The indiscretions of a lady's maid

October 9th

Oui, vraiment! One meets with some strange mistresses, and sometimes unearths some ugly family skeletons.

I have some curious recollections of the Allardyces.

Within a fortnight of leaving the service of Madame Engleheart I found myself engaged by Lady Allardyce, who lived with her husband, Sir Hubert Allardyce, at Branksome Court, on the highlands above Bournemouth.

A fine house with high turrets, reminding one of a French château, standing in beautiful, well-kept grounds; valuable old furniture, stained glass, a host of servants, several motor-cars, and six men in the gardens. One hundred francs a month—four pounds sterling—washing, and beer—ugh! your English beer!

On arrival one morning very contented with my new place, her ladyship saw me at once in her dressing-room—a pretty room with pale-green-and-cream silk upholstery. She was a stout, full-faced, pleasant-voiced woman, with skin just a trifle too white, her lips a little too red, hair a shade too blonde, but nevertheless exceedingly well preserved—frou-frouante even, with a certain commanding presence and, for an Englishwoman, a considerable chic.

Perhaps I possess a keen eye. I have been told so.

It is only necessary for me to glance around a home, and more especially the mistress’s dressing-room, and I can quickly form a pretty accurate opinion of the habits and manners of the family. I rarely make a mistake, for, be it remembered, I have had a long experience of the disorganised existence, the intrigues, the hatred, the fevered life of Englishwomen of the upper class. It is curious, but nevertheless a fact, that there exists a kind of freemasonry, spontaneous yet indescribable, between the old domestics and the newcomers. By the first look the new arrival is put au courant with the spirit of the household.

In the glance which the butler gave me on entering the back door of the Allardyces, I read the expression: “This is a curious house, from top to bottom. There is no security that you will remain very long. But it is amusing, nevertheless.”

Therefore, on entering my lady’s cabinet-de-toilette I was, in a measure, prepared by the vague impressions I had gathered below—which was, of course, nothing in particular. Only from the first moment that I entered Branksome Court I instinctively knew that there was some mystery within.

Lady Allardyce was writing letters at a small bureau. Upon the pale blue carpet were thrown several white fur rugs, and the arm-chairs were snug and cosy. In a small cabinet I noted some dainty bric-à-brac, while on a pale green silk chaise longue lay a pet Pekinese.

Madame, raising her blonde head, exclaimed—

“Ah! Mariette. So you have arrived—eh? You must have left London quite early.” And she smiled pleasantly.

In her eyes showed that strange, inexpressible look which spoke mutely of an interesting past. Have you ever noticed that expression in a woman’s eyes—a certain deep unfathomable glance betraying a subtle ingenuity—perhaps even double-dealing.

She rose and leisurely examined me, my face, my shoulders, and my profile, muttering to herself from time to time.

“Ah, yes! She is really not half bad. Indeed, she is rather good-looking. She’ll suit me. Excellent!”

Then brusquely she asked—

“Your friends live over in France, I suppose, Mariette?”

“Yes, Madame, in the Yonne,” I answered, in wonder at her manner of speaking to herself.

As I spoke she regarded me from head to toe, then to herself said—

“Yes, she is good-looking. Decidedly handsome for a French girl.”

Next second she addressed me, saying with a smile—

“The fact is, Mariette, I never like any but good-looking girls about me. It is so much more pleasant, so much more artistic.”

I was about to protest that my face was not so remarkably handsome. My previous experience of mistresses had been that they had sneered at any good features I might possess. It had only been the male servants who had told me that I was handsome. Strange that English men-servants are so very fond of the French femme-de-chambre!

But Madame continued to examine me minutely, then regarding my black dress, she asked—

“Is that your best gown?”

“Yes, my lady,” was my reply.

“H’m! It is not very smart. I will see that you have others. Your linen, too?” and taking my skirt in her hand she lifted it.

She said nothing, only made a grimace. She saw my English moire jupon, with the flannel one beneath—in true style of the foggy island.

“No, Mariette,” she remarked at last, “I cannot allow you to go about like that. Come, help me.”

She opened a big wardrobe, and pulling forth a long drawer full of perfumed chiffons and delicate underwear, she emptied the contents pell-mell upon the floor, saying—

“Take the lot to your room. No doubt they will have to be altered to fit you, but that is only a small affair. They will all come in useful, without a doubt.”

With murmured thanks I regarded the heap upon the floor—silk stockings, satin corsets, underwear of finest batiste and lace, pretty blouses, and lovely underskirts fanfreluches. From them arose a sweet perfume—a new scent like a basket of fresh flowers which I had not before met with—the perfect odeur d’amour.

My lady noted my confusion and said in explanation—

“You see, Mariette, I only like pretty, well-dressed girls about me. You will note that in this house. They must all be elegant. Perhaps I am a little exacting; indeed, it is almost a mania with me. I only like pretty things, so all my maids are good-looking and elegant. You are dark. See! Here is a red silk under-skirt for you. Take it, and have it altered to fit you at once.”

“Really, Madame is extremely kind,” I managed to exclaim. “I do not deserve all these favours. I hardly——”

“If you serve me well,” said Lady Allardyce, “you will find me a good mistress. But, remember, never let me see you looking prim and dowdy, like the ordinary lady’s maid. I want you always to appear chic and smart—and to use this.” And she handed me a big and expensive bottle of one of the latest and most fashionable perfumes.

Surely it was a very remarkable situation, I thought. But Madame gave me no time for reflection. She chatted on, in an easy, familiar, almost maternal manner, giving me certain intimate details regarding her mode of living. Then she showed me her bedroom adjoining, her hats, her wardrobes and their contents, and where everything was kept. Afterwards she said—

“Every woman—no matter who, maid or mistress—should always be well dressed.”

And then she conducted me to my own room, at the end of a long corridor in the same wing of the house.

That evening I dressed my lady in a magnificent gown of black net and sequins—for there was a dinner-party—and, later on, in the servants’ hall I learnt something regarding the ménage.

Monsieur had been in the Diplomatic Service—British Minister to one of the South American republics—but had retired when, by the death of a near relative, he had inherited Branksome Court and a very comfortable income.

I met Monsieur in the up-stairs corridor late that evening. He was a short, stout, somewhat pompous man with a red, plethoric face, a broad expanse of shirt-front, and a tiny white moustache. His air was that of a bon vivant, and his dress was smart, even dandified. His monocle was held by a narrow black silk ribbon, and his dress-cravat was neatly tied. He had the air of a Government official and the sturdy uprightness which betrays the golfer.

He stared at me in surprise, but said nothing.

They entertained the haut monde of Bournemouth, it seemed. I saw some of the gowns that night. Bon Dieu! they were of a style forgotten in Paris. Truly the English couturière is a droll person.

A fortnight went by. Whenever I mentioned my lady in the servants’ hall my companions shrugged their shoulders and pulled grimaces. There was something mysterious about that ménage, but what it was I failed to discover. Both Monsieur and Madame were eminently notables of Bournemouth—that invalid town of much réclame. We had family prayers each morning in the dining-room, for Monsieur was a churchwarden, and Madame was constantly assisting at charity bazaars and church teas.

Madame always treated me with greatest consideration; and Monsieur, I found, beneath a rather austere exterior, was extremely kind and pleasant. He was always joking good-humouredly.

Yet the atmosphere of mystery about them increased rather than diminished.

Madame seemed, somehow, to regard me with a slight distrust. Why, I cannot tell.

One day, however, I noticed her extremely pale and nervous. A luncheon party she postponed by telephone on account of being unwell, and spent all the morning in the chaise longue before the fire in her dressing-room.

“Mariette!” she called to me. “Come here. I wish to speak to you.”

“Oui, Madame.”

“Mariette,” she went on, raising her eyes to mine, “I have come to the conclusion that you suit me admirably, yet—yet I am still just a little doubtful regarding your loyalty to myself.”

“Madame has no need to be anxious upon that score,” I assured her. “No mistress has ever been more kind and considerate.”

“I like you, Mariette, because your eyes are not always upon the men. Henry, the footman, is hanging after every girl. I note, however, that you keep him at arm’s length, and you never look into your master’s eyes.”

“I hope, Madame, that I am not a flirt,” I said modestly. “I know my place.”

“Well, if I trust you further, Mariette, I hope you will never betray my confidence,” she said softly, “never tell a soul—not even the master or any of them in the servants’ hall—eh?”

“I promise, Madame.”

“Then, I want you to do something for me this afternoon—something in strictest confidence. Go on the Pier, and at three o’clock take a seat in the first sheltered recess from this end, on the right-hand side where the skating is allowed. You will carry this bag,” and she showed me a bright mauve bag with a small watch let into the side. “The person you will meet will recognise you by this. You will either take a verbal message for me, or else you will be given a note. Will you assist me in strictest confidence?”

“Of course, I will do exactly as Madame orders,” was my quick response, for my curiosity was now aroused.

Eh bien! I went to the Pier, found the seat indicated, and settled myself upon it, displaying my mauve bag. A strong east wind was blowing, and the band was playing to a rather poor audience. I eyed each passer-by expectantly, but without result, until I began to fear that the mysterious appointment would not be kept.

At last a queer, ill-dressed little old woman in faded black bonnet and shabby jacket, trimmed with rabbit’s-fur, hobbled along and took a seat beside me.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, in a low, squeaky voice. “You are Lady Allardyce’s new maid, I see—the French girl we’ve heard about—eh?”

I admitted that I was.

“Will you give your mistress this message—that Mr. Charles must have what she promised to-night. He will wait for her in the Invalids’ Walk at nine o’clock. He must see her. It is most urgent.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“Yes, young woman,” was her snappy response. “Tell her that. She’ll understand.” And the ugly old person gave vent to a low, dry laugh. When, half-an-hour later, I stood in Madame’s boudoir and gave her the message, she went pale to the lips.

“I go to the Invalids’ Walk at night! I—I can’t do that!” she cried. “It’s monstrous! Why, I should be recognised in an instant. No, Mariette, you must go and meet him—humour him—make love to him, if necessary—for my sake.”

“I do not understand Madame’s meaning,” I said much puzzled.

“Simply this, Mariette. The gentleman in question admires a pretty face—and—well, I shall not be in the least annoyed if you flirt with him.”

“But—Madame——”

“Ah, of course, you cannot understand!” she exclaimed. “Well, this gentleman and I are—are very great friends. Sir Hubert must never know—you understand? My future, Mariette, is in your hands. If—if any discovery were ever made you could easily declare that the gentleman was your lover—that he came to Bournemouth—to this house in order to visit you—eh?”

“And by such declaration save Madame’s reputation?” I remarked. “Parfaitement!”

My lady nodded. I saw by her manner that she was terribly anxious. That old woman’s message was suspiciously like a threat.

That night, at nine o’clock, I sauntered along the Invalids’ Walk, that pretty pine-clad valley through which the Bourne brook flows, where, by day, pale-faced consumptives enjoy the sunshine and by night amorous couples stroll beneath the electric lamps.

I sat upon a seat beneath one of the lamps, and displayed my violet bag, when, after ten minutes or so, a tall, well-dressed, refined, and extremely good-looking man, glanced at me in surprise, crossed, and seated himself beside me. He was about my own age, and had the easy manner of a gentleman.

“You are Mariette, I presume?” he asked, lifting his hat politely.

Then, when I admitted that I was, and that I bore a message from Madame, he laughed, and with a sigh exclaimed—

“More excuses, I suppose?”

I explained that Madame feared recognition, but that she would meet him on the following night at ten o’clock, in the lower grounds of Branksome Court, at a spot I indicated.

He smiled faintly, apparently disappointed; but next instant the shadow passed, and he looked at me with merry, mischievous glance.

He was pleased to meet me, he declared. He liked French people. He had heard of me, and he hoped I was happy with Madame. Et patati ... et patata!

And, in the end, he invited me to take a stroll with him, which I did. He was très gentil, was Monsieur. And yet was it not strange that I, Madame’s maid, was walking out with Madame’s lover? Oh là! là!

Truly the ménage of the Allardyces was a strange one.

We went for quite a long walk through the gardens in the direction of Branksome Court, and once or twice he placed his hand upon my arm to emphasise his words, and squeezed it.

He had travelled a great deal. I, who have been about, and know Continental hotels pretty well, am quick to realise the cosmopolitan. Monsieur Charles was a man after my own heart. Perhaps I might have fallen in love with him, only—well, I was only a femme-de-chambre. His name was Shaw—Charlie Shaw—he told me. He lived sometimes in London, but was mostly on the Continent. And he spoke French very well.

“You will, I hope, Mariette, be good and faithful to Madame,” he said, growing serious again. “She has had much trouble with her maids. The last was far too flighty, and aroused Madame’s jealousy. Sir Hubert is only human, after all, and few men can resist a pretty face. The worst of it is that Lady Allardyce will always have good-looking girls about her.”

“That is not judicious,” I laughed, “if Monsieur is susceptible.”

“Exactly. Well, good-bye, Mariette,” he said, suddenly halting. “Here’s something to buy yourself a pair of gloves.” And he pressed into my hand half a louis in English.

When, later, I told Madame of what had transpired she seemed greatly relieved.

Next evening, Monsieur—poor unsuspicious Monsieur—had some men friends in to smoke, and Madame retired early, pleading migraine. Then swiftly she slipped on a dark gown and crept through the conservatory, while I remained on guard. Afterwards, when I had seen her flit down the drive in the shadows, and on down the step hill among the pines, I breathed more freely, and stood gazing away to where the myriad lights of Bournemouth lay deep in the valley by the sea.

An hour later the butler locked the conservatory door, but when he had gone I unlocked it again, and in the darkness awaited Madame’s return.

When we had mounted to her dressing-room I noticed that her eyes were red and swollen. She was very nervous, and had been crying. Why, I wondered? Had she quarrelled with Monsieur Charles?

Three weeks went by uneventfully. My lady never mentioned Mr. Shaw; yet I saw that, day after day, she seemed to grow paler and more apprehensive. For hours she would sit in her boudoir staring into the fire without uttering a word. Something was seriously troubling her.

Twice she went on mysterious visits to London unknown to Monsieur. Why?

One afternoon, when Madame had gone out en automobile with Monsieur, for a run through the New Forest, I chanced to note that in one of the drawers in the big wardrobe—a drawer which Madame always kept locked—the key had been inadvertently left.

As my lady had told me that particular drawer was her private one, which the key to the others would not fit, my curiosity, naturally, was aroused, and, unlocking it, I ventured to peer within.

Its contents were what I might have expected—quantities of old letters done up in bundles and many odds-and-ends, souvenirs without doubt. As I turned them over I came across a photograph of Mr. Shaw, evidently taken some years before; but, when my fingers touched the bottom of the drawer, it sounded hollow. Then I noticed that it was more shallow than it should be. It had a false bottom! What secrets of Madame’s were concealed below?

Quickly I drew out the drawer, removed the contents, and with some manipulation lifted out the mahogany board, when my eyes fell upon a miscellaneous collection of jewels, splendid diamond necklaces, ornaments for the corsage, brooches of rubies and emeralds, hundreds of fine rings and bracelets set with diamonds, sapphires, opals and emeralds, together with several screwed-up packets of newspaper. One of the latter I opened. It was full of unset stones, most of them of great size and value.

As I took up the treasures by handfuls I found beneath them a small, but very serviceable plated revolver, several curious-looking steel tools such as I had never seen before, and a black velvet loup, or half-mask, such as is worn at the carnival balls in the Midi.

Figurez-vous my blank astonishment! Was this secret hoard the proceeds of many robberies? Some of the larger stones in the more costly ornaments had been knocked from their settings, while the revolver, the mask, and the burglarious implements told their own tale.

Was Madame, the exemplary wife of his Excellency the ex-Minister, actually a jewel thief? Quelle drôle d’idée!

I placed one of the diamond necklets around my own throat and went to the mirror to admire it. May I be forgiven! Even in the grey light of afternoon the stones were full of fire. To whom, I wondered, had it belonged?

As I stood staring at my reflection, I suddenly heard Madame’s voice speaking with Monsieur. She was ascending the stairs slowly, on account of her heart. Quick as lightning I tore off the jewels, replaced the false bottom in the drawer, flung in the letters and odds-and-ends, and locked it back in its place.

Then, throwing myself into the chair near the fire, I sank my chin upon my breast, and closed my eyes in pretence of being asleep.

All this was accomplished none too quickly, for next instant my lady swept into the room.

“Why, Mariette!” she cried. “Asleep! How lazy! I thought you were at needle-work!”

I stirred slowly, opened my eyes in surprise, and then jumped up, as though startled.

“Pardon, Madame!” I exclaimed. “I—I was not very well, and I must have dropped off to sleep.”

But my lady only gave vent to a grunt of disapprobation, and I at once began my duties, helping her off with her motor-coat and veil.

Suddenly her eye caught the key in the drawer, and she started, glancing apprehensively at me; but, without remark, she removed it and locked it safely in her jewel-case.

Peugh! it was this mystery which I had scented ever since I had crossed the threshold of the Allardyces. Eh bien! I would watch.

One day I overheard Monsieur and Madame having a few high words.

“Well?” I heard Madame exclaim angrily. “You married me for my money, after all! Why treat me to all these long eulogies of your first wife? They are really wearisome, Hubert. I don’t know how you would have got on without my money. Why, you’d have been in the Bankruptcy Court long ago!”

And they jangled on as they sometimes did, each trying to mix politeness with sarcasm. Every femme-de-chambre quickly learns the family secrets.

Most mistresses have manias in more or less pronounced form. Some have a mania for cleanliness, some for wearing jewels, some for perfumes, some for economy, and some for fresh air. The mania of Lady Allardyce was the elegant dressing of her maids, who, when they went down into the town, presented the appearance of ladies.

And yet the kitchen fare was of the plainest, even most wretched description.

Bournemouth society is a curious set—circles within circles. The retired butcher’s wife from Manchester will not know the retired baker’s wife from Newcastle. It apes Brighton, and yet is so horribly provincial—suburbanly provincial. Ah! yes, the English are a droll people. Oh! the churches and chapels and the Sunday silk hats in Bournemouth, the big prayer-books carried to Sunday parade, and the ugly old ladies who hold little courts because they happen to be wives of Jubilee knights! Extraordinaire!

And Madame was the centre of it all.

Day after day, as I dressed my lady or undressed her, handed her her face-cream—which I got for her from Paris—sewed lace into her blouses, or repaired her lingerie, I used to glance at that locked drawer in the wardrobe—and wonder.

One evening she sent me at eight o’clock to the Arcade, there to meet Monsieur Charles.

He was punctual, smart, well-dressed, très gentil as ever. He greeted me merrily, and as we walked out of the light and along the main street he handed me a small brown-paper packet for Madame. I felt something hard inside.

He plied me with many questions concerning Madame—and Monsieur—yet somehow, in what manner I could not tell, he seemed to have altered.

“Mariette,” he said earnestly at last, “I want to take you into my confidence. The fact is that Madame refuses to see me, and sends you as her deputy. Now I must see her. I want to speak with her very seriously. Will you help me?”

“Help you, m’sieur?” I exclaimed. “How?”

“If Lady Allardyce will not come to see me, then I must go to see her,” was his reply. “I shall be near the conservatory door at twelve o’clock to-morrow night. You must be there, Mariette, to let me in and conduct me to her.”

“Ah, non, m’sieur, impossible!”

“I say yes, Mariette,” he declared, with a quiet smile, patting me upon the shoulder. “You will be there to meet me—at twelve o’clock.”

“Not if Madame objects.”

“Lady Allardyce will not meet me out because she fears recognition. She will not object to meeting me in her own house—if you take care that Sir Hubert knows nothing,” he added meaningly.

“It is as Madame wishes,” I said, and then, with a cheery laugh, he squeezed my hand. At the corner of Branksome Park Road we parted, and half-an-hour later I gave Madame the little packet—a little present, without a doubt. She made a little grimace.

Oui, vraiment, I was in the midst of an ingenious intrigue. Nobody would suspect Madame of possessing a lover.

Next night, when every one had retired and all was quiet, I unlocked the conservatory door, and Monsieur Charles, creeping silently across the lawn, entered noiselessly, and was conducted by me to Madame’s boudoir where she received him.

I heard her affectionate greeting, how she kissed him fondly as soon as he entered.

Then I discreetly withdrew to the head of the broad, thickly-carpeted staircase, taking up my post in the darkness, ready to warn Madame should unsuspecting Monsieur by chance emerge from his room, which was on the opposite side of the house. Pauvre Monsieur!

The lady of the house can do little, indeed, without the connivance of her femme-de-chambre. The judicious husband is the one always friendly and generous with his wife’s maid—if he wishes to know what transpires in his absence.

The quiet was unbroken save for the slow, solemn ticking of the big grandfather clock below in the front hall, and I suppose I had been there for perhaps a quarter of an hour when, of a sudden, I heard a sound below, and peeping over the balustrade, was, to my amazement, the flash of a bull’s-eye lantern.

Two strange men were moving noiselessly, having entered, I suppose, by the conservatory. They were conversing in whispers.

In fright, I slipped along to Madame’s boudoir, and tapped, interrupting a tête-à-tête, saying in a low whisper, “It is I—Mariette!”

Whereupon, in alarm, my lady at once opened the door, quietly asking what was the matter.

I told her of the two strangers below in the hall, when, in an instant, Monsieur Charles’s face went as pale as death.

“Then they have seen me!” he gasped. “They are here! I’m lost!”

“You must escape—fly!” Madame urged, white and trembling. “Down the back stairs.”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “they must not arrest me here. They’ve followed me from Paris! I suspected it when I was watched on the Calais boat. But they must not take me here. Think of the terrible scandal—for you!”

“Arrest?” I gasped, looking from one to the other. “Are those men the police?”

“I fear they are, Mariette,” said Madame. “But I will go below and speak to them while you get Mr. Charles out by the stairs, past the butler’s room.”

It was an exciting moment, for on the slightest noise Madame’s husband would most certainly appear.

I slipped forth from the room, followed by Monsieur Charles on tip-toe, and we had traversed the whole length of the dark corridor without a sound.

Ah! Quel malheur! Quel grand malheur! We were suddenly confronted by the two men who had come up the staircase we intended to descend! The lantern was flashed full into our faces.

“I am a police officer,” exclaimed the elder of the pair, “and I arrest you, George Gamlen, alias Shaw, upon a warrant issued in Paris for the theft of certain jewellery belonging to the Baronne Veuillot, at Versailles, and upon other similar charges.”

“Hush!” I cried. “Dieu! not so loud. You will wake Sir Hubert!”

At that instant Madame flew along to me, and, taking me aside, whispered, “Say that Mr. Charles is your lover. It will clear me when they give evidence at the police court.”

Therefore, in accordance with her wishes, I pretended to be deeply in love with the prisoner, and admitted that he had come to the house in order to visit me clandestinely.

“Make no noise, messieurs!” I urged frantically. “Bon Dieu! I shall be dismissed!”

“I think, Lady Allardyce, that this arrest is rather opportune,” said the detective to Madame when we were in the hall below a few moments later, and out of hearing. “This gentleman probably had an eye upon your jewels also. We have ascertained that he has been in the habit of crossing from France and coming here to Bournemouth, and that the Paris police strongly suspect that he has carried with him stolen property from time to time. Has he given any of it to you, mademoiselle?” inquired the detective, turning to me. “If so, your best plan would be to restore it at once, or you, too, may find yourself under arrest.”

“He has never given me any jewellery,” I declared with truth.

Then we entered the dark drawing-room. There was a pathetic leave-taking between us, and we watched the detectives and their prisoner pass out of the conservatory into the night.

Next evening the papers reported how, at Bow Street, the police had given evidence of arresting one of the most daring jewel thieves in Europe at Branksome Court, Bournemouth, where he had gone to visit the French femme-de-chambre, but ostensibly to commit a robbery. The police declared the prisoner to be an Englishman of good birth and head of a dangerous and most ingenious gang, who had been responsible for many great jewel robberies during the past four or five years.

A week later Monsieur and Madame suddenly left Bournemouth for a long tour in India and Japan, Madame’s doctor having ordered her abroad as she was suffering from nerves.

After I had packed her trunks, Madame made me a very handsome present and told me, with deep regret, that Monsieur would not allow her—after the scandal of Monsieur Charles’s visit to me—to keep me in her service.

Therefore I must leave her. Eh bien! It was only what I had expected.

“But, Mariette,” she added, her hand placed tenderly upon my shoulder as she looked straight into my eyes, “you have saved me! Sir Hubert knows nothing—he suspects nothing. He must never suspect the truth. Heaven knows, I have tried all I could to shield Mr. Charles, to hide his thefts, to assist him—ah! to reform him! But, alas! all to no purpose. Poor Charles! You may imagine what I feel—my chagrin, my sorrow—what a terrible blow all this has been to me. Charles is—is my son!”

Three months later Monsieur Charles was transported from Paris to Devil’s Island, and for aught I know to the contrary, the stolen jewels still repose in the bottom of that locked wardrobe drawer at Branksome Court.

Flûte!