By Kathy Sharp
champagne
It had been the much talked-about
theft of a much talked-about object. Those glamorous and unmistakable diamonds
had last been seen, famously, about the neck of a princess. The necklace was
quite a haul for Mr East, society burglar, and one he’d had his eye on for a
while, but it did present a problem. How could such a well-known article be
hidden?
Even unstrung, the diamonds were
all too recognisable. This would, Mr East thought, be something of a long-term
operation.
He had, over many years, set up the
perfect cover for his illegal activities: funeral director to all the best
people. It meant, of course, that he was able to visit the bereaved in their
sumptuous homes, and, unsuspected, case the joint. His premises were discreet,
respectful and decorated in perfect good taste. Everything about Mr East was
understated. He was more or less invisible, as a funeral director should be. It
was pretty good cover for a burglar, too.
It was Mr East’s usual practice to
farm out easily-recognised objects to his small and exclusive circle of
felonious friends for hiding until the heat died down, but this case was
different. He wanted to enjoy the diamonds, keep them close. Not upon his
person, of course, but somewhere he could pass by, day to day, and feel the
pleasure of ownership. So he had made a large bunch of silk flowers – dark red
poppies, almost black, and very suitable décor for a funeral parlour. The
diamonds, in threes and fours, were concealed within the capsules at the heart
of the flowers.
And there they stayed, year upon
year, hidden in plain sight. Mr East would amuse himself by giving the flowers a
little shake as he passed, to hear the jingle of priceless stones within. He
could never resist a discreet chuckle.
After ten years – Mr East was
nothing if not patient – he decided the time was right to put the diamonds on
the market, a few at a time. He would begin the very next
day.
But the very next day Mr East was
fatally run down by a hansom cab, and found himself occupying a berth in his own
funeral parlour. Tragic. The business was discreetly sold.
“Just look at all this
old-fashioned stuff,” said the new owner. “We will clear it all out – redecorate
in the modern style.”
The silk poppies, with a final
jingle, were tossed out with the rubbish, and buried deep. Just like Mr East
himself.
About the author
For
full details of all my books, follow me on my Amazon page. : tinyurl.com/mygx77l
Whales
and Strange Stars. Lovely historical novel set in the marshlands of
18th century Kent.
‘The
sense of place is perfectly captured, and the writing just dances off the page.
Highly recommended.’ myBook.to/WhalesAndStrangeStars
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