Skulduggery at Kensington Mansions By Sylvia Lumley
It wasn’t until he thought about it much later, that Richard saw how he’d been drawn into the plot. The web they’d woven around him was clear in retrospect but no-one could have seen it at the time. Richard thought them terrific neighbours when they moved into the large apartment below his garret. George playing his swing records and Molly always laughing, they lit up his life as nothing had before. The moment Molly knocked on his door to invite him down for drinks, he was lost.
Richard’s life revolved around his work as a jeweller. He spent each day in the back room of the shop where he worked, peering through a huge magnifying glass at tiny gemstones. He’d never had what might be called a social life, so Richard had no defences against Molly’s disarming smile and fluttering eyelids.
Their apartment itself was splendid. Unlike his, it had huge bay windows facing the street and the furniture was not just any old thing found in junk shops, but the latest styles. Molly told him it was Art Deco, which Richard thought a silly name, but he loved its clean lines and golden colours.
Then there were the parties. They were magnificently extravagant, and the guests had names often seen in the broadsheets. Molly and George would go off to the opera, the opening night of a new play or the lectures at the Royal Society, and they’d return leading a flotilla of cabs. Richard would hear them and run down the half flight to the window on the stairs to watch the cabs disgorge a dazzling assortment; dapper young gentlemen, their female companions attired in silk and furs, diamonds sparkling as they moved passed a street light. Richard would climb back up to his eyrie, ears ringing with their tinkling laughter.
One evening, Richard was almost back to his door when he heard footsteps tripping up the stairs behind him. It was Molly and, to his delight, she invited him down. This night it wasn’t just the bright young things in attendance; there was an ambassador from somewhere foreign and his lady wife. Richard gasped and tried not to stare at her stunning emerald necklace.
It wasn’t long before Richard knew he was always expected. Waiting until the party was in full swing, he’d let himself discreetly into their flat, often wondering if the guests thought him the butler. He didn’t mind. He always got a big smile and a peck on the cheek from Molly. She would hand him a cocktail and he’d sip it perched on the windowsill, smiling at everyone.
It all started as a game. One evening, after the glitterati had left and the bright young things were remarking on the possible value of their jewellery, George turned to Richard and asked him what he thought. Soon every party ended with everyone guessing the value of the duchess’s pearl earrings – the dowager’s tiara – the count’s cufflinks. Before that, somehow, Molly borrowed them and passed them to Richard, just for a moment, for him to value. The guests always left wearing their valuables so Richard didn’t even consider they were doing anything wrong; not George and Molly. Everyone made such a fuss of him and he luxuriated in the unaccustomed attention it gave him. He had become one of the group at last.
He still couldn’t believe how it had ended. When the police hammered on his door, the flat below was empty, even the carpets had gone. The police did not believe he didn’t know that the pieces he’d valued highly were later stolen, because the police circulated a list to all the jewellers. But Richard was a craftsman, not a shop boy, he never saw those lists.
Alone in his cell, Richard closed his eyes and sighed.
Copyright Syvia Lumley 2012
Richard’s life revolved around his work as a jeweller. He spent each day in the back room of the shop where he worked, peering through a huge magnifying glass at tiny gemstones. He’d never had what might be called a social life, so Richard had no defences against Molly’s disarming smile and fluttering eyelids.
Their apartment itself was splendid. Unlike his, it had huge bay windows facing the street and the furniture was not just any old thing found in junk shops, but the latest styles. Molly told him it was Art Deco, which Richard thought a silly name, but he loved its clean lines and golden colours.
Then there were the parties. They were magnificently extravagant, and the guests had names often seen in the broadsheets. Molly and George would go off to the opera, the opening night of a new play or the lectures at the Royal Society, and they’d return leading a flotilla of cabs. Richard would hear them and run down the half flight to the window on the stairs to watch the cabs disgorge a dazzling assortment; dapper young gentlemen, their female companions attired in silk and furs, diamonds sparkling as they moved passed a street light. Richard would climb back up to his eyrie, ears ringing with their tinkling laughter.
One evening, Richard was almost back to his door when he heard footsteps tripping up the stairs behind him. It was Molly and, to his delight, she invited him down. This night it wasn’t just the bright young things in attendance; there was an ambassador from somewhere foreign and his lady wife. Richard gasped and tried not to stare at her stunning emerald necklace.
It wasn’t long before Richard knew he was always expected. Waiting until the party was in full swing, he’d let himself discreetly into their flat, often wondering if the guests thought him the butler. He didn’t mind. He always got a big smile and a peck on the cheek from Molly. She would hand him a cocktail and he’d sip it perched on the windowsill, smiling at everyone.
It all started as a game. One evening, after the glitterati had left and the bright young things were remarking on the possible value of their jewellery, George turned to Richard and asked him what he thought. Soon every party ended with everyone guessing the value of the duchess’s pearl earrings – the dowager’s tiara – the count’s cufflinks. Before that, somehow, Molly borrowed them and passed them to Richard, just for a moment, for him to value. The guests always left wearing their valuables so Richard didn’t even consider they were doing anything wrong; not George and Molly. Everyone made such a fuss of him and he luxuriated in the unaccustomed attention it gave him. He had become one of the group at last.
He still couldn’t believe how it had ended. When the police hammered on his door, the flat below was empty, even the carpets had gone. The police did not believe he didn’t know that the pieces he’d valued highly were later stolen, because the police circulated a list to all the jewellers. But Richard was a craftsman, not a shop boy, he never saw those lists.
Alone in his cell, Richard closed his eyes and sighed.
Copyright Syvia Lumley 2012