JACK OF DIAMONDS

iii

Gabby sat down on a bench to watch the couple across the street. She’d first spotted them when they stopped off at the Town Hall earlier. She’d just happened to be out and about herself, running errands and picking up foodstuffs from the market on the corner of Fore and George Streets when she saw them. She knew the woman for one of the town’s Constables.

A woman as stunning as her is bound to stand out, she thought, not only when she’s in her uniform, but when she goes to the market to pick up wares on her off days.

She’s the woman with the Bentley.

But the man, he’s a stranger, Gabby told herself. It’s funny how you get to know who people are in a village this size, funnier still how you recognize who the strangers are, she thought.

She’d only been in Okehampton herself for ten days; hopefully she’d be back in London by tomorrow night. But there was something about the two that drew her attention to them, making her think they were up to something. Normally, she would’ve never given them a second look, except that she’d watched them enter the Town Hall, and now they were making their way to the Tom Cobley Tavern.

Two days before, she’d put up flyers announcing tonight’s meeting at the tavern. Lawrence knew they were being watched by the local Constabulary, but said he didn’t care; it wasn’t hard to spot them, he told her, and besides, what did they think they were going to do? There were only the five of them. She walked to her bicycle where it was leaning against the side of The White Hart Hotel, dropping her grocery sack into the carrier, and sitting up on the seat, adjusted her dress as she took one last look at the couple.

She began pedalling down George Street, the paving stones ending when she turned right at Jacob’s Pool—a small ditch about three feet wide following the dirt track to where Lawrence lived in his tiny hovel under the shade of three willow trees. There was a wood shed to the left of the hovel—she couldn’t think to call it anything else—and an outhouse a dozen feet beyond that. The enclosed yard was a worn-out earthen patch where chickens scratched at the hard dirt and ducks waddled aimlessly about looking for puddles left over from the rain. There was another fenced pen—a pig sty behind the willows—where six piglets foraged about and a large sow slept in the afternoon sun.

She made her way into the house, lifting the latch and stepping into the darkness. The room was small, cluttered with the debris of bachelorhood, and she immediately started cleaning the mess. She hated clutter as much as she hated slovenly people, and while Lawrence didn’t seem to mind the mess, she reminded herself it wasn’t her place to tell him how he should live. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, and soon she could see stray strands of light making their way through the cracks and holes in the boards, illuminating dead spiders’ webs she told herself had probably been there for more years than she cared to imagine. He’d never think to take a broom and sweep them away.

It’s just the way a man’s mind works.

It took all of fifteen minutes for her to clear off the wooden table and sweep the floor; opening the door, she picked up the mat in front of the landing, beating it against the outside of the door. She could see a cloud of dust dancing in the doorway, and closed it. She picked up the small lamp in the middle of the table and struck a match, bringing the wick to life and the dark corners with it.

The door opened and Lawrence stepped in. A gruff looking man with a walrus moustache that was peppered with grey, dark eyes under heavy brows in need of a trim, his hair was receding and not much more than a memory. He was wearing big boots caked with mud, and paused as he saw her staring at him, the broom leaning against the table beside her. She picked it up and took three steps toward him, holding the broom out.

“I’ve just swept.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“If it were my house, I’d say take your boots off before coming in, but it’s not.”

“Tomorrow can’t come soon enough,” he said, opening the door and stepping out. She could see him pulling his boots off and sweeping the dried mud off his socks as well as the cuffs of his pants. He put his boots beside the door, closing it as he stepped in, and smiled at her.

“Better?”

“Are you hungry?” she asked, wondering what it was about the man that made her want to mother him. And not just him, she reminded herself, but pretty well every man she’d ever met. It didn’t matter if she was sleeping with them, or not.

“I’m good,” he said, patting his vest down, and looking about the room.

“I saw that lady Constable with someone else today. They went into the Town Hall,” she said, thinking it might be important.

“So?”

“She was with someone I didn’t recognize.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing. I didn’t recognize him. I know every one of them, but he’s not from here.”

“Is he a Constable?”

“Oh yes. You can see that,” she added.

“So what do you want me to do, kill him? There’s been a lot of that going around lately,” he added as he pulled out a chair from under the table and sat down. He pulled a pouch out of his shirt pocket and prepared to roll a cigarette.

“No I don’t want you to kill him,” she snapped.

“Then why even tell me?”

“I thought you should know.”

“Why? You’re leaving tomorrow. What does it matter?”

“It always matters.”

“How’d it go up at the House?” he asked, sliding the lamp over and lighting his cigarette.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I heard there was an accident. Prince Igor’s son took a tumble over the balcony. Got hurt pretty bad.”

“What are you asking me?”

“You were there, and now you’re not.”

“Does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, then again, maybe it does?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. I’m talking about your sister. I’m talking about the fact that Anatoly Chernetsov was fucking her, and when he wouldn’t leave his wife for her, that’s when she killed herself. You don’t think I know that? I know a lot of things about you. I probably know things about you that you don’t even know.”

“And what are you saying I did?”

“I’m not saying you did anything. I’m not. You can see that, right? But that new Constable you saw? It’s possible he’s investigating the accident up at the Manor, and he’s in town trying to get a line on the woman who was working there this morning.”

“You mean, me?”

“I’m not saying you did it. There were no witnesses—so you’re good that way. It was the same thing with your late husband,” he said after a moment.

“What do you mean? What about him? What do you know?”

“What do I know? What do you mean what do I know? I was there, remember? Not only was I there when he was executed, but he recruited me. You’re only here because I chose to follow his lead. But I’ll tell you something else you don’t know.”

“What?”

“That lady Constable.”

“What about her?”

“I knew her late husband.” He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and stepped on it barefoot. She looked at him and shook her head slightly. He didn’t know if she was mad at him for butting the cigarette on the floor, or that he hadn’t told her sooner.

“When?”

“The War. He was one of the three innocent victims.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t. I wouldn’t expect you to, either. But how many people do you know that have the same name? Not many, I’ll bet. And if they have the same name, chances are they’re related in some way, don’t you think? She was married to the man.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I was there.”

“I mean, how do you know it was her husband? It could’ve been her brother; a cousin? An uncle?”

“I was there.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He was quiet for a moment, silently rolling another cigarette. He hadn’t finished the one he was smoking, and she watched the silent blue tendril snake into the murky air of the room. She watched him in the silence; waiting, wondering. If he knew the Constable’s husband—as well as her own—what did that tell her?

Nothing.

“Do you think she’ll figure out who I am?”

“She’ll think you’re nothing more than a rumour.”

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