Trick of the Mind by Cassandra Chan Page A

crazy; not being able to help, I mean,” said Bethancourt. “At least … well, the nurse said you didn’t remember much about yesterday.”
    “Nor do I,” said Gibbons glumly. “Everything’s a blank after I left my flat to go to work.”
    “Well, let’s come at things from a different angle,” said Bethancourt, who had an inventive mind. “You rang me yesterday evening to say you had an interesting case.”
    Gibbons looked up. “Is that exactly what I said?” he asked.
    Bethancourt shrugged. “It’s easy enough to find out,” he answered, reaching into his coat pocket. “I should still have the message.”
    He turned on his mobile and spent a moment scrolling down his messages.
    “Here it is,” he said, and rose to hold the phone to Gibbons’s ear. “Ready?”
    Gibbons grunted affirmatively. Bethancourt pressed a button and Gibbons heard his own voice, oddly unrecognizable to him.
    “Got an interesting one on,” said the voice. “I’d like to hear what you make of it. Ring me when you get a chance.”
    “That’s got to be the Haverford robbery,” said Gibbons as Bethancourt shut off the phone. “Even if I had stumbled onto something else, I wouldn’t have used that phrase ‘got an interesting one on.’ That’s definitely a reference to my own case.”

    “So what was interesting about the Haverfords?” asked Bethancourt, resettling himself in the chair.
    “Nothing. There aren’t any.”
    Bethancourt raised an eyebrow.
    “Well,” amended Gibbons, “it sounds as though old Miss Haverford would have been quite interesting, but she’s dead.”
    “That’s homicide, not robbery,” pointed out Bethancourt.
    “No, no, she died naturally. I believe she was ninety-seven.”
    Bethancourt let out an exaggerated sigh. “How could she be robbed if she’s dead?” he asked. “Really, Jack, can’t you just begin at the beginning and go on until you reach the end?”
    “No, I can’t,” said Gibbons sharply. “At the moment, there is no beginning or ending for me—it’s all jumbled together. And I don’t like it any better than you do.”
    “Sorry, sorry,” apologized Bethancourt. “I was forgetting. Truly, Jack, I don’t mean to be flippant.”
    “I know you don’t,” muttered Gibbons. He took a deep breath. “Miranda Haverford,” he began, “was by all accounts an eccentric old lady who knew her own mind and made sure everyone else knew it, too.”
    “That sounds like my grandmother,” observed Bethancourt, not at all inclined to feel charitably toward this specter.
    “Miss Haverford,” continued Gibbons doggedly, “owned a quite fabulous collection of jewelry, inherited from her grandmother. Or perhaps it was her great-grandmother; I can’t remember.”
    “No matter,” said Bethancourt. “I am willing to take the bejeweled ancestor on faith.”
    “Being of sound mind, Miss Haverford made a will a few years back, leaving most of her estate to her only living relative, a second or third cousin.”
    “Including the jewels?”
    “Well, of course including the jewels, otherwise why should I be dragging the poor git into the case at all?” demanded Gibbons.
    “Right,” said Bethancourt. “Just trying to keep it all clear in my head. The Haverford distant cousin now has possession of the jewels.”
    “No, he doesn’t,” contradicted Gibbons.

    Bethancourt looked confused. “He doesn’t?” he repeated doubtfully. “But I thought you said …”
    “I said the jewels were left to him in the old lady’s will,” said Gibbons. “Her estate is still in probate at the moment.”
    “Ah! The light has dawned. Go on.”
    Gibbons rubbed his face and Bethancourt saw with a pang that he already looked tired. “Where was I?” he asked.
    “The jewels were in probate.”
    “Oh, right. Well, they still are. Or were, until Sunday night, when they were stolen.”
    “Hence the phrase ‘Haverford robbery,’” said Bethancourt. “Where were the jewels when they were