Gather Ye Rosebuds by Joan Smith

drawer—and a false mustache. You recall he had that old black suit he never wore. I happened to notice once when I was just tidying his room while he was in London that he had taken it with him. I hoped he was not trying to pass it off as a formal suit, for it was the wrong cut.”
    “Good lord! Why did you not tell me?”
    “It did not seem important—until now.”
    “I had best alter another of the sketches,” I said, and drew in a clerical collar and mustache, before we went out to begin canvassing the hotels and jewelry stores.
    We had no luck tracing Barry at any of the larger hotels. The Calverley, the Mount Pleasant, Earl’s Court, the Royal Mount Ephraim, the Carlton, the Swan, the Camden—none of them recognized him in any of his guises. We took all the sketches with us. In mustache or beard, in green glasses or in clerical garb, he was unknown. That left dozens of small, private hotels.
    “Let us try some jewelry shops,” I said, expecting the same result.
    Our first stop was a small, dingy place behind the colonnade, with the unlikely name Kashmir, Prop. Albert Bradford. We thought the sequestered location and Indian name might have enticed Barry. We had perfected our technique by that time, omitting the use of a name for Barry. I opened the sketchpad to the clerical likeness of my uncle and held it up. “I am trying to locate an old relative. He is interested in jewelry. I just wondered if he had ever come in here.”
    The man behind the counter had a small magnifying glass attached to his head by a band that held it over one eye. He lifted the glass and glanced at the picture. The man was older than Barry, about seventy, to judge by his gray hair and lined face. He had bright brown eyes and a ready smile.
    “Ah, you’re friends of Reverend Portland,” he said, and offered his hand. “I am Albert Bradford. I haven’t seen the reverend lately. Not ill, I hope?”
    Mama and I exchanged a startled glance. We had not foreseen this question, and hardly knew how to reply. I said, “I hope not. As I mentioned, we are just trying to locate Reverend Portland.”
    “I have not seen him for months. He was used to drop in regularly to sell the jewelry his uncle left him. You would know about the jewelry, of course?”
    We were highly desirous of hearing it. “About India, you mean?” Mama ventured.
    Albert Bradford nodded. “The old nabob uncle who left him a small fortune in jewelry. There is no place like India for making your fortune. I was there myself, as you might have suspected from the name of my shop. I came home with a purseful of unmounted gemstones. My first thought was to sell them to a gems merchant, but I soon realized the real profit is in selling jewelry, so I had them made up by a jeweler I know. He is teaching me the trade.”
    “Did Reverend Portland sell you much jewelry?” I asked.
    “Not a great deal. About fifteen thousand it would come to, in all. The emerald necklace was the best of the lot.”
    Mama looked as if she had been shot with an arrow. I knew exactly what she was thinking. Barry had turned thief, and had sold his ill-got gains to this unsuspecting man.
    I swallowed and said, “Was this recently? I mean did he sell you the jewelry all at one time, or—”
    “Oh no, just as he needed the blunt, you know. Our clerics are not well paid. He first came into my shop about five years ago, to sell a diamond tie pin. A dandy piece, a flawless diamond. I had it mounted in a ring and sold it to Lady Montague. I told the reverend if he had any more such items, I would be happy to buy them. He was back in six months with a sapphire ring, then the next time with a ruby brooch.”
    “Did he ever sell a diamond necklace?” I asked, thinking of Lady Margaret’s necklace.
    He pondered a moment, then said, “Not a diamond necklace, no. Was he some kin to you, ladies?”
    “A cousin,” I said. “We are from out of town, actually. We are trying to trace Cousin Portland. Someone