The Master of the Ceremonies

“Why, my pretty!” she said tenderly, “what a fuss to make about nothing.”

“Yes, yes, it was, I know,” said Claire, with a forced laugh. “It was very foolish of me; but – don’t – do that again.”

“No; if you don’t wish it, my dear, of course,” said Mrs Barclay; and she looked across wonderingly at her companion, for she could not comprehend how the sight of those diamonds and the attempt to place them on her neck had recalled the back drawing-room at the house on the Parade, with the hideous old woman sitting up in bed with her jewels about her on the coverlid and on her arms and neck. The sight of diamonds had become hateful to Claire, and she was ready to leave the table, but the thought of seeming strange to Mrs Barclay restrained her.

“Poor old girl! she had to wear paste, as lots of them do when they sell their jewels, my dear. Ah, they’re a beggarly set; when once they take to gambling they don’t seem to be fine ladies any longer. Back you go in the box.”

Snap.

Mrs Barclay had given the diamond necklet a brush and a rub while she was speaking; and then, taking up and opening a book, she handed it to Claire, bidding her look out for the Duchess of Duligne’s diamonds, and make a pencil tick against them.

This done and the morocco case replaced in the safe, another was taken up and opened, displaying a ruby and gold bracelet.

“There, I’ll put that on my wrist,” said Mrs Barclay, suiting the action to the word. “I won’t ask you to have it on, my dear. Some girls would want to, and wouldn’t like ’em taken off again. But you’re different to most people. Look at that now. Jewels always seem best against skin and flesh, but there, my gracious, how fat I am getting! Why it won’t snap round my wrist! Think of that.”

She laughed as merrily as a girl as she held up the glittering gems, and then started, with a loud “Lor’ bless me!”

For just then there was a tremendous double knock at the door; and, jumping up with wonderful activity for one of her size, she trotted across to the window.

“Why, it’s Cora Dean, my dear. No, no: don’t go,” she continued, as Claire rose hastily.

“I do not feel as if I could meet her, Mrs Barclay,” Claire pleaded.

“But she’s nobody, my dear, and she’ll be so hurt if you go, for I’m sure to let out that you were here just now.”

“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said the servant, opening the door; and Claire’s indecision was cut short by Cora going straight to her, taking her hand and kissing her, before bestowing the same salute upon Mrs Barclay.

“I am glad to see you, my dear,” said the latter volubly, for she was nervously afraid that Claire would go, and of the opinion that the best way to set both at their ease was to talk.

“I ought to have been here before,” said Cora, “but my mother has been ill. Don’t think me unkind, Claire Denville.”

She bent over and took Claire’s hand, and met her eyes with a curious wistful look that was full of affection; but, as in some clear gem, such as lay beside them on the table, there was a hidden fire that kept darting forth, and that fire was the vainly-smothered bitter jealousy that was the torment of her life.

“It was very kind of you to come,” said Claire quietly; and there was a coldness in her manner that seemed to make Cora’s jealousy glow more fiercely, for the fire flashed up, and the wistful affectionate look seemed to be burning fast away.

It was only a matter of moments, though, for a change came over Claire. It was as if something within her whispered:

“Why should I be bitter and envious, and hate her for winning a happiness that could never be mine.”

With a quick movement and a low hysterical cry, she threw her arms round Cora’s neck and hid her face in her bosom, sobbing bitterly at first; and then, as Cora held her tightly in her embrace, and soothed and caressed her, the sobs grew less violent, the tears fell more slowly, and at last she raised her face and gazed in her friend’s eyes, offering her lips with a simple child-like motion for the kiss in which they were joined —

“Oh – oh – oh – oh! Don’t you take any notice of me, my dears,” burst forth Mrs Barclay. “It’s only my foolishness, but I couldn’t keep it back. There, there,” she cried in a choking voice, “I’m better now – I’m getting better now. I couldn’t help it though. There!”

She dabbed her eyes with her scented handkerchief, and beaming on both in turns, she gave first one and then the other a hug full of affection.

“It does me good, my dears, to see you both real friends at last; and now let’s be sensible and chat together till I’ve finished these jools, and then we’ll have a nice strong cup of tea.”

Neither Claire nor Cora spoke, but sat with full hearts, and with a feeling of relief stealing over them as their hostess prattled on, opening case after case, and drawing the book to herself so as not to trouble Claire.

“Look at those, my dears; real choice pearls. Ain’t they lovely?” she said as she took out a ring from its tiny box. “They’re small, but they’re as good as good. Pearls always go best on dark people. Now just you try that on, Cora Dean, my dear. No; that finger’s a little too large, and that’s too small. That’s it to a T; just a fit.”

“It is beautiful,” said Cora, admiring the pearls. “Look, Claire.”

“Yes,” said Claire, smiling; “they are very beautiful.”

“Not as you want jools on you, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, “with a face, and rich red mouth, and throat, and hair, like you have. You want no jools to make you handsome as handsome can be.”

“Oh, yes, I do, Mrs Barclay; and I did not know that you had taken to flattery,” cried Cora, laughing.

“’Tain’t flattery, my dear, it’s truth,” said Mrs Barclay; “and I can’t say which is the handsomer – you or Claire Denville there – for you’re both right in your own ways. You neither of you want jools.”

“I do, Mrs Barclay, and I mean to have this ring if it is for sale. How much is it? It’s lovely.”

“It is for sale, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay; “and you shall have it and pay for it.”

“And the price?”

“The price is that you’re to be a good true friend to Claire Denville there, as long as you live, and,” – a hearty smack on Cora’s Juno-like red lips – “there’s the receipt, my dear.”

“But, Mrs Barclay – ”

“Not another word, my dear,” cried the plump lady. “There’s the little case, and – there!” she continued, taking up a pen and writing, as she muttered, “Half-hoop oriental pearl ring: Countess of Dinster. S-o-l-d. There.”

She looked up, smiling with satisfaction, and busily opened another case.

“But, really, Mrs Barclay,” began Cora, “such an expensive ring.”

“Why, bless your heart, my dear, you don’t think I look upon such a thing as that as expensive. Why, I’ve only to say to my Jo-si-ah I want a set of diamonds, and if they were worth a couple of thousand pounds he’d give ’em to me directly. There, I won’t hear no more. These are nice, ain’t they, my dears? Emeralds – real.”

She held up a glittering green suite.

“Look at the flaws in them. Shows how good they are. Look at these sapphires and diamonds mixed, too. They’re worth a good thousand, they are.”

She spread out the beautiful stones, and Cora’s eyes glistened with pleasure as case after case was opened, for it was a feast for her that she thoroughly enjoyed, while Claire sat looking on listless and sad till the task was nearly done.

“I wouldn’t spend so much time over them, my dears,” said Mrs Barclay, “only I think you like seeing ’em. There, now, there’s only these three lots to open.”

She took a wash-leather bag and opened it, to pour out some rough-looking crystals into her hand, as if it had been grain at a corn-market.

“Rough diamonds, dear,” she said to Cora; and, pouring them back, she retied the bag, and took the other and served it the same. “Seed pearls, those are, and worth more than you’d think.”

This bag was also retied and placed in the safe, nothing being left but the canvas packet.

“Ah!” said Mrs Barclay, “I always mean to get a case made for this lot, every time I see them. They’re not much good, but it would set them off.”

As she spoke she untied the bag, turned it over, and, taking hold of the bottom, shook out on the table a necklet, cross, tiara, and pair of bracelets, which tinkled as they fell on the table.

“You’ll spoil them,” said Cora, taking up the tiara admiringly.

“Spoil them? Not I, my dear. You couldn’t spoil them.”

“But they are very beautiful,” said Cora, taking up the cross by the little ring at the top. “Look, Claire dear. Why, I – ”

Claire turned her eyes upon them slowly, and then her countenance changed, and she uttered a cry:

“Lady Teigne’s diamonds!”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Four.

The Seller of the Gems

“Lady Teigne’s diamonds!” exclaimed Claire.

“Nonsense, my dear!” said Mrs Barclay. “They’re not. Now don’t you get letting your poor head run upon them. Whoever did that dreadful deed took them up to London, and sold ’em, or sent ’em to Amsterdam.”

“But they are,” cried Claire, growing more excited. “I am sure of it. I know them so well.”

As she spoke she seized the jewels, and turned them over and over with feverish haste, her face convulsed with horror.

“Nonsense, nonsense, my dear child,” said Mrs Barclay.

“It is very curious,” said Cora, looking at the ornaments eagerly. “I seem to have seen them before.”

“Some like ’em, my dear. Lots of ’em are made and sold.”

“Mrs Barclay, I know those are Lady Teigne’s diamonds,” cried Claire again.

“And I know they are not, my dear child. I’ll tell you why: they’re not diamonds at all, only some fairish imitations – paste – that my Jo-si-ah bought.”

“No, no,” persisted Claire; “they are valuable diamonds.”

“Well, my dear, I’m not a clever woman at all; but I’ve had so much to do with precious stones that I can’t help telling ’em directly. There’s nothing valu’ble about them but the silver setting, and if you melt that down there isn’t ten pounds’ worth in the lot.”

“Mrs Barclay – ”

“Ah, I’m right, my dear. Those aren’t diamonds, but paste; and I remember Josiah saying when I laughed at him, and asked him if he had been taken in – I remember him saying that they were a good-looking lot, and he should keep ’em to let on hire to some lively lady who wanted a suite, and whom he didn’t care to trust with diamonds. There, now, are you satisfied?”

“No,” cried Claire. “I am certain that I am right. That cross! I know it so well. I’ve had it in my hands a hundred times. Those bracelets, too. I have often clasped them on Lady Teigne’s wrists.”

“And put that ornament in her hair, and the other thing round her neck?” said Mrs Barclay, smiling.

“Yes, often; so often,” cried Claire. “Oh, tell me what this means. Of whom did you buy them?”

“Well, that I can’t say, my dear; but I’m going to show you that you are wrong,” said Mrs Barclay, laughing and showing her white teeth. “Now look here,” she continued, as she took up the necklet, and then, crossing to the safe, she picked out an old morocco case, which she laid upon the table. “Open that, my dear,” she continued, turning to Cora. “There’s a necklet in there very much like this.”

Cora pressed the snap spring, and, in obedience to a nod from Mrs Barclay, took out a brilliant necklet and laid it upon the table.

“There, my dears,” cried the plump little woman; “those are diamonds! Look at them. Those are brilliants. Look at the fire in them; and now lay these beside them. Where’s the fire and bright colours? They’d light up and look shiny by candle-light; but, though they’d deceive some folks, they wouldn’t cheat me. My Jo-si-ah has shown me the difference too often. There, then, take my word for it, and let’s put them away.”

“No, no,” cried Claire wildly. “I feel as if I have found out something that might clear up a mystery. I dread to inquire further, but I feel as if I must. Mrs Barclay – dear Mrs Barclay – it seems shocking to contradict you so flatly; but you are wrong – I am sure you are wrong. Those are indeed Lady Teigne’s diamonds.”

“Now, bless us and save us, my dear, dear child, look here,” cried Mrs Barclay, taking up the two necklets, one in each hand, and breathing upon them. “I know these things by heart, my dear. My Jo-si-ah has taught me; and a fine lot of trouble he had, for I’m a stupid old woman. Now look there.”

She breathed on a couple of the largest stones again, and held them out in the light.

“Now see how the breath goes off them, my dears. See the difference? Those are brilliants. These that you say are Lady Teigne’s diamonds are only paste – paste or glass, as the Italians call it. They make lots of ’em very cleverly, and they’re shiny and bright, but they are not precious stones. Now then, are you satisfied? Shall I put ’em all away, and ring for tea?”

“No,” said Claire, trembling; “I am not satisfied; and though I feel as if I were going to find out something horrible, I must – I must go on.”

“Well – well – well, then, my dear, so you shall go on. I’ll do anything to humour you, and try and make you a bit happier. Now, then, what’s to be done? Let me warn you, though, that I’m right, and those are not diamonds at all, only bits of glass, with some tinfoil behind to make ’em shine.”

Claire eagerly examined the jewels again one by one.

“Yes – see – both of you,” she cried excitedly; “there is the tiny slip of card I put under that snap, because the spring had grown so weak; and there should be a little scratch and a chip in one of the big diamonds in the tiara. No – no – I can’t see it,” she said hurriedly.

“A scratch and a chip on a diamond!” said Mrs Barclay, smiling. “Oh, my dear, my dear!”

“Yes. There are the marks,” cried Claire excitedly. “Look, both of you, look!”

“Well, so they are, my dear,” acquiesced Mrs Barclay. “Well, that is strange! But that don’t make ’em diamonds, you know. It only proves what I said – that they are paste.”

“They were Lady Teigne’s jewels,” cried Claire; “and I always believed them to be diamonds.”

“Well,” cried Mrs Barclay, “and some one killed that poor old creature for the sake of getting a few bits of paste. Ugh!”

She threw down the necklet she held with a look of disgust. “If I’d ha’ known I wouldn’t ha’ touched ’em. My Jo-si-ah couldn’t ha’ known, or he wouldn’t ha’ bought ’em. This must be cleared up.”

She went toward the bell, but Claire followed and caught her arm.

“What are you going to do?” she said, with an ashy face.

“Ring and ask my Jo-si-ah to come up and talk this over. We don’t deal in stolen goods.”

“No; don’t, don’t.”

“But we must find out where he bought the things.”

“No, no! I couldn’t bear to know,” faltered Claire. “No, Mrs Barclay, pray don’t ask.”

“Oh, my poor darling! Catch her, Cora, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay, as Claire staggered back, half fainting, and was helped to the sofa, and fanned and recovered with smelling-salts.

She was just getting rid of the deadly hue when the door opened, and Barclay came in with a bluff “How do, ladies? Why, hallo! what’s the matter?”

“Hush! she’s coming round,” said Mrs Barclay.

“That’s better. Why, what are you doing with these things?”

“I had them out, dear, to check off and brush a little. Claire was helping me.”

“Mr Barclay,” said Claire, rising, and taking a step or two to the table, and speaking with a forced decision that startled her hearers, “I must speak. I must know. Tell me – ”

She faltered, and pressed her hands to her brow, shivering and turning ghastly pale again.

“Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs Barclay; “she’s going to faint!”

“No, no,” said Claire, in a weak voice. “Don’t touch me. I must speak – I must know. Mr Barclay,” she cried, picking up the jewels, “where did you get these diamonds?”

“These, my dear?” said the money-lender, taking them from her. “Not diamonds at all – paste.”

“There!” cried Mrs Barclay triumphantly.

“But where – where did you get them? Pray, pray speak. It is agony, this suspense.”

“Get them, my dear? Don’t take it like that. Why, what’s the matter?”

“She says – ” began Mrs Barclay.

“They are Lady Teigne’s jewels,” cried Claire. “Tell me, how came you by them?”

“Bought ’em, my dear, of Fisherman Dick – Miggles, you know; him as your brother Morton went fishing with.”

“Yes,” cried Cora. “I remember now, he brought them to us. He said he dredged them up in his shrimp net off the end of the pier.”

“That’s what he told me too, I remember,” said Barclay.

“And he thought they were mine,” said Cora. “He brought them with the carriage clock and my bag, but, of course, they were not mine.”

Fisherman Dick – her brother – dredged up off the end of the pier! It was no elucidation of the mystery, Claire felt, as she stood there trembling.

“Lady Teigne’s jewels?” said Barclay, turning them over, and speaking in his blunt way. “Then whoever killed the poor old woman found out that these things were good for nothing, and threw them into the sea.”

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” sighed Mrs Barclay. “Don’t, pray don’t faint.”

Poor Claire did not hear her, for as she realised that here was perhaps a fresh link of evidence against her father, a link whose fitting she did not see, her brain reeled and she would have fallen had not Cora been close at hand.

“Can I do anything?” said Barclay in his abrupt way.

“Yes,” cried Mrs Barclay sharply. “Go. Can’t you see we must cut her laces?”

“Humph!” ejaculated Barclay thoughtfully; “Lady Teigne’s jewels! I never thought of that. No wonder. It was diamonds missing – not paste thrown off the pier.”

He shook his head as he reached the door, and stood with the handle in his hand.

“Fisherman Dick, eh? Well, I’ll go and see what he has to say.”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Five.

The Tough Witness

“Shall I go alone?” said Josiah Barclay, as he stood upon his doorstep. “No, it’s wise to keep your own counsel sometimes, but at others it’s just as well to have witnesses. Who shall I take? Richard Linnell,” he said, after a pause. “He’s the fellow. I’m afraid, though, it looks worse for the old man than it did before. Dick Miggles is as honest as the day as long as he is not smuggling; and he would no more think of choking an old woman than flying. I shouldn’t like to be the revenue officer opposite to him in a row if Master Dick had a pistol in his hand; but he would consider that to be a matter of business. Yes: it looks worse for the old man after all.”

Barclay walked sharply down to the Parade, and went up to the house where Mrs Dean was seated at one of the windows, bemoaning the absence of Cora, and murmuring at her sufferings, as she leaned back flushed, and with her throbbing head in her hand.

For she was very ill, and very ill-tempered, consequent upon her complaint – a weakness and succumbing of her fort, after a long and combined attack made by veal cutlets, new bread, and port wine.

She saw Barclay come up, and declared that he should wait for his rent this time if she died for it.

To her great disappointment, as she felt just in the humour, as she termed it, “for a row,” Barclay stopped below in Mellersh’s room, where Richard Linnell was seated with the Colonel.

“Business with me, Mr Barclay?” said Linnell, flushing. “Yes, I’ll come out with you. No, I have no secrets from Colonel Mellersh.”

Barclay looked sharply at the Colonel, and the latter glanced at his nails and smiled.

“Dick,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “Mr Barclay is asking himself whether Gamaliel is a scoundrel, and Paul is a young fool to trust him.”

“No, I wasn’t, Colonel,” said Barclay warmly. “You’re a little too much for me, sir, and though you shy the New Testament at me like that (and I never read it), perhaps, money-lender as I am, I’m as honest a man, and as true a friend as you.”

“No doubt about it, my dear Barclay,” said Mellersh with a sneer.

“I wasn’t thinking about Gamaliel, or Paul either, sir; but, since you will have it I was asking myself whether you – a clever card-player – ”

“Say sharper, Barclay.”

“By gad, I will, sir,” cried Barclay, banging his fist upon the table – “a clever sharper – were making believe to be this young gentleman’s friend for your own ends.”

“Mr Barclay!” cried Richard indignantly.

“Let him be, Dick; I’m not offended. Barclay’s only plain-spoken. The same thing, Barclay, my dear fellow, only I put it more classically. Here, I’ll leave the room, Dick.”

“No; stop,” said Richard quickly. “Mr Barclay, I have told you that Colonel Mellersh is my best friend. Please say what you have to say.”

Barclay looked ruffled and bristly, but he mastered his anger, and said sharply:

“I want you to go down with me, Mr Linnell, as far as Fisherman Dick’s.”

Richard Linnell stared and looked grave, as he dreaded some fresh trouble and complication.

“What for?” he said sharply.

“Because I believe you take an interest in Miss Claire Denville,” said Barclay; “and there’s something fresh about that murder affair.”

He went on and told what had occurred at his house.

“Plain enough,” said Mellersh. “The man who did the murder found out that the jewels were false, and he took them and threw them into the sea.”

“Yes,” said Barclay drily, “I found all that out myself, Colonel. Hang it, gentlemen, don’t let’s fence and be petty,” he continued. “Colonel Mellersh, I beg your pardon, sir, and I ask your help, both of you. What’s to be done? I bought those sham diamonds of Fisherman Dick, who found them, I suppose, when he was shrimping, and took them to Miss Dean – brought them here, you know.”

Mellersh and Richard Linnell glanced sharply at each other.

“Thought, you see, that she lost them at the time of the accident. Well, suppose I tell this, it may make the matter worse for poor old Denville. What would you do?”

“See Fisherman Dick. Perhaps your surmise about the shrimping is wrong. The smuggling rascal may know something more.”

“Will you come along the cliff with me, then?”

Richard Linnell jumped up, and Mellersh remained – as he was going to dine at the mess. A quarter of an hour later they were at the fisherman’s cottage, where Mrs Miggles raised her eyes sharply from the potatoes she was peeling, while Dick was engaged in teaching their little foster-child to walk between his knees.

“Morning, Dick,” said Barclay, as the great fellow gave them a comprehensive nod, and looked from one to the other suspiciously, Mrs Miggles gouging out the eyes of a large potato with a vicious action, while her heart beat fast from the effect of best French brandy.

Not from potations, for the sturdy, smuggling fisherman’s wife revelled in nothing stronger than tea; but there were four kegs in the great cupboard, covered with old nets, and a stranger coming to the cottage always seemed to bear a placard on his breast labelled “gaol,” and made her sigh and wish that smuggling were not such a profitable occupation.

“We want a few words with you, Miggles,” said Barclay sharply.

“Right, sir. Fewer the better,” said the fisherman surlily, for the visit looked ominous.

“You brought some ornaments to me one day, and I bought them of you. You remember – months ago?”

“To be sure I do. You said they was pastry.”

“Paste, man, paste.”

Fisherman Dick had a thought flash into his head, and he gave his knee such a tremendous slap that the child began to cry.

“Here, missus, lay holt o’ the little un,” he cried, passing it to her, as she gave her hands a rub on her apron – almost pitching it as if it had been a little brandy keg. “Here, I know, gentlemen,” he continued, “them jools has turned out to be real, and you only give ten shillings.”

“All they were worth, man. No; they’ve turned out to be what I told you – sham.”

“Oh!” said Fisherman Dick in a tone of disappointment. “Hear that, missus? Only sham.”

“But we want to hear how you found them.”

“How I foun’ ’em? Well, you’ve got ’em; that’s enough for you, arn’t it?” he grumbled.

“No. You must speak out – to us mind – and let us know – in confidence – all about it.”

“I don’t know nothing about ’em at all. I forgets.”

“No, you don’t. You dredged them up, you said, when you were shrimping and searching for Miss Dean’s bag – after the accident.”

“How do you know?” growled the fisherman fiercely.