A Death in Diamonds

‘Thank you. I will,’ Darbishire said. For all the good it would do. He already knew what Lady Seymour would say, and whether or not it was true, she couldn’t be compelled to give evidence against her husband in court, so it wasn’t a rabbit he intended to spend much time chasing.

There was also the fact – though Darbishire didn’t raise it now – that even if Seymour had caught a cab and raced to Chelsea, for which they had no evidence, he would only have had five or ten minutes before the dean and his guests had arrived at Cresswell Place. There was no way Seymour could have conducted the bloody murders and cleaned up in time, and no evidence of him and the dean knowing each other or colluding.

On the other hand, Seymour could easily have hired someone else to do the dirty deed while he was at the House. The perfect alibi. What Darbishire needed was a motive.

‘Did you know Dino Perez?’ Darbishire asked.

‘As I told you in my statement, I did not,’ Seymour said. ‘I never met the man, or heard of him.’

‘And Gina Fonteyn?’

This time, Seymour cocked his head. He coughed. ‘I knew of her. I might as well give you full disclosure. Her popularity at Raffles was hardly a national secret.’

Bravo, Darbishire thought. Because he’d done his homework. He knew Seymour was a valued client of the agency. He appreciated all the good old conversation they offered the discerning gentleman. He would certainly have heard of Miss Fonteyn, and to deny it would be foolish. It appeared the Minister for Technology was not foolish.

‘But you never met?’

‘Never. She wasn’t my, er, type.’

‘Do you know any of the men she saw?’

Seymour raised his eyebrows and shifted in his chair.

‘Really, Inspector. I have no idea. I’m not in the habit of questioning my friends about their nocturnal escapades.’

‘But you say Miss Fonteyn’s popularity was well known.’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘It was talked about in the club, you know, in general terms. Unfortunate banter, when some men had had too much to drink.’

‘Which club?’

‘White’s.’

‘Not the Artemis?’

‘I don’t think so. I haven’t been there in a while.’

‘So, you have no idea how she came to be wearing the diamond tiara you bought last year.’

‘None at all, as I said in my statement. The tiara was taken, and I can only assume that whoever took it gave it to her to use, for reasons I can’t begin to imagine.’

‘You must admit, that seems unlikely,’ Darbishire persisted.

Seymour’s gaze was frank. He smiled slightly. ‘I do admit it, certainly. I realise what a position I’m in. But it’s the truth.’

‘Do you mind showing us the safe?’

‘With pleasure.’

Seymour was about to get up, when Darbishire raised a hand.

‘I’m sorry. One more question first.’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you ever visited Cresswell Place? You neglected to mention it in your statement.’

There was a flicker in Seymour’s eyes, and Darbishire saw him hesitate and calculate. It was the first time he’d done this. He inclined his head.

‘Yes. Once. I . . . went there with another escort from Raffles. I wanted somewhere low-key. They suggested number forty-four. That was several months ago.’

Good decision, Darbishire thought. I’d have found that out eventually. And if he was worried about any fingerprints or other evidence at the house, it was a nice way of explaining them.

But they hadn’t found his fingerprints. The char was a pretty thorough cleaner. No wonder she sounded like a Sherman tank.

‘Thank you. Oh, and one other thing. Sergeant Woolgar, the photograph?’

Woolgar pulled out a picture of the stag handle flick knife found in Perez’s eye. It was a German made gravity knife, Deedar said, designed to be used one-handed. The minister winced.

‘Do you recognise this knife?’

‘Yes, absolutely I do.’ Seymour looked up. ‘It was stuck in the victim, wasn’t it? The man, I mean. I saw it in the papers.’

‘It was. Had you seen it before?’

He looked at the picture a bit more closely and pursed his lips. ‘I can’t be sure. I’ve seen a lot of knives like this in my time. As I’m sure you have, Inspector. Sorry. Shall we go?’

‘After you, sir.’

They headed for the dining room, which was on the same floor as the library. Seymour lifted a Venetian oil painting of the Grand Canal off its hook, and indicated the safe set into the wall behind it. It was about eighteen inches by twelve, with two brass handles and a central keyhole set into the door. Darbishire had seen hundreds like it.

‘It was put in five years ago,’ Seymour explained. ‘The best that money could buy at the time. I use it for keeping bond certificates and essential paperwork and so on. My wife uses it for her pearls and the other jewels she wears on a regular basis. The tiara had been at the bank, but I’d got it out two weeks before to give to her for her fortieth birthday.’

‘When was that, may I ask?’