‘Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag,’ said Henry jocosely. ‘And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit of wiring and phoning that day.’
‘They were insured,’ said Miss Nunn dreamily. ‘Not like my opal.’
A spasm of exquisite heartrending grief flitted across her face.
Several times, when in the company of Mr Quin, Mr Satterthwaite had had the feeling of taking part in a play. The illusion was with him very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words ‘my opal’ were his own cue. He leant forward.
‘Your opal, Miss Nunn?’
‘Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was stolen, you know. And I never got it back.’
‘Do tell us,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Well—I was born in October—so it was lucky for me to wear opals, and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very large—about the size of a two-shilling piece—but oh! the colour and the fire.’
She sighed. Mr Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story sound like some mournful Saga of old.
‘It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays.’
‘Very good plays,’ put in Mr Vyse professionally. ‘Why, I once kept one of his plays for six months.’
‘Did you produce it?’ asked Mr Tomlinson.
‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Vyse, shocked at the idea. ‘But do you know, at one time I actually thought of doing so?’
‘It had a wonderful part in it for me,’ said Miss Nunn. ‘Rachel’s Children, it was called—though there wasn’t anyone called Rachel in the play. He came to talk to me about it—at the theatre. I liked him. He was a nice-looking—and very shy, poor boy. I remember’—a beautiful far-away look stole over her face—‘he bought me some peppermint creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He’d been out in Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket then. I missed it as soon as he’d gone. There was a to-do. You remember?’
She turned to Mr Vyse.
‘Oh, I remember,’ said Mr Vyse with a groan.
‘They found the empty case in his rooms,’ continued the actress. ‘He’d been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay large sums into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn’t produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don’t you? He might have thought of something better than that . . . I had to go and give evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent said it was very good publicity—but I’d much rather have had my opal back.’
She shook her head sadly.
‘Have some preserved pineapple?’ said Mr Judd.
Miss Nunn brightened up.
‘Where is it?’
‘I gave it to you just now.’
Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her grey silk pochette, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that was reposing on the ground beside her. She began to turn the contents out slowly on the table, much to Mr Satterthwaite’s interest.
There was a powder puff, a lip-stick, a small jewel case, a skein of wool, another powder puff, two handkerchiefs, a box of chocolate creams, an enamelled paper knife, a mirror, a little dark brown wooden box, five letters, a walnut, a small square of mauve crêpe de chine, a piece of ribbon and the end of a croissant. Last of all came the preserved pineapple.
‘Eureka,’ murmured Mr Satterthwaite softly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mr Satterthwaite hastily. ‘What a charming paper knife.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Somebody gave it to me. I can’t remember who.’
‘That’s an Indian box,’ remarked Mr Tomlinson. ‘Ingenious little things, aren’t they?’
‘Somebody gave me that too,’ said Miss Nunn. ‘I’ve had it a long time. It used always to stand on my dressing-table at the theatre. I don’t think it’s very pretty, though, do you?’
The box was of plain dark brown wood. It pushed open from the side. On the top of it were two plain flaps of wood that could be turned round and round.
‘Not pretty, perhaps,’ said Mr Tomlinson with a chuckle. ‘But I’ll bet you’ve never seen one like it.’
Mr Satterthwaite leaned forward. He had an excited feeling.
‘Why did you say it was ingenious?’ he demanded.
‘Well, isn’t it?’
The judge appealed to Miss Nunn. She looked at him blankly.
‘I suppose I mustn’t show them the trick of it—eh?’ Miss Nunn still looked blank.
‘What trick?’ asked Mr Judd.
‘God bless my soul, don’t you know?’
He looked round the inquiring faces.
‘Fancy that now. May I take the box a minute? Thank you.’
He pushed it open.
‘Now then, can anyone give me something to put in it—not too big. Here’s a small piece of Gruyère cheese. That will do capitally. I place it inside, shut the box.’
He fumbled for a minute or two with his hands.
‘Now see—’
He opened the box again. It was empty.
‘Well, I never,’ said Mr Judd. ‘How do you do it?’
‘It’s quite simple. Turn the box upside down, and move the left hand flap half-way round, then shut the right hand flap. Now to bring our piece of cheese back again we must reverse that. The right hand flap halfway round, and the left one closed, still keeping the box upside down. And now—Hey Presto!’
The box slid open. A gasp went round the table. The cheese was there but so was something else. A round thing that blinked forth every colour of the rainbow.
‘My opal!’
It was a
