Читать книгу Diamonds of Death - Vivian Conroy - Страница 10

Chapter One

It was madness to do this on a night with a full moon.

But then you had to be a little mad to do this work to begin with.

The man, all dressed in black, looked up the manor’s forbidding facade, his eyes slowly travelling over every ledge, protrusion and other irregularity that could offer a hold to his nimble hands and feet. He had studied the facade before, was familiar with its possibilities, but he always liked to take a moment and plan the route ahead, see it in his mind as clearly as he could.

Although there was always the issue of time and the danger of discovery, he liked to be thorough. He had learned early on in his career that rushing in only led to trouble.

And trouble was the last thing he needed on this all-important night.

From the trees in the distance an eerie call resounded, sending a shiver up his spine. It was only an owl, but as a city person he thoroughly disliked animals and the risk they posed in his profession. Once, climbing a front in the city, a pigeon had popped out of a hole, almost making him lose his footing and fall, backwards, ten feet down on the unforgiving pavement. That could have been the end of his career. Of his freedom even – as he would have been discovered for what he was and taken into custody.

But he had survived the pigeon’s surprise attack, and tonight he’d survive whatever was waiting for him on his ascent. It could be bats, or it might even be a guard dog as soon as he stepped through the window. But he was prepared for anything. The loot lured him like it had a scent that he could detect on the air. Already he saw the precious stones, reflecting the light with their carefully honed facets, glittering as if there was fire inside of them. For all of his life he had followed the call of the stones, and the most desirable ones were calling for him tonight. Up there.

His eyes had reached the window that was his destination, and he nodded to himself. The route was the same as he had planned it in his head on his way out here. He had come by train, had walked the stretch out to the manor. It paid to stay out of sight, not be remembered by the make of a car, by a stay in an inn where a nosy innkeeper had taken too close a look at your face. Strangers were always noticed in the countryside.

But in his old dishevelled clothes, with the bottle in his hand, staggering through the fields along dirt tracks suited better to deer than to men, he was just a vagabond that nobody would remember. As soon as the job was done and he’d left the area, he’d turn into his own self again, a far cry from such a pitiful wanderer.

He laughed softly to himself, then sobered to rub his hands. They had to be completely dry to have the best grip.

He cast a look around him, listening for any sound that indicated disturbance.

But there was nothing but the rush of water from the fountain on the lawn.

He put his hands on the stone and began the climb. It was his luck that the house had a pillar on each side beside the steps leading to the front door. These huge pillars were worked into the house’s construction by decorated stony elements that led upwards like rungs of a ladder. If this was your specialty, it was as easy as walking up the stairs in your own home.

Nevertheless he took his time, knowing this was the ideal hour for the thief. People had fallen soundly asleep and were far away, especially if they had enjoyed a drink or two after dinner. He knew the master of this house liked his liquor. He was a widower, so no wife there who might be a light sleeper and who might hear something and prod her husband into action.

The eldest son’s pretty little high-strung wife took laudanum and would not wake either.

The younger son had left the house during the evening, shouting and cursing his father’s name, riding his horse to the local inn. He would not be back before eleven in the morning, and then only if they rode him out on a cart, with the horse being led behind it.

Like any rich man, this house owner had plenty of servants, but those sampled the remains of the meal and the draughts left in the pitchers after wealthy guests had been around.

And this had been an evening full of wealthy guests. He had seen all of them leave, group by group talking, laughing, getting into cars and carriages, reflecting their luxury taste, or by contrast a strict, almost fanatic adherence to the old country ways.

He had watched and grinned as he recognized those who had earlier been the victim of one of his jobs. How they had enjoyed the evening air, waving goodbye to each other, unaware of the man who had robbed them standing so close, waiting to strike again.

Perhaps they had even discussed it over dinner, how sad it was that such crimes had become more common and the police did nothing to prevent them or solve the crime once it had been committed.

The police…

He snarled at the thought of those self-satisfied inspectors, the sergeants desperate for a jump up the ladder, the constables who only cared for keeping their jobs and feeding the kids at home. He liked the latter best, could understand their position. It was work to them, an honest job to keep the family alive and well. He would never do anything to hurt a constable.

But the higher ones with the over-confidence in their abilities, their talents, their intuition, he liked to taunt them, tease them, make them look the fool, as he broke into place after place and left them scratching their heads wondering how on earth he had done it.

He even knew of two instances where the police had arrested someone from the staff, claiming it had to have been an inside job, as there had been no signs of any break-in.

Like he needed to break in!

For a moment he frowned, thinking of those people who had been arrested innocently and dragged through the police courts to the shock and horror of their fellow staff members and their families. Neither had been convicted, fortunately. If it had come to that, he would have fessed up, made sure no innocent man suffered from his doings. The police had chosen the easy way out going for the inside job. Because they could not believe that a man could scale a wall like a fly and enter a house without leaving traces.

Oh, there were always traces, he bet, for the eye that looked in the right places. But those police people were so full of themselves that they forgot to look. Even if they looked, they did not see. They did not understand what it meant.

He put his hands on the stony balcony edge and pulled himself over it in one smooth movement. His physical strength was one of his biggest assets, jealously guarded by exercise and the right food: lots of meat and eggs and milk. He could not afford to lose one bit of muscle power and take a tumble.

He picked thin black leather gloves from his pocket and put them on. In the past he had not bothered much with those, but Scotland Yard was investing serious time and effort in their fingerprint division and what had started off as something quite laughable, had actually led to the solution of major cases. Any criminal with a bit of a brain wore gloves these days and although he was certain his prints were not on record, yet, he had no wish for them to ever be so.

He smiled to himself as he studied the window that was ajar. The new ideas about health made everything so easy for the crook. Sleep with the window open, leave the window open a crack for the condition of your books. Dampness creates illness, begets mould. Oh, he only applauded doctors who wrote pieces in the medical journals saying that. They said a lot of things he did not care for, but opening windows was a good idea.

He put a gloved hand on the window frame and felt downward, searching for the latch. Sure enough it was an easy construction. People rarely secured windows in a higher floor with the same precision they used downstairs. There they had blinds or locks, or even – if they were really careful – bars. But higher up they believed nothing could reach the windows but winged creatures that did no harm.

The window opened, and he stepped in, taking care to stand for a few moments and let his eyes adjust to the pitch-black darkness inside. Some moonlight came in through the window and lifted the worst of the gloom, and he could make out the silhouettes of furniture: the bookcases along the wall, the standing clock between them, then the leather chairs at the fireplace. The huge desk to his right, with the lamp on top. He could not see the lamp, but he knew it was there from his visit.

He smiled to himself. It always paid to know the territory well in advance. He rubbed his hands again, a habit as the gloves did not get sweaty. But he would never forget to make sure his hands were utterly dry as that determined the difference between life and death.

He took a step towards the desk.

His foot made contact with something bulky and heavy on the floor, and he stumbled over it. He tried to regain his balance by waving his arm in the air and putting his other foot some place. But it also hit the bulk and he fell forwards, half over it.

Cursing under his breath, he broke his fall with his hands. He was lying half on top of the thing, which had not been there during his visit. It felt almost like a sack of flour.

His gloved hands examined it, finding a round corner… It was warm and sort of soft and…

With a cry he straightened himself, inching back. The thing was…alive.

Or rather not. It had been alive, but it was no longer.

He sucked in a breath as he realized what he had just fallen on top of.

A dead body.

His mind whirled. As he meticulously prepared each aspect of a job, he was always taken aback by change. He was especially taken aback by the panic that washed through him at the realization he was in a room with a dead person.

He wanted to force himself to stay calm and focus on the stones, but for a few moments he could not even hear their call over the pounding of his blood in his ears.

Then he clenched his hands into fists and regulated his breathing. He held his head back into his neck and stared up at the stuccoed ceiling. He counted to fifty, and then the panic had vanished and his mind was crystal clear again.

He pulled a lighter from his pocket and switched it on. He did not use it to peruse the dead body. He did not care who it was or what it was doing here. He used the light to look at the painting that hid the safe.

The painting was swung outwards, and the safe behind it was in full view. It was open.

He groaned.

He made for it with hasty steps, his eyes on it with a desperate insistence that it could not be the way he believed it was.

But it was that way.

The safe was empty. The stones that had been here for the taking were gone.

Taken already, by another who had left the dead body in his wake.

He turned and knelt beside the body. Despite his better judgement he had to make sure that this man did not have the stones on him. He reached into the pockets of the dead man’s jacket, even patted his chest and sides to feel for any unusual protrusion.

Nothing.

The door into the room was flung open, and light flooded over him as somebody turned the switch at the door. The butler, blinking with his red-rimmed eyes, stood staring at him. ‘Lord Winters?’ Then he caught sight of the body and gasped.

Someone pushed past him into the room. A tall dark woman raising her hands to her face. But instead of the piercing scream he expected, and perhaps a collapse into a dead faint, she looked straight at him and said, ‘He killed him! Look, his gloves are full of blood.’

He looked down and saw the dark stains on his gloves. That had to have happened when he stumbled onto the body and fell across it.

He opened his mouth to protest, deny, proclaim his innocence, but there was no time as more men came into the room, hauling him to his feet and pulling his arms behind his back. They were all shouting something different, but their general feeling was clear enough. He was a killer and he had to be handed over to the police as soon as possible.

Ironic.

Now the Scotland Yard fingerprint division would get his prints anyway.