A Death in Diamonds

Now, here, in the freezing middle of the night, Joan thought of the house in Cresswell Place. In the wake of the Chelsea murders, what single woman in London was mad enough to take a place with a locked spare room? Especially when, ironically, the key to her own bedroom door was missing. True, the flat had been recommended to her by Sir Hugh Masson himself. But hadn’t the Queen told her, in no uncertain terms, that she couldn’t trust him? Joan knew she’d been moving in dangerous waters, but she’d never begun to imagine that it could come to this.

The light in the hallway went on and heavy footsteps began to pad down the corridor towards her. The lamp base, unplugged, felt reassuringly chunky in her hand. Joan was only wearing her pyjamas, but there was no time to struggle into her dressing gown. To her vast relief, the footsteps turned off into the sitting room before they reached her. Was he a burglar, plain and simple?

But how would he have a front door key?

She realised how certain she had been that he was coming to kill her; she’d been ready to fight for her life. Now, she put her ear to the bedroom door and tried to hear what he was up to.

There was a grunt and a swear word. Whatever he’d come for, he wasn’t pleased. Doors opened and closed. Then the footsteps got faster and closer. He was coming back down the corridor now. The bedroom door handle rattled. Joan stood back. The door opened and she raised the lamp base above her head.

‘What in God’s name?’

His voice was guttural and he stood stock-still, silhouetted against the light from the hallway. He didn’t advance.

‘Who on earth are you? Put that down, for God’s sake.’

Joan lowered the lamp base slowly.

‘Who are you?’

All she could see was the broad-shouldered shape of a man in a mackintosh.

‘Who d’you think? I’m Ross. What are you doing in my spare room? Oh God – does McGraw have a bit on the side? Christ! Look, this isn’t going to work. Put some clothes on. I’ll meet you outside.’

He retreated to the sitting room, but Joan’s racing heart took a while to slow down. It was a few minutes before she emerged from her room, wearing slacks and a Fair Isle knit, her hair brushed, looking militant but unarmed.

Major Ross, her ‘absentee’ landlord, was waiting for her in an armchair, with a finger of whisky in a tumbler in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He had taken off his mackintosh and was dressed in a thick woollen cardigan and corduroy trousers. He looked confused, amused and very unthreatening.

Ross motioned to the sofa and Joan perched on the edge of it. He gestured to a cigarette box on the coffee table between them. She didn’t normally smoke, but she accepted both a cigarette and his offer of a light.

‘So,’ he began, leaning back. ‘You’re McGraw’s . . . ?’ He left her to finish the sentence.

He had an air of authority about him. Older than her: in his forties, probably. His hair fell into a cowlick that he brushed unconsciously from his face. His skin was freckled, like hers, and his eyes were tired. There was a certain cragginess to him.

‘I’m McGraw,’ she said simply.

He frowned. ‘But . . . he was called John. I was distinctly told so. That’s why I said he could stay.’

‘I’m Joan.’

‘Oh.’

They both realised what must have happened. Ross’s face relaxed.

‘That explains the damp stockings on the shower rail.’

Joan remembered that the bathroom was draped in her drying underwear. ‘Oh no! I didn’t realise—’

‘I got rather a surprise.’

‘Not half as big a shock as I did,’ she said crossly. ‘I was told I had the place to myself.’

‘Well, ah. I’m not up often, but I do come over occasionally. They should have explained . . . But you shouldn’t really be here. Anyway, I’m sorry. And for my language earlier. The shock, you know. Can I offer you tea?’ The gentle sound of a kettle boiling on the stove was just rising to a keen whistle. He got up to deal with it. ‘Or a wee dram?’ There was an edge of a Scottish burr to his voice.

‘I’ll take the whisky. Actually, both.’

‘Good idea.’

He dealt with their drinks and Joan settled herself in his comfortable little sofa.

‘There’s been a misunderstanding, obviously,’ she said.

‘Obviously.’

‘The Queen’s private secretary knew I needed somewhere to live. He arranged it incredibly fast. Something was bound to go wrong.’

Ross shrugged. ‘A chap got in touch at the club. Said he knew someone – I could have sworn he said John – who needed helping out. I was happy to oblige. We used to have guests often, but we’re not in town much these days. At least . . .’ He paused. ‘I am, but my wife isn’t. Dashed awkward.’

It was more than awkward. Joan couldn’t possibly stay in a flat with a married man. Dammit! She liked this place.

‘What do you do in town, Mr Ross?’ she asked, to take her mind off it.

He shrugged and lit another cigarette. ‘Oh, you know, this and that. Very boring. Civil servant.’

‘But you travel for work?’

‘No. That is, I tend to stay at my club these days. It’s more sociable. I was thinking of giving up the flat.’