‘Ornamental dagger?’ interrupted Dunn. ‘You’re making this up, surely.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? No, it was an actual engraved ceremonial dagger – part of the official regalia of the Master at Arms of the Aristippus Club. That’s how they caught him and how Sir Dionisius Fitzwarren-Garvie became known as “the Mayfair Murderer” – a lot more romantic than “the Hatton Garden Stabber”. His trial was the talk of the town, partly because the robber was a toff from a posh club who turned out to be the most notorious jewel thief of his day, obviously. But what really got people gossiping and speculating was that the gems he stole from the merchant’s safe were never recovered. His London home, his country estate, his accomplices’ homes . . . even his beloved Aristippus Club were all turned upside down. They never found a trace. And so began the legend of the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer. Now, the smart money was always on one of his associates passing it to some unknown party – it was probably smuggled out of the country never to be seen again.’
‘But?’ said Skins.
‘But legend has it that it’s concealed in a secret vault at the Aristippus Club.’
‘Now I know you’re making it up,’ said Dunn. ‘Ornamental daggers and secret vaults? Pull the other one.’
Sunderland chuckled again. ‘You’re going to love the next part. For a hundred and twenty years people have searched the club looking for the treasure. Members, staff, private detectives, adventurers – they’ve all explored every corner of the club looking for the secret entrance to the vault. After Howard Carter found Tutankhamun’s tomb, they even had a couple of Egyptologists poking around using “techniques learned from exploring the ancient pyramids”. They’ve never found it.’
‘Because it’s not there,’ said Dunn.
‘So you’d think. But the legend persists. And it draws out all the chancers—’
‘And loonies.’
‘Them, too. But they all come sniffing round the Aristippus sooner or later. More so now there’s a new rumour for them to work on. The latest scuttlebutt is that the clue to the treasure vault’s location is in the club regalia. Some item in the garb or paraphernalia of the club officials holds the key, so they say, to the secret. The trouble is that the regalia itself is locked in its own impenetrable vault – actually, it’s a rather ordinary safe in the club president’s room, but they like to say “vault”. Anyway, it’s locked up tight and only brought out on high days and holidays.’
‘Like, say, annual dance competitions?’ suggested Skins.
‘Exactly like that, yes, Skins old lad. The secretary has confirmed that the dance contest most definitely warrants a formal club ritual. So on go the robes, out come the daggers and the sceptres and the orbs and who knows what else, and they parade around at the opening ceremony like it was a coronation or the investiture of an archbishop.’
Skins was shaking his head. ‘Let me see if I’ve understood. A bloke who deserted in France eight years ago, in 1917, might or might not have broken his cover to join a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair, because he’s worked out what a hundred and twenty years of detectives and archaeologists couldn’t fathom.’
‘And he needs access to the club regalia,’ said Dunn, ‘so he’s joined in with the dance contest because that event guarantees all the club bigwigs will be out in their . . . in their big wigs, and that means he’ll finally get access to the secret vault and the Mayfair treasure—’
‘Which he doesn’t need because he’s got thousands of pounds’ worth of uncut diamonds of his own already,’ interrupted Skins.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ said Sunderland.
‘Why not just put a few of your blokes in the club on the night?’ said Skins.
‘I could have a dozen men on duty at the dance and they’d never spot our man – we’ve no idea who we’re looking for. That’s why we need you two to go in and see if you can find out a little more about these new chaps so we can narrow it down. And I couldn’t afford it, anyway – I’d need a wheelbarrow-load of cash to pay the overtime. My little squad doesn’t get handed that sort of money except on a dead cert. And probably not even then.’
Skins and Dunn laughed.
‘Well, we’re certainly cheap,’ said Skins.
‘But will you do it?’ said Sunderland. ‘You’ll be there anyway, so it’ll not cost you anything. And there’s no danger. All I need is eyes and ears.’
‘So you want us to look out from the stage and . . . and do what, exactly?’ said Skins.
‘Well, your view from the stage would be a good place to start. But then, just, you know, chat to them. Get to know them a little. See what’s what.’
‘And report back to you.’
‘Just so,’ said Sunderland. ‘We’ll nab the chap if needs be – there’ll be no danger. Like I say, I just need eyes and ears inside the club.’
Skins and Dunn looked at each other, and Dunn shrugged. They and Ellie had talked often over the years about the exploits of their friends Lady Hardcastle and Flo Armstrong, wondering if they’d have been able to crack the cases those two worked on. None of them had ever truly thought they’d be any good at ‘all that detective stuff’, but the imagined glamour of it had always held some appeal. It certainly had for Skins. He loved the idea that Ellie had an actual spy in her family. He raised his eyebrows and looked imploringly at Dunn.
Dunn laughed. ‘Go on, then. Why not?’ He turned to Sunderland. ‘He’s always fancied himself as a bit of a Richard Hannay on the quiet.’
Skins sneered sarcastically at his old friend and raised two fingers.
‘I don’t mind if you don’t want to do it,’ said Sunderland. ‘I’ve got nothing to offer but the unspoken thanks of a grateful nation, after all. But it’ll take the pair of you, I think, so if you don’t want to do it, Dunn, just say.’
‘Course I do,’ said Dunn. ‘Truth is, Lady H used to speak very highly of you, too – though she still calls you “Inspector” Sunderland—’
‘To my face, usually. I like to think of it as affectionate teasing.’
‘Sounds like her. But the point is that she used to say you were one of the only coppers she’d trust in a pinch. I reckon she’d do it for you if she could. So I reckon we should, too.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ said Sunderland. ‘Simply marvellous. Thank you. Do help yourself to biscuits.’
Sunderland had spent some time giving the boys as much information as he had about Arthur Grant’s war record. It wasn’t much, but at least they knew where he had served, and where and when he had last been seen. The superintendent had also asked for regular reports.
‘Don’t go to too much trouble over it – a brief note of what you saw, who you spoke to, that sort of thing. A phone call will do. Or a telegram. Just so I know how things are going.’
Then he had wished them well and sent them on their way, but not before he managed to find a car for Grine to take them home in.