The Ring in the Box

Patricia Bowry’s Email to Stephanie Hart (Ministerial Assistant to the Minister of Police) February 5, 2015:

Dear Steph,

I’m writing you about something I found, I don’t quite know who else to turn to. I’d take it to the local police station but I can tell you now they’d give me the brush-off. I thought since you’re working with the Minister, you have more chance of getting something done, if you feel anything canbe done. It’s murder, you see. You’re clear-headed know what to do. That’s the problem with me—I’ve been racking my brains for a day and I simply don’t know…

It’s so hard to write everything down in the proper order. I think I’ll just do it by imagining I’m telling you face-to-face. OK. Here goes…

Over the years I’ve found some really excellent pieces—just like new: Royal Dalton plates, exquisite hand-crafted dolls a ’60’s Chanel suit in very good condition. Now and then I like to spend an afternoon picking over the pieces in the Good Shepherd Thrift Shop. That’s how I found the box.

It was a red lacquered Chinese box. It really was not in very good condition—chipped here and there with some warping. But the painting on the lid was charming—a pair of lovers with the pale, serene moon-like faces in fashion at one time. Even if the box was a little worse for wear, the craftsmanship was exquisite.

The cashier wrinkled her nose at it and gave me 50% off the asking price seeing as I was also taking a set of old encyclopedias off her hands (I thought they would do for my grandson Roy).

“Horrible thing, isn’t it?” she said about the box. I thought that this was an odd thing to say to a customer but she didn’t seem to be aware of giving offense. If there’s one thing the staff at the Good Shepherd share it’s a refreshing lack of pretense. “I found it stuffed down the back of one of the sofas. To be honest, I was going to throw it out but Lana said it might fetch something.”

“Belonged to old Mrs. Westinghouse,” went on the woman. She had hair that was so perfectly blonde and curly I thought it must be a wig.  “She died a month ago—a hundred years old! Her son had the job of moving everything and had no idea what to do with it all. He’s in an apartment in town here—a widower, you know—and he didn’t have space for all this. I told him, ‘Never you mind Mr. Westinghouse, leave whatever you don’t want with me and I’ll sell what I can.’ Well, it turns out she had quite a collection, the old lady did. Some gorgeous things. I chose a very cute crystal salt-and-pepper set myself.

“This box, now, it’s pretty much had it, though it has a certain kitsch value I suppose, or it might be good for a kid’s playroom…but you should have seen what else she had! African statuettes, Indonesian puppets, Persian silk slippers, these beautiful frog earrings…”

I stopped myself from replying because I knew she had no idea of the box’s true value and she was willing to practically give it away. Instead, I changed the subject.

“Mrs. Westinghouse, how did she come by these curios? Was she a collector?”

“It was her husband who was the real collector. He was in the merchant marines, and his son said that every time he put in at some foreign harbor he’d scout around for likely pieces. He passed on a good while before she did, about fifteen years ago.”

Even if Mrs. Westinghouse was a perfect stranger to me, her story piqued my interest. The thought of her husband sailing around the world picking up curios appealed to me.

When I got home from the thrift store, I took the box out of my bag and was looking around for a place for it on my shelves when I heard something shifting around inside it. The lid seemed stuck and I had to go and get a butter knife to prise it open. At last it came off and I saw that there were some letters, a couple of postcards and gold ring studded with diamonds and emeralds.

This upset me a little because I realized I’d have to go back to the shop and explain it all. Mrs. Westinghouse’s son would surely not have meant to give away such a beautiful ring. And then there were the letters--obviously they ‘d have sentimental value.

While I was sitting there looking at the pile of letters, the doorbell rang. It was my sister Joyce. She’d barged right through the front door, as usual, looking perfectly lovely and fresh as if she’d just woken up from some rejuvenating sleep. She’s an actress and always manages to make an entrance. I am just the opposite; it takes hours for me to make myself look halfway human. It is just one of the things that irritates me about my sister.

“What’s all this?” she said, spying the stuff on the table. I explained what happened and said I was going to take it all back to the shop.

I do love my sister but she has the morals of a carrion crow.

“No!! Whyyy?” she wailed, stricken. She’d already slipped the ring onto her finger and was admiring the way it caught the light. “Who’s going to know if you keep it? Wow, I think these emeralds are real!”

“I’m not a thief, Joyce,” I retorted.

“Thief shmief. What about the letters? What do they say?

“I don’t know and I’m not going to read them,” I said, reaching to take them up but she was too fast for me and snatched them up.

“They might be juicy. I bet they’re love letters,” she sighed happily.

She took the top envelope, opened it up and slipped out the letter. I left the room. As usual, Joyce knew how to push my buttons and the best thing I can do in that situation is to give myself space to calm down.

When I came back to the kitchen, she was still engrossed, and eating a plum while she was at it. The juice was dripping onto the paper.

“I’m going to take these things back now. Give me the ring please,” I said frostily.

Absentmindedly, she took the ring off and handed it over. Then she looked up from the letter and said,

“You should read these. It’s like a cold case or something.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, one of those old murders they have on TV?”

“Don’t be silly,” I snapped. I was already annoyed and thought she was trying to provoke me, as usual.

“No, really!” she said. “You should make it into a novel or a play—and then I can star in it. Anyway, I came around here to borrow your vacuum cleaner. Mine’s smelled of dog vomit ever since Lucy had her little accident in the rec room.”

With one thing and another, by the time Joyce left it was already too late to take the stuff back to the Good Shepherd. I’d packed everything to take it in the morning, but I’m sorry to say that in the middle of the night my curiosity got the better of me.

Murder – the word sat in my stomach like a cold stone. It became difficult to sleep with that feeling in my gut so I got up and went down to the kitchen. I had to check to see if Joyce was telling the truth.

I opened the bag and took out the bundle of letters. There were ten of them in all. I’ve included them here as attachments. Read it for yourself and judge if the thing is worth pursuing.

Do let me know!

Pat.

1 ‘Judy’ to Margaret Westinghouse (August, 1963)

Dear Mag,

How are you? It seems ages since we talked. How is Barry? And the kids?

The reason I’m writing, dear, is I’ve had a bad shock and I don’t know who else to turn to. I know I don’t need to tell you that all of this is private; after all you are the soul of discretion, but even so…

It’s about Owen And it may be just fancy playing tricks on me. In all likelihood it is. I found this ring (enclosed) in Owen’s room yesterday. Seeing as he’s away at university this semester, I decided to tidy up and that’s when I found it.

First, I should mention Marie. Did you ever meet her? She was at the Christmas party we asked you to a couple of years ago. If you remember, I thought she was a pleasant but not very bright girl and was surprised that Owen would be interested in her. Usually he prefers more vivid girls.

In any case, Owen and Marie got engaged soon after the Christmas party. This ring was my grandmother’s so I suggested he give it her (she’d admired it at one time). Owen is my only child and I wanted to keep the ring in the family. He duly gave it to her and said she was just as pleased as anything about it.

About five weeks later I realized I hadn’t seen her for some time and I suggested to Owen that they join us for a Sunday lunch.

“Oh no, mother,” he said, “Marie left me.”

Well. I was upset. More, I was affronted. To think that she would think herself too good for my son!

Owen but he seemed quite at ease.

“You mustn’t worry, mother. We weren’t very suitable after all and just decided to call it quits.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me? Well, I like that!”

“Sorry mumsy,” he kissed me on the forehead and went back to reading the newspaper.

“I hope she has returned the ring at least?” I asked sniffily.

“No, she hasn’t,” he said.

“What?” Now I was shocked.

He shrugged. “It didn’t come up.”

“For goodness’ sake!” I said, “I’d like you to ask for it back please. That’s my grandmother’s ring!”

“If I see her I’ll ask,” he said.

Well. The coolness of it! That she would just waltz off with my heirloom on her finger…I didn’t like it. What’s more, given how O. was so casual about it, I didn’t trust him to ask for it back. So I decided to take matters into my own hands. I called Marie’s mother and asked, rather stiffly, if I might speak to her daughter.

She replied that Marie had gone away and wasn’t speaking to her anyhow so I could find her myself, she wasn’t going to help.  And she hung up.

I was sore. But in the end I felt resigned; Marie had gone flitting off to who-knows-where with my grandmother’s ring and I was never going to see it again.

That was 18 months ago. Now—can you imagine?—I went into Owen’s room to tidy up and I find the ring tucked away among his whites!

It’s a nice thing when you can’t trust your own flesh and blood but that is what it’s come to. Any way you look at it, Owen lied to me.

Why wouldn’t he tell me he had the ring if he knew I was worried about it? Can he have forgotten? Did he have it this whole time? If he wanted to pawn it (god forbid), why didn’t he take it with him to Christchurch?

Look at me wittering on, but the truth is I am really quite worried. I suppose I am simply looking for reassurance. Do write back soon, and let me know all your news as well.

Yours,

Judy.

2-Judy to Margaret Westinghouse (September, 1963)

Dearest Maggie,

Thank you so very much for your letter. You are quite right: it’s very easy to get carried away if one lives too much in one’s own head. You know how it is with a sailor for a husband—it gets lonely sometimes. And Ed is away for months this time. I have taken your advice and decided to join the women’s craft group at the town hall every Friday.

As you say, there is sure to be a sensible explanation. I will wait until Owen comes home and have it out with him then. I’ll just tell him in a straightforward way that I found the ring and want an explanation please.

In other news, I will be heading your way in the new year to see a specialist—my back, you know. I’d love to visit if you are willing. I will call to let you know the dates.

Judy

3-Sergeant Roger Ford to Mrs. Margaret Westinghouse (February, 1964)

Dear Madam,

I am writing in re. your letter of January 15, with reference to the whereabouts of Judith Davies. We strongly recommend you submit a ‘Missing Persons’ form at the appropriate branch, that is the one closest to the residence of Mrs. Davies.

While we have made some effort to locate the aforesaid, the filing of an official report will enable us to make a wider search.

Should you have any questions, feel free to contact us by telephone.

Regards,

Sgt. Roger Ford

4- Anonymous to Margaret Westinghouse (March 1964)

I know you have it. Leave two hundred pounds in an envelope for Mr. Young at the post office and I will stay quiet. This is a warning.

5-Maria Thorpe to Margaret Westinghouse (May 1964)

Dear Mrs. Westinghouse,

This is Maria Thorpe. I am writing about Mrs. Davies because I saw your interview in the newspaper this weekend and you mentioned my name.

First of all, I am sorry about your friend. Her disappearance is terrible you must be worried sick. I heard people have breakdowns and need a vacation maybe that is what Mrs. Graeme did?

When you said Mrs. Davies thought I was engaged to Owen I was surprised. We saw each other only a few times and yes he did propose but I turned him down because it was that quick, we didn’t know each other very well. He didn’t give me any ring. I didn’t know about that.

Another thing is you said I went away and my mother didn’t know where I was but that isn’t true. I work at Woolworth’s and have been living with my parents all the time. You can check with my employer Mr. Raymond Tait. Also, my mother didn’t get a call from Mrs. Davies, on her honor.

I am sure you didn’t mean any harm but now it’s all in the papers and it is making a problem for me. My mother is not enjoying good health and people are saying unkind things. Probably Mrs. Davies was confused with another girl? Owen was seeing a lot of girls from his university. One of them is called Mariam so it would be easy to confuse us, you see.

About what you said, could you request the newspaper make a correction? It would mean a lot to my mother. I think it’s the right thing for you to do.

Regards,

Maria Thorpe

6- Anonymous to Margaret Westinghouse (May 1964)

Time to pay.

7-Newspaper clipping from June 15, 1964

Owen Davies was arrested today on suspicion of murdering both of his parents. Judith Veronica Davies, has been missing since January of this year. Her husband Edward Davies was found stabbed in a playground near his house.

While her body has yet to be found, police said there is strong circumstantial evidence suggesting foul play.

Mr. Davies’ trial has been scheduled for this autumn.

8-Letter from Own Davies to Margaret Westinghouse July 1, 1965

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Westinghouse,

I’m writing to ask for your help. I know you think I’m guilty, but I swear on my life I didn’t have anything to do with it. I am begging you to believe me I would never touch a hair of their heads in anger.

This year has been like a nightmare. I’ve lost both of my parents and now they’re going to put me away for good. I was going to graduate next year. My friends and fiancée have all ditched me. The police didn’t even investigate, they just assume I did it. The thing is, I have proof that I wasn’t even in town when the murder happened. In my bedroom drawer there’s a couple of movie ticket stubs. I was watching Dr. Strangelove with a woman named Dierdre. She didn’t want to tell the police because she’s married.

You’re my last hope. For my parents’ sake, can you tell the papers about this? They won’t listen to me—I’m a sorry dog in the public’s eye. But you’re respectable people. You can help me. If you tell the papers the police will have to check.

You’re my last chance. Please help me.

Owen

9-Letter from Sergeant Roger Ford to Mrs. Margaret Westinghouse (August 25, 1966)

Dear Madam,

It is with a light heart that I am writing to tell you that the man responsible for the cold-blooded murder of Judy and Ed has been sentenced to life imprisonment.

We could not have done this without your help. Tonight we can all breathe a little easier.

Roger

10-Handwritten note dated October 13, 2014

They say it’s good to get things off your chest before you meet your Maker. Now I’m dying and I have two massive things on my chest. They won’t let me breathe. I hope putting it down on paper will help.

The longing that came over me…the heart wants what it wants, it wasn’t anything I could help. If it happened these days I’d be able to see a doctor about it. It was a different time then.

Judy should never have told me about the ring. She was a foolish woman. It doesn’t excuse what I did, I know that. But when she visited me she had it with her, she showed it to me and I could see at a glance what it was worth. It was as if she was taunting me with it. I couldn’t stand it. That’s when I thought how easy it would be, to kill her—all it took was a push off the cliff. She fell straight down into the sea. Gone. Easy.

I hoped everyone would think Owen had done it. And I was right. Don’t think I have any regrets about that. He was never a very caring child. Selfish. There was a reason no one came to his defence.

I didn’t think Ed would care. I knew he’d been running around on Judy for years. And I was right about that too. But what I didn’t count on would be him guessing what had happened. He knew she was going to visit me.

I knew it was Ed straight away when I got the first threat.  Blackmail is a dirty trick. So I took care of that too. That was even easier—he always was a big drinker. Judy told me he’d stumble home at midnight blotto.

It wasn’t a nice thing to do. I’m not proud of it. But there you are. It happened. And here’s the ring, still shining, still full of hope. Even after all this time it has not lost its loveliness one whit.