Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

“Is that the one, darling?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” She selected a ring from the first display. “The diamond was my favorite at first but the sapphire is so gorgeous.” She smiled at Mildred. “Might I ask how much it is?”

“Money doesn’t come into this, Venetia,” he said.

“I’m interested to know.”

“They’re virtually the same price,” said Mildred. “They’re also two of the best rings in the shop. I congratulate you on your taste.”

“Venetia has excellent taste,” boasted the man. “That’s why she chose me-isn’t it, darling?”

But the young woman was too preoccupied with comparing the rings, holding them side by side, then removing one so that she could try on the other. She slipped it off her finger and gave it to Mildred.

“It’s between these two,” she decided.

“Toss a coin,” suggested the man blithely.

“David!”

“Well, we can’t take all day.”

“I’d like to think it over. What time do you close?”

“Not until five-thirty, madam,” said Mildred.

“Oh, we’ll be back long before then. David and I will pop into that Tea Shoppe just up the street. By the time we come out, I’ll have decided between diamond and sapphire.” She became anxious. “You won’t sell either of the rings while we’re away, will you?”

Mildred shook her head. “No, madam. I’ll put them aside.”

“Thank you.”

After a last look at both rings, they gave her a nod of farewell and left the shop. Mildred put the rings into a small box and unlocked a drawer under the counter. When the box was out of the way, she began to replace the trays in the front window, taking care not to nudge any of the other items on display. The last tray was the one that she had first taken out. As she picked it up, Mildred glanced at it. Her blood froze. Shorn of its most expensive ring, it still contained eleven others but it was not the number that startled her.

It was the fact that several of the rings were not the ones that had been there earlier. They had been replaced with rings that were similar in appearance but of a much lower value. Mildred had been tricked. While she was reaching into the window, the switch had been made. Her romantic streak had been a fatal distraction. She had just been robbed in broad daylight.

Cyrus Hillier had been enraptured by the performance of Troilus and Cressida and Mary Anne had been overwhelmed by the quality of the acting. When the interval came, they were in something of a daze as they made their way up the aisle towards the lobby.

“It’s wonderful!” said Cyrus. “A definitive production.”

“But not as good as yours,” countered Mary Anne loyally.

“I only had amateur actors. These are real professionals.”

“I still preferred your version, Cyrus.”

“Thanks, honey.”

As they came into the lobby, a young man bore down on them.

“Professor and Mrs. Hillier?” he asked.

“That’s us,” admitted Cyrus.

“Anthony Walker,” said the other, offering his hand. “I believe that you’ve met my sister, Rosalind.”

“We have indeed, young sir.”

Handshakes were exchanged, then they moved to a corner where they could discuss the play. Anthony explained that his sister had rushed off to the ladies’ cloakroom before the general invasion. He shared their enthusiasm for the production though he had severe doubts about the play itself.

“Not the jolliest piece that Shakespeare wrote, is it?”

“It does have its comic moments,” argued Cyrus. “There was a lot of humor in that scene with Ajax and Thersites.”

“But it’s still a rather pessimistic play.”

“Pessimistic or realistic?”

“Ah, well,” said Tony with a grin. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Wait until you’ve seen the whole play.”

“I will, Professor.”

Rosalind soon joined them and they had an amicable debate about the theatre itself, all agreeing that it had its shortcomings. It seemed only minutes before the warning bell sounded to mark the end of the interval. Rosalind was saddened.

“We’ll have to say goodbye now,” she said, “because Tony and I have to dash off the moment the performance is over.”

“I thought you were staying at a hotel,” said Mary Anne.

“We usually do and we’d have loved to have stayed on so that we could watch The Merchant of Venice this evening. But we have to be on the Shakespeare Express at five-thirty.”

“What a pity!”

“Needs must when the devil drives,” said Tony, shaking their hands in turn once more. “But it was a delight to meet you both and I hope that you enjoy the rest of your stay in England.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Anne. “And goodbye.”

After a flurry of farewells, they went into the auditorium. Cyrus and Mary Anne took their seats in the front stalls. Her mind was still on the two friends they had made.

“It’s such a shame they have to leave when the play is over,” she said. “It would have been nice to have a drink with them afterwards.”

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “Perhaps not.”

They were soon lost in the second half of the production. It was an exhilarating experience and gave them plenty to discuss when they returned to their hotel afterwards. The evening performance of The Merchant of Venice was equally satisfying, though Cyrus felt that the play was inferior to the one they had watched that afternoon. During the stroll back to the Shakespeare Hotel, he explained why. Mary Anne was, as ever, an attentive listener. Cyrus had hoped to continue the conversation over supper, but as soon as they entered the hotel they were intercepted. A stocky man in his forties introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Cyril Rushton and, after showing them his warrant card, asked if he might have a word with them. Mary Anne was patently discomfited.

“We haven’t done anything wrong, have we?” she asked.

“Not at all, Mrs. Hillier,” said Rushton. “I just need your help.” He glanced around. “Is there somewhere private where we can speak?”

“Our room might be the best place,” said Cyrus.

“Lead the way, sir.”

Mary Anne was upset at being accosted by a detective, but Cyrus seemed to be completely unperturbed. It was almost as if he had been expecting it. When they got to the room, he sat on the edge of the bed while the others occupied the two chairs. Rushton produced a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted.

“I believe that you know a Miss Rosalind Walker,” he began. “It was she who told me where I could find you both. I understand that you met the lady this morning.”

“Yes,” said Mary Anne. “It was at Paddington Station.”

“And you traveled on the train to Stratford with her?”

“We did, Sergeant Rushton. The Shakespeare Express.”

“Did you share the same carriage?”

“No, she was in another carriage with her brother, Anthony.”

“That’s what she claims.”

“It’s exactly what happened, Sergeant.”

“Not necessarily,” said Cyrus.

“What do you mean?”

“Let the sergeant finish, Mary Anne.”

“But you were there, Cyrus. You saw them get on the train.”

“Miss Walker also claims that she and her brother attended a matinée performance of Troilus and Cressida,” said Rushton, referring to his notebook. “Can you confirm that?”

“Yes,” said Mary Anne.

“No,” added her husband.

“Cyrus, don’t be silly,” she chided. “We met them.”

“We talked to them in the lobby, yes. But that doesn’t mean they actually watched the performance.”