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SIMON TOLKIEN
The King of Diamonds
Dedication
For Priscilla Tolkien
with love and gratitude
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel was conceived in Tenerife, plotted in London, and written in Southern California. Anna Tolkien, Tracy Tolkien, Nicholas Tolkien, Marly Rusoff, Michael Radulescu, Thomas Dunne, Natasha Hughes, David Brawn, Lizzy Kremer, John Garth, Kevin Sweeney, Angela Gibson, and Anne Bensson have all helped in different ways with bringing it to fruition, and Peter Wolverton has, as always, been a quite wonderful editor. I am grateful to all of them.
Contents
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE: THE OLD BAILEY - 1958
PART ONE - 1960
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
PART TWO - 1961
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
AFTERWORD
THE INHERITANCE BY SIMON TOLKIEN
PART ONE - 1959
CHAPTER 1
About the Author
Also by Simon Tolkien
Copyright
PROLOGUE
THE OLD BAILEY 1958
‘And so, Mr Swain, everybody might be guilty of this crime. Everybody except you? Is that right?’
The voice of Sir Laurence Arne, counsel for the prosecution, was laced with sarcasm as he uncoiled himself from his seat, slowly drawing himself up to his full height so that he was able to look down on the accused, to dominate him even before he had begun his cross-examination. He was a tall man, tall and thin, with a wide forehead set over small dark eyes. The boniness of his build and a long aquiline nose completed the birdlike effect that so many of Arne’s fellow barristers had commented on over the years.
Like a bird of prey, thought the officer in the case, Detective Inspector Trave, sitting at a table at the side of the court behind the row of prosecution exhibits – the evidence that he’d carefully assembled during his investigation – handwritten note, knife, rent bloody clothing, each neatly tagged with its own case number. Yet again Trave was surprised to feel a stirring of sympathy for the defendant. David Swain looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He shifted constantly from foot to foot in the witness box, running his hands through his unruly hair, unable to keep his focus on anyone or anything for very long. He was no match for Arne and Arne knew it. Now the prosecutor seemed to be almost playing with the defendant, like a spider before the kill.
‘Because that’s what you seem to have been saying in your interview with the police,’ Arne persisted when the defendant didn’t respond to his first question. ‘Not me; not me; anyone but me.’
‘Well, it’s true. It wasn’t me. And I was upset, disorientated. Anyone would have been in my situation,’ said Swain. There was that same note of defiance in the young man’s voice, of special pleading that Trave remembered from before. It wasn’t going to win him any friends among the jury.
‘But that’s the point, isn’t it?’ Arne countered quickly, sensing the opening. ‘Nobody else was in your situation. Nobody else had the motive you had; nobody else had the opportunity.’
‘You don’t know that. Ethan had found out something. That’s why he wrote that letter to his brother before he came back – about needing to talk to him but it being too dangerous to put in a letter.’
‘Someone wanted to shut Mr Mendel up before he could talk and so they framed you for the murder. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. A murder isn’t enough; you need a murderer too.’
‘I see. A nice turn of phrase,’ said Arne, allowing himself a thin smile. ‘Did you prepare that for our benefit, if you don’t mind me asking?’
It was a cheap shot, thought Trave, but it had the desired effect. There was some nervous laughter in the courtroom, and Swain flushed deep red, his anger rising.
‘All right, Mr Swain,’ Arne went on after a moment. ‘Let’s look at your account of events and see whether what you say makes any sense, shall we? Let’s see if we can find out who the real murderer was?’
Swain bit his lip, clenching and unclenching his hands on the top of the witness box. He clearly had no capacity whatsoever to conceal his emotions: anger and fear were written all over his pale face. And it didn’t help that the hot-water pipes were doing such good work, overcompensating for the unseasonable temperatures in the world outside. Beads of sweat were forming in the defendant’s hairline and over his forehead, and involuntarily he put up his hands and rubbed his knuckles in his eyes, trying to get some relief from the glare of the overhead lights illuminating the windowless courtroom.
‘You admit to having been in a relationship with Katya Osman throughout most of last year, don’t you?’ asked Arne in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
‘Of course I do. She was my girlfriend,’ said Swain, who was still trying to regain his composure.
‘Until Mr Mendel came along.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then you lost control of yourself?’
Swain dropped his eyes, refusing to answer the prosecutor’s question.
‘Didn’t you?’
Swain nodded. ‘It hurt what happened. Anybody would have felt bad.’
‘Ah, there you go again, Mr Swain: anybody and everybody. But we’re not talking about anybody, are we? We’re talking about you.’
‘All right. Me. I felt bad – deep down bad. Is that what you want?’
Arne smiled, not answering the question. It was that same thin, humourless smile from before,