THE SILENT GIRL:
The girl’s lips remained sealed. No name. No address. No explanation.
Detective Frankly bundled her into his car, the diamond burning a hole in his pocket. Sydney followed—his reputation with the police brass granting him passage where others would be turned away.
At the station, the matron’s examination revealed secrets stitched into fabric: men’s clothes hiding custom-made women’s undergarments. A label sewn inside led them to a drowsy dressmaker, dragged from bed in the dead of night.
“Catherine,” the woman mumbled. “Harrison Stanwood’s niece.”
Stanwood—an eccentric collector of rare artifacts, wealthy, reclusive, residing in the West Country’s gilded lanes. The police kept this from the girl, letting her believe her silence still shielded her.
Sydney knew the rules. A civilian didn’t intrude on police work. But Sydney wasn’t just any civilian. Lieutenant Sylvester agreed—they’d ride together to Stanwood’s estate, the rest of the squad trailing in their own vehicles.
The House of Secrets
The mansion loomed in the moonlight, its windows dark.
Two officers slithered to the back. Two more climbed the porch steps. The doorbell’s chime echoed through the halls like a ghostly alarm.
A pause. Then—
Shuffling.
A Japanese servant descended, silk robe rustling, eyes puffy with interrupted sleep. “Who disturbs the house?”
The police identified themselves. The servant—Hashinto—bowed them inside, guiding them to a library rich with the scent of old leather and dust.
“Does Miss Catherine live here?” Sylvester demanded.
“Y-yes,” Hashinto stammered.
“Fetch her. Now.”
“She sleeps—”
“Then we’ll wake her.” Sylvester’s voice left no room for debate. “Take us to her room.”
Hashinto hesitated, then led the way upstairs, two officers on his heels.
A knock. A murmured exchange. Then—
Footsteps. Fast. Nervous.
The officers returned, escorting a wild-eyed man in a rumpled nightshirt, his hair a storm of panic. Charles Wettler—Stanwood’s secretary—didn’t wait for questions.
“Catherine’s unstable,” he blurted, words tumbling like dice. “Expelled from college. Drains her uncle’s patience—and his wallet. Foolish stock market gambles, massive losses. But Stanwood tolerates it. She’s his only family.”
Sydney absorbed every twitch, every flicker in Wettler’s gaze. Meanwhile, Sylvester relayed the findings: Catherine’s bed untouched, drawers ransacked, clothes strewn as if she’d fled in a frenzy.
The girl in the warehouse was Catherine.
But why was she there? What connected her to the Diamond of Death?
The household roster unfolded:
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Hashinto, the servant.
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Robin Carter, an assistant.
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Philip Buntler, an old friend.
Each is a thread in the tapestry. Each is hiding something.
And somewhere in the shadows, Harrison Stanwood—the collector, the uncle, the man whose prized diamond now pulsed with danger.
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Adapted from Earl Stanley Gardner’s “The Mystery of the Missing Body“)