Chapter Thirty

When we were settled in our room, I took out a pad of paper, a pen, and some ink.

“Oh, jeez, here he goes making his lists again,” my grumpy partner said.

“It is not my fault you don’t have a wife, so do not be upset with me.”

“A wife! What kind of a life would it be if’n I were stuck wi’ a wife?”

“And do not go back to talking as though you did not know better.”

Varden said, “Gentlemen, shall we focus on the problems at hand?”

Blathers said. “Right, let’s get on with it. How much would those fake diamonds be worth if they were not paste?”

Varden answered, “I asked my jeweler friend. He wasn’t sure because there is a difference in value based on any number of factors, like clarity, size of the individual stones, and so on. He did say, however, that they would be worth at least half a million pounds.”

Blathers scratched the back of his neck. “Well, now, that’s just the thing. Do you think old Squod drank up a half a million pounds of diamonds?”

I just struck me how ridiculous that would be. “If he did, he surely would have died a long time before he was murdered.”

“Then what happened to them? Or, more correct, the money they were sold for?”

“Who else would have known about them?”

Varden asked, “Who else lived with Squod?”

We both said together, “Jack Squod.”

I explained to Varden about our first visit to the old inn, and how Jack had disappeared into the depths of London. “It has been over ten years now, and there has been no word of him, although there has been the occasional killing similar to the murder here.” I pointed through the open door to the room across the hallway.

Varden shook his head. “We could begin a search for him, but with half a million pounds he could be living anywhere in the world.”

Blathers said, “He could also hide out very well right here in London. If some of those killings that looked like his were his, it might be that is just what he’s doing. I wonder who will be at old Squod’s burial?”