where is stevens?

A priceless jewel has vanished – and the manservant is the obvious suspect…

Idaresay you’ll find Stevens in the garden,” said Mrs Quartermaine vaguely, looking down the lawn towards the ink-blue sea. Her crumpled face said it all – it’s really too bad when your manservant goes missing just as you’re throwing an important party.

“Are you sure? We had a quick look,” said Miss Dimont urgently, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. “I think we really do need to find him – it’s quite vital!”

Mrs Q sniffed. The whole event had turned into a disaster and, as old people sometimes do when things go wrong, she lost interest in the conversation and wandered off on to the terrace.

But for Judy Dimont of the Riviera Express, it was no disaster – far from it. She and Terry Eagleton had been assigned to cover the Quartermaines’ annual party and had faced the prospect with dread – the threadbare colonel and his lady were more than a bit snooty, and the wine they served was always filthy.

But now she had a front-page story! A priceless piece of jewellery missing, and the crème de la crème of Devon society were, all of them, suspects! All it required now was for Terry to make an appearance to capture the chaos on film, but he’d wandered off. He could be like that, Terry. Very irritating.

The Remorse, a once-handsome Victorian villa overlooking Nelson’s Bay, looked nothing short of disreputable these days. It was surprising the Quartermaines could still attract the best of Devon’s county set to their parties. But Miss Dimont had just said hello to the High Sheriff, and apparently the Lord Lieutenant was on his way.

The new Lady Mount Temple, a lot more alluring than the previous model, had nodded a greeting, and it was remarkable how many lady guests still chose to wear a hat – even though it was very nearly 1960.

After the war, the Quartermaines had become local celebrities. Colonel Claude had done a very good job at Pegasus Bridge and wore a chestful of medals each Remembrance Sunday, while Gae Quartermaine had starred in one or two black-and-white Elstree films. They’d bought The Remorse on her box-office royalties and built up a reputation for lavish entertainment, though it had to be said the colonel was slow in paying the bills.

“Come on!” barked Terry, appearing from nowhere with his camera swinging round his neck, “if we can catch him we’ve got ourselves a scoop! Think of the headline–Burgling butler does a bunk !”

“No, Ter, we don’t know Stevens did it. I think the answer lies in here,” said Miss Dimont, shaking her head so much her corkscrew curls bounced. But Terry, though easily the best snapper in the West of England, was headstrong, plunging off once again in pursuit of the errant Stevens.

Miss Dimont turned to view the scene behind her. Small tables laden with canapés and glasses looked as if an elephant had bumped into them, while the large circular table in the centre of the library looked even worse. But despite the disarray, the frantic searching and the accusations, nobody had been able to find the missing Van Cleef and Arpels bracelet.

HiddenTreasures, the invitation said, the theme for the party which was raising funds for the church roof. Guests were asked to submit an item of jewellery languishing in the back of a drawer or safe and which had a story to tell.

Mr de Bentone, the elfin, bow-tied auctioneer, had promised an appraisal of each piece in return for a charity donation.

When Judy and Terry arrived there must have been thirty or forty treasures laid out, with a similar number of guests

milling distractedly about. But the centrepiece, an heirloom from her Vanderbilt ancestors loaned by old Mrs Burgh, was conspicuous by its absence.

“At first I assumed Mr de Bentone had it for appraisal,” puffed Colonel Claude when Miss Dimont pulled the notebook from her raffia bag. “But then he came back and asked me where it was. I can’t believe it – Van Cleef! Priceless! I placed it there myself not an hour ago!”

An hour is a long time at the scene of a major crime, however. Suddenly everything goes into slow-motion – urgent whispers growing into cries, then shouts and accusations, then pushing and elbowing among the guests as they surged to the table when the loss was discovered, followed by a hasty retreat in case anyone should think they had pinched it.

The library was empty now, save for Mrs Burgh slumped in a forlorn heap on the sofa next to her paid companion, Miss Prutton. Judy sat down opposite them.

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs B, shaking her head. “Colonel Claude promised me it would be safe. He got the MC, you know, twice over…”

“I know,” said Miss Dimont sympathetically.

“D-Day – same regiment as my son, poor dear boy.” “I’m so sorry.” “The bracelet would have been part of Peter’s inheritance, had he survived. It belonged to my grandmother – Mrs Vanderbilt, don’t you know. Marrying into that family made her rich, but they were a vulgar lot.”

Miss Dimont sensed the narrative was drifting back into a gilded age. “So what happened, Mrs Burgh?” “Their servant Stevens. He nabbed it.” “How do you know? “Colonel Claude told me.” “How does he know?”

“Who else could it have been? Look at those people!” said Mrs Burgh, waving towards the garden-room where many of the top-drawer guests remained. “Do you think there’s a single one among them who could have taken it?”

Miss Dimont surveyed the serried hats and nodded. “Point taken.”

Ididn’t know he was still here – old Stevens,” went on Mrs Burgh, shaking her head. “Colonel Claude invites me up here from time to time but it’s been many a moon since I saw him. It’s always Stevens this and Stevens that, but you never clapped eyes on him.”

“Really,” said Miss Dimont, slowly. “That’s interesting.”

“Colonel Claude is a wonderful man, a delight, and an absolute asset to Temple Regis. But he’s not terribly good with money. If you don’t pay servants they have a habit of taking it for themselves.”

“Oh,” said Miss Dimont as if she wasn’t interested. This sort of response often drew more detail than a direct question.

“And Stevens was a bit of a rough diamond. I think he’d probably been to jail. Colonel Claude rescued him because they’d served together, but he was an ungrateful fellow – surly and presumptuous. They never got on.”

“Why would he do this now, though?” asked Judy. “After all these years?”

“Well,” said Mrs Burgh archly. “Maybe he thought he could cash in the bracelet in lieu of his back-pay. It’s worth several lifetimes’ salary, you know – buy him a nice house, and a yacht too.”

“I…” said Miss Prutton hesitantly. She was sitting with her handbag in her lap. “Yes, Miss Prutton?” “Mr Stevens – Barry,” said the spinster, looking nervously at her employer, for paid companions are like children, to be seen and not heard. “He was getting worse and worse at his job, wasn’t he? I mean, I don’t like to be critical, but you only had to look around.

“Once upon a time it was all very nice here but now – dust everywhere, slipshod carpet-sweeping, that kind of thing. And the place is never tidy – empty glasses lying around. The ashtrays!”

Miss Dimont agreed. The tidy-up before the party had been a bit haphazard.

“But then you could hardly blame him. I heard…” Miss Prutton leaned over her handbag and lowered her voice. “I heard in the Cadena café that Colonel

“I don’t UNDERSTAND. Colonel Claude PROMISED me it would be SAFE”

Claude would pay him, then borrow the money back. And…” She leaned even further forward. “I heard they had a fight. Stevens accused him of having rifled the mess funds after D-Day.”

“Servants’ gossip!” snorted Mrs Burgh. “Colonel always maintained the cash-box had been blown up by the Germans.”

“Well,” said Miss Prutton, pleased by her possession of superior knowledge, “it was apparently very nasty.” “Good Lord,” said Miss Dimont. “So…” “Not in the garden,” said Terry, panting as he burst back into the library. He was wiry and energetic and always one step ahead when it came to getting the story. “That’s twice I’ve looked! I was thinking of taking a dekko at his room – might get a clue there, Judy.” “I’ll come with you.” She took her leave of the old lady whose anguish was slowly melting into sorrowful resignation: “Don’t worry Mrs Burgh, I’m sure it’ll be found.”

In many ways Terry was remarkable. He never read a book – she often wondered whether he bothered to read his own newspaper – yet somehow he always seemed to know everything. Now, he lived up to expectations as he led the reporter down a corridor past the kitchen to a green baize door. “In ’ere,” he said. “We shouldn’t!” protested Miss Dimont who may have solved a mystery or two but believed in behaving like a lady. Terry, on the other hand, was no gent. “Sure to be a photograph or two of him in his room. Be useful later,” he said, striding forcefully ahead.

The corridor gave out into a small sitting-room with a bedroom door on either side. Unlike the disarray in the library, the servants’ quarters were tidy, shipshape and slightly strange.

“Quiet as the grave.” Terry pushed open the first door. “Anything your side?” “Room’s empty,” called Judy. “So’s this one,” replied Terry. “Done a bunk all right. Room’s clean as a whistle.” They stood looking at each other. “That’s odd,” said Judy. “That’s very odd – nothing here. As if…”

The baize door banged open. “May I ask what you’re doing here?” It was Gae Quartermaine, fizzing with anger. She still had her film-star looks, even if the advancing years had smudged them somewhat, and certainly she still knew how to put on an act of righteous indignation.

“We’re looking for Stevens,” answered Miss Dimont, lightly. “This is his room, I take it?”

“Stevens,” hissed their hostess, “has stolen a priceless piece of jewellery and done a bunk with it. What makes you think he’d be hiding in his room? What an utterly absurd notion!” “This is his room?” “You’d better get out!” Her face was white with rage. “I don’t know what we’re doing inviting you tuppenny-ha’penny Press people into the house, anyway! You invade people’s privacy, you make up lies, you distort the truth…”

“No need to take that tone, missus,” said Terry heavily. He was very protective of Miss Dimont, even if she was snooty about his reading habits. But Judy wasn’t really listening. “Just one thing, Mrs Quartermaine. Will you describe Mr Stevens to me?” “Describe?” “What he looks like?” “Well…” The old actress looked flustered and seemed unable to answer.

“Is he tall? Short?” rapped Judy. “Beard? Bald? Thin? Stout?”

Mrs Quartermaine took a step back. “I can’t remem… I mean – what I mean is, I can’t really describe… look, you must talk to the Colonel!” She turned quickly to go.

“Can’t remember?” snapped Judy. “Can’t remember? Can’t describe what your manservant looks like? The man who laid out your husband’s clothes this morning? The one who brought you your breakfast?

“Mrs Quartermaine, these bedrooms are empty. I would say they’ve been empty a long time. There’s a certain smell about a room that hasn’t been used.” “What d’you mean?” “Was there ever a Stevens? Mrs Burgh says she hasn’t seen him for years, but you and the Colonel talk of him all the time.” “Of course there was a Stevens!” “But not now?” “I don’t know what you mean!” “Mrs Quartermaine, a serious offence has taken place in your house. I’m getting the feeling it may not be the only offence. What happened to Stevens? Where did he go? When did he go?”

Mrs Quartermaine sat down suddenly as if she’d been punched in the stomach.

“I told him!” she stuttered, bursting into exaggerated sobs. “I said it would… never… work…” “There is no Stevens, then?” “I told him! He’s mad, you know, mad! He couldn’t bear the shame!”

Miss Dimont looked down at the old actress, waiting.

“Claude,” said the colonel’s wife. “Always bad with money – terrible, in fact. We bought this house, so then we had to live up to it. Every year he spent more than his army pension brought in, until there was nothing left.” “So he stopped paying Stevens?” “He cooked up this silly idea – this mad idea – of having a Hidden Treasures event. He thought he could ‘lose’ an item or two to pay a bill, and then blame the theft on Stevens.” “So where is Stevens now?” Mrs Quartermaine looked up. “As I said to you before,” she said slowly, “I think you’ll find him in the garden. Claude buried him there. Three years ago.”