A Death in Diamonds

Meanwhile they didn’t want him to stop the investigation, which he had no intention of doing anyway. He had plenty to do that didn’t involve lifting up stones and seeing if the inconsistent Gregsons crawled out from under them. For now, he was busy. In fact, he was about to interview a Government minister concerning the matter of some inconveniently located diamonds.

He had put on his best suit today – of the two that he possessed – and his favourite tie. It was navy blue and slightly narrower than was traditional. He liked to think it gave him a certain air. Woolgar, needless to say, had traces of egg on his lapel which he tried to brush off with one hand when they were pointed out to him.

‘You need to get yourself in hand, Woolgar,’ Darbishire said, not unkindly. He sent his sergeant off to the lavatories to do a better job of it. Lord Seymour was a VIP. For the sake of the Met, they need to look their best.

The minister lived with his wife and servants in a large house on Smith Street, a gentle stroll from Westminster Abbey and the political cut and thrust of Whitehall. When Darbishire and Woolgar knocked at the polished front door, it was answered by a butler who took their hats and showed them upstairs to a book-lined room, lit by a large Georgian window, with the promise that the minister would be with them shortly.

‘Not bad, sir,’ Woolgar pronounced, giving the walnut bookcases and antique carriage clock an approving eye.

‘All right if you can afford it,’ Darbishire admitted.

Seymour had inherited a family business and a small property empire, which he had made bigger by investing in car parks after the war, buying up old bomb sites and exploiting them in ways no one else had thought of. All this while rising rapidly through the ranks of the Conservative Party. It was widely thought that Mr Macmillan had great plans for him.

He had avoided meeting the police for two weeks since the auction house leaked news of the tiara, citing travel abroad and urgent Government business. Darbishire expected someone lofty and dismissive, but the man who arrived two minutes later was smooth and smiling, warm in his handshake, keen to look you in the eye. He apologised profusely for the delay in seeing them and asked them to make themselves comfortable in a couple of club chairs. Ashtrays were placed beside them by the butler before he withdrew. Seymour offered them cigarettes. Darbishire refused, but he could see why this man had gone so far in politics.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re so busy, sir.’

‘You’re not disturbing me at all, Chief Inspector. Only too happy to help.’

Seymour crossed one immaculate, pinstriped leg over the other. His face bore faint traces of a suntan, his jowls a hint of good living – but he’d retained much of his youthful attractiveness. His eyes were friendly behind wire-framed spectacles and something about his high forehead suggested a keen intelligence. Or perhaps it was all those leatherbound volumes behind him. Anyway, Darbishire found himself thinking it wouldn’t be hard to vote for the man.

If he hadn’t strangled a tart to death and stabbed and garrotted her companion, obviously.

‘As you know, I’m investigating the events of the night of the thirty-first of March. You’ve been good enough to give us an account of your whereabouts that night . . .’

‘Of course, I’m only sorry that I need to explain at all. Awful business, awful.’

Darbishire ran through the minister’s alibi for the early part of the evening, which had been corroborated by fellow ministers and staff at the House of Lords.

Seymour gave a light laugh. ‘There’s many people who will lie for you in life, Chief Inspector . . .’

‘It’s just Inspector,’ Darbishire corrected him. He’d let it go the first time, but if it was an attempt at flattery or bribery, it was important the minister understood that Fred Darbishire didn’t work that way.

‘Really? Is it?’ Seymour seemed stumped for a moment. ‘I do apologise, Inspector. As I was saying, many people will lie for you, but not the barmen of the House of Lords. Nor the policeman at the gate. I have no memory of when I left, exactly, but if they say it was twenty past eleven, then you can be certain that’s when it was.’

‘Quite. However, you say you walked home. When you got here, fifteen minutes later or thereabouts, there were only John Richards, who I assume is the man who greeted us at the door, and your wife to vouch for you. And they, I might say . . .’

‘. . . Are less reliably dispassionate,’ Seymour finished for him. ‘What can I tell you? Richards has been with us for twenty years. He would certainly lie without a second thought, if he believed it was in my best interests. My wife, on the other hand, is pure as the driven snow. She wouldn’t lie if her life depended on it, to save me or to sink me, but you have only my word for that.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re very welcome to meet her and judge for yourself. She’s out this morning, but at your disposal in general terms.’