Trick of the Mind by Cassandra Chan Page B

stolen?”
    “Where they always were—in a safe in the study of Miss Haverford’s house. It was professionally broken into, or at least so forensics says. I wouldn’t know, myself.”
    “Neither would I,” admitted Bethancourt. “Although I’ve always wanted to know how to break into a safe,” he mused. “I wonder how one learns something like that.”
    “Presumably from experienced thieves,” said Gibbons. “Or perhaps from the Internet these days—most information seems to be out there somewhere.”
    “Yes, that’s an idea,” said Bethancourt. “I shall have to Google it when I get home. I wonder if it turns out to be like making a soufflé—you know, the instructions seem perfectly simple and it’s only when you’re in the middle of things that you realize you have no idea what you’re doing.”
    Gibbons, who had never made a soufflé, yawned and returned to the topic at hand. “The robbery,” he continued, “seemed fairly straightforward. The jewelry was famous in its way, and Miranda Haverford’s obituary made all the broadsheet newspapers. Any thief worth his salt could have set his eyes on jewelry kept in an empty house.”
    “Very tempting,” agreed Bethancourt. “So what made you think the case was interesting? It seems on the face of it to be open and shut—or at least it will be once you put a name to the thief.”
    “I don’t know, do I?” said Gibbons grumpily. “We went over the scene-of-the-crime on Monday and met with the insurance agent,
who had all the details about exactly what was stolen. Forensics hadn’t finished processing everything yet, but Hodges said it looked like a professional job. We spoke briefly to the Colemans, who had reported the robbery themselves, and Davies introduced me to the insurance investigator.”
    “Who are the Colemans?” asked Bethancourt. “Neighbors?”
    “No, no. Rob Coleman is the Haverford cousin. He and his wife visited the house on Monday morning in order to water the plants and generally keep an eye on things.”
    “Ah, I see.” Bethancourt contemplated all this in silence for a moment while Gibbons gingerly stretched out his other leg and grimaced.
    “All right?” asked Bethancourt anxiously, reflexively getting to his feet in order to help.
    Gibbons glared at him. “You’re worse than my parents,” he said. “Do stop hovering like a mother hen.”
    “Sorry.” Bethancourt sank back down, but behind his glasses his hazel eyes were uneasy as he watched the painful process of Gibbons resettling himself.
    “That’s better,” said Gibbons at last, panting a little with the effort. “What was I saying?”
    “The Colemans watered the plants,” said Bethancourt. “I expect the insurance investigator is casting a suspicious eye on them?”
    “It was mentioned,” said Gibbons. “I would probably know better,” he added with a frown, “if I could remember yesterday morning. Inspector Davies says I went off with Mr. James to interview the Colemans.”
    Again he was aware of a friendly feeling toward James, one that could not have been generated by their brief meeting on Monday.
    “I think the interview must have gone smoothly,” he said, breaking into Bethancourt’s comments. “At least, I think James and I must have got on well together. Anyway, Davies says I wrote up a report, so we’ll know about that when he comes back. Maybe it will jog my memory,” he added hopefully.
    “Just the thing, I should think,” said Bethancourt. “And your memory may come back of itself, once you’re off all the drugs.”
    But despite these words, he was concerned. Gibbons looked very
pale and his voice was faint; Bethancourt did not think his friend was well at all.
    Upon leaving the hospital Bethancourt paused, standing hesitantly on the wet pavement with the rush of traffic on Euston Road speeding past, unsure of what to do.
    Having just heard the details of the case, he was keen to look into it all, but found himself at a