The new day was dawning as we said goodbye to Li Jing and thanked her for her help.
“Be careful now,” she said in an earnest tone while first squeezing the Chief’s hand and then mine. “Pearls and precious stones have a strange power over human beings. The more beautiful a piece is, the more tragic and grim its history tends to be. You two have become part of the story of Shetland Jack’s pearl necklace and that story does not seem to be over yet. Let me know how things go.”
We promised to do so.
The Chief and I managed to catch the first morning train to Glasgow, and once we were sitting in an empty compartment, the Chief said, “Cockerels can live more than twenty years, or so I’ve heard.”
I knew what he was thinking and I nodded. It looked as if Reeves and Harvey Jenkins were one and the same. That would explain why Jenkins had known there were pearls hidden aboard the Hudson Queen. He knew our ship, of course, because he’d been the engineer when she was still SS Rose.
I suddenly remembered something Harvey Jenkins had said to Margosha: The past has returned and I’ve been given a second chance.
I could guess now what he meant. When Jenkins came across the Hudson Queen in Lisbon, it gave him a second chance to hunt for Shetland Jack’s pearls.
The Chief’s eyes darkened. “So maybe it was Jenkins who killed Captain Shaw after all. Why else would he change his name and avoid the police for all these years?”
I didn’t have an answer to that, but I felt a shudder run down my spine.
When we left the train at Glasgow Central neither the Chief nor I were sleepy and so, instead of walking back to our boarding house, we went into the warmth of the station café. We each ordered a cup of tea and watched the street coming to life on the other side of the café window.
When the hands on the big station clock showed half-past six, the café started serving breakfast. The Chief and I treated ourselves to generous helpings of omelette and toast and more tea.
“What to do now? About the necklace, I mean?” the Chief said between two mouthfuls. “We’re not likely to find Jack Shaw. And if he was still alive, he’d surely have located his old ship long ago and taken the necklace from the ship’s wheel.”
I nodded.
“And Rose Henderson?” the Chief continued looking thoughtful. “If the necklace belongs to anyone, it belongs to her. But how are we to find the girl when Jack couldn’t?”
I pondered the question but couldn’t come up with an answer.
“Hardly a girl any longer, of course—Rose must be close to forty by now… if she’s still alive.”
We finished our breakfast and left the café. The low autumn sun was shining in an almost cloudless sky and we decided to go for a walk. We had no plan in mind so it was pure chance that led us to a street called Gibson Street. The Chief came to an abrupt halt and looked up at a small enamel plaque attached to the wall of one of the houses.
HUMPHREY W. FILLINGSWORTH P.I.
Offers all types of detective work—
tracing missing persons, trailing, surveillance etc.
First-class Service, Reasonable Prices
Discretion Guaranteed.
“A detective,” the Chief said hesitantly. “Someone who can trace missing persons…”
He looked at me. “Perhaps he could help us locate Rose Henderson?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I knew nothing at all about detectives.
“We might as well enquire, anyway,” the Chief said, ringing the doorbell.
The detective’s office was upstairs. The young man who opened the door was wearing a three-piece tweed suit and a bow tie. Two bright red spots flared on his pale cheeks at the sight of me.
“Are you from a zoo?” he asked, sounding rather unsettled. “Or a circus? It’s not about an escaped animal, is it?”
“Not at all,” the Chief answered. “We’re looking for a missing person.”
The detective breathed out and then shook hands with the Chief.
“I apologize for sounding so brusque,” he said. “You’ll understand when I tell you that I had a case of an escaped goat in Ruchill Park a couple of weeks ago. I ended up badly gored and got a hole in my new trousers! That’s why I’m determined not to accept cases of that sort. Sorry for chattering, come in, come in!”
The detective’s office was small and very tidy. Apart from the desk and two chairs for clients, it contained a filing cabinet and a shelf full of books on police work and the technicalities of crime. On the desk lay a neat row of freshly sharpened pencils and a set of handcuffs—the latter looking as if they’d never been used.
The Chief explained our visit and Mr Fillingsworth made notes in a small black notebook.
“So you want me to help you find this woman Rose Henderson,” the detective said. “Why are you trying to get hold of her, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The Chief thought for a moment and then said, “We own a ship which belonged to Rose Henderson’s father at one time. We’ve found something on board that we think she should have. A memory of her father, so to speak.”
“I see, I see…” the detective said, busily taking notes. “And this whatever it is you’ve found is valuable, is it?”
The Chief’s eyebrows went up.
“How do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” Mr Fillingsworth said, “as a detective one is often given the task of locating a specific individual. It usually involves chasing up a debt or issuing a summons to court, and in those cases locating the individual concerned can be extremely difficult. But if one is dealing with a win on the horses or a substantial inheritance from an unknown relative, well, it all becomes very much easier.”
“Fancy that!” the Chief said with a slight smile.
The detective continued in a serious tone: “And that is why it would help if I knew whether you want to find Rose Henderson to give her something she would like. It would increase my chances of finding her.”
The Chief paused in thought before answering.
“Yes,” he said. “We do have something valuable to give Rose Henderson.”
When we went back out onto Gibson Street, clouds were covering the sun. A rising wind from the south hinted at another low-pressure area moving in from the Irish Sea. It would soon be raining.