level with Mr. Jones and the Superintendent, said in a startled tone,

“What do you mean?”

Mr. Jones picked up a pen from the table, held it poised, and used the nib as a pointer. It hovered above the trefoil brooch.

“That is a copy-very good paste. So is the butterfly-and the bar brooch. So are the stones in these solitaire earrings and the solitaire ring. The large centre stone in the corsage ornament has also been replaced by paste.”

Mark said, “What!” And then, “Are you sure?”

Mr. Jones showed his gleaming dentures in a slight pitying smile.

“There is no doubt of it at all, Mr. Paradine.”

Silence descended on the room. Superintendent Vyner’s eyes turned towards Miss Silver. As plainly as if he had spoken, they said, “Well, there’s your motive.”

Miss Silver coughed, and, as if by one consent, they both looked at Albert Pearson. It was not only his hands that were sweating now. His forehead glistened. Even to the most casual eye he was ill, and ill at ease.

Vyner turned to Mr. Jones.

“The rest of the stones all right?”

Mr. Jones produced a pocket magnifying glass and brought it to bear upon each piece of jewelry in turn. The process appeared to be interminable. But in time all things come to an end. The magnifying glass went back into a deep breast pocket. Mr. Jones lisped his assurances, and was encouraged to depart. The door shutting behind him sounded to Albert Pearson like the crack of doom. His heart beat with sickening heavy thumps. His hair was clammy on his brow. Through the mist which clouded his glasses he was aware that everyone had turned in his direction. It was like the worst kind of nightmare. He heard Superintendent Vyner addressing him by name.

“Will you come up to the table, Mr. Pearson. I should like to ask you one or two questions. At the same time it is my duty to warn you that what you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

He came forward, stumbled upon a chair, and finding himself seated, began mechanically to polish his misted glasses. When he put them on again there was a smart young constable with a notebook almost at his elbow and everyone was looking at him-everyone except Phyllida, who looked as if she was going to cry. Of the others, Miss Paradine wore the kind of expression with which she might have dismissed a dishonest kitchenmaid. It was too much de-haut-en-bas to be vindictive, but it held a very definite trace of satisfaction. He was not only outside the family circle now, he was judged and damned before ever a word was spoken. As he sat there he could feel the ring of circumstance closing in to damn him. He was to be what he had always known they would make him if they could-the scape-goat. Well, he’d got his alibi-let them see if they could break it. He’d been one too many for them there. He squared his shoulders, leaned forward with his arms upon the table, and said,

“I’m perfectly willing to answer any question you like.”

They were all looking at him. The Superintendent and Mark standing together over the laid-out cases where the diamonds caught the light. Lydia Pennington on Mark’s other side, moving closer, slipping her hand inside his elbow. Elliot Wray with an arm round Phyllida, who was shaking-and what had she got to shake about, damn her? Against the mantelpiece, directly under his mother’s portrait, Frank Ambrose staring gloomily, not so much at him as past him down the room. Across the corner from the Superintendent, at the end of the table, Miss Silver, dumpy and dowdy, with her ridiculous bog-oak brooch and the small bright eyes which looked you through and through. Across the other corner from her, Mr. Harrison, grave and shocked. Beyond him Miss Paradine, Richard, and right at his elbow here, the young constable with the notebook.

Albert Pearson set his mind, set that rather heavy jaw, met all those shocked, accusing looks, and said stubbornly,

“Well-what about it?”