The Queen’s Necklace

The telegram arrived just after our second cup of chamomile, the crisp mountain air doing little to soothe the ache in Arun Banerjee’s aging bones.

“QUEEN’S NECKLACE STOLEN. WHITE WILLOW. IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE REQUIRED. DISCRETION ESSENTIAL. CONTACT: Arun Banerjee – DARJEELING.”

“Bloody hell,” Banerjee muttered, rereading the message. I watched him closely. It had been years since he’d traded fatigues for tweed, bullets for books. Retirement in Mussoorie was supposed to be peaceful — the rustle of pines, the scent of old paperbacks, the occasional chess match by the fire. But a request from the Queen herself? That was something he could never refuse.

“The Queen’s necklace, Arun?” I asked, noting the flicker in his eyes behind the spectacles. “Quite the affair.”

“Indeed,” he replied, handing me the telegram. “It seems our quiet life is about to become considerably less so.”

He stood, already reaching for his coat and polished shoes.

“Alright, Ashok,” he said, half-smiling. “Buckle up. This is going to be a long ride. You’re about to become my shadow again.”

Within 24 hours, we arrived in Darjeeling. White Willow Manor, tucked away like some forgotten artifact, stood brooding in gothic grandeur — all turrets, gargoyles, and secrets whispered into the night.

Inspector Davies, a weary man with eyes that had seen too much, greeted us at the entrance.

“Mr. Banerjee, Dr. Kumar — thank you for coming. Her Majesty is… distressed. The necklace vanished during a private viewing after last night’s gathering. The case wasn’t broken, no alarm was triggered. It’s as if it simply disappeared.”

The Queen received us in the library. Composed, regal, but clearly unsettled.

“Mr. Banerjee,” she said, her voice calm but weighted, “this must be handled with the utmost discretion. The necklace is irreplaceable — its value is both historical and deeply personal.”

Davies led us to the display room. The reinforced glass case was pristine. The necklace, however, was gone.

“No signs of forced entry,” he said. “Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. We’ve narrowed it down to six guests. All had access, motive, and opportunity.”

He listed them:

Lord Harrington, aging aristocrat, buried in debt.Lady Beatrice, a lavish socialite with expensive tastes.Mr. Alistair Finch, a scholar and self-proclaimed guardian of the Queen’s collection.Miss Penelope Ainsworth, a historian rumored to be writing a scandalous tell-all.Mr. Edgar Croft, a powerful industrialist with alleged black-market ties.Mr. Charles, the loyal butler of White Willow for decades.

“We’ve interviewed them all,” Davies said, “but nothing solid.”

Banerjee adjusted his coat. “Then let’s begin again. Lets Start with Lord Harrington.

The suspects were colorful, each cloaked in charm, status, or distraction — but Banerjee knew that underneath the facades, someone was lying.

The interrogations continued well into the night, each more psychologically demanding than the last.

Lord Harrington

A relic of North’s faded aristocracy, Lord Harrington huffed indignantly when questioned.

“I only admired the Queen’s emeralds. It’s a harmless pastime, detective. Beauty ought to be appreciated.”

But Banerjee’s expression didn’t change. “And your fingerprints on the display case, my lord? Accidental, too?”

A flash of crimson crept up the old man’s neck. Banerjee pressed further, mentioning gambling debts, a mortgaged estate, and rumors of discreet inquiries into jewel brokers.

Harrington sputtered. “I would never sell Her Majesty’s treasures! I have pride, sir.”

“You also have debts,” Banerjee replied coolly. “And pride rarely pays them.”

Lady Beatrice

She was the picture of poise, draped in silk and pearls, her voice a gentle breeze — too gentle, Banerjee noted.

“I was with friends,” she said, dabbing her lipstick. “A late luncheon. Nothing more.”

“Your friends recall your absence,” Banerjee countered. “Ten full minutes. Plenty of time for mischief.”

Her eyes twitched, only briefly.

He leaned in. “Lavish living, fading fortune. It’s easy to imagine what someone might do to maintain appearances. Especially someone who once felt slighted by the Queen.”

Beatrice froze — then smiled, the kind of smile that hides fractures.

Mr. Alistair Finch

“Ah, the necklace,” Finch said dreamily. “A glorious piece. I’ve studied its origin extensively. It once belonged to Maharani Indira of Jaipur.”

Banerjee studied Finch’s eyes — too reverent, too hungry.

“You claimed to be reading during the theft,” Banerjee said. “Which book?”

Finch blinked. “A journal. From 1890. Discusses the East India Company’s treasure holdings.”

“Specific,” Banerjee noted. “But you were alone in the library. No alibi. You adore the necklace — perhaps too much.”

Finch smiled calmly. “Admiration is not theft, Detective.”

“No,” Banerjee agreed. “But obsession clouds lines.”

Miss Penelope Ainsworth

A bundle of anxious energy, she fiddled with her scarf as she spoke.

“Yes, I was… poking around,” she admitted. “Research for my biography on the Queen. I swear I meant no harm.”

Banerjee raised an eyebrow. “Snooping is one thing. Theft, quite another. Tell me — what secrets were you hoping to uncover?”

She hesitated. “There are… rumors. About affairs, inheritances. If I found proof, the publisher would double the advance.”

“And if you didn’t?” Banerjee asked.

She looked down. “I’m three months behind on rent.”

Mr. Edgar Croft

Tall, well-groomed, and impenetrably confident, Croft folded his arms.

“I’ve built factories across three continents. I don’t need to steal, Detective.”

“Need? No,” Banerjee replied. “But want? That’s a different beast. Magazines say you’ve dealt with intermediaries — collectors who don’t ask questions.”

Croft laughed. “Tabloids. Fantasies for the bored.”

“But the necklace is worth millions,” Banerjee said. “To the right buyer, it’s a passport to power. You could trade it for favors, assets, or disappearances.”

Croft’s jaw twitched — just for a second.

Mr. Charles, the Butler

Banerjee saved him for last.

Charles stood, hands clasped behind his back, voice steady. “I was in the pantry. Checking the wine inventory.”

“Alone?” Banerjee asked.

As he said stubbing out “Yes, sir.”

“No one can place you at the time of the theft,” Banerjee said. “But you know this house better than anyone. The security. The routines.”

“I’ve served this family for 40 years,” Charles said, lips tightening.

“All the more reason to question why you’d risk it all,” Banerjee replied softly.

“And one more thing Sir, I saw Lord Harrington’s grandson walking around the house like he was up-to something.”

The Queen

The library smelled of old paper, sandalwood, and control. The Queen sat poised in a high-backed armchair, the firelight brushing silver into her hair. Her expression was a portrait of composure — a monarch, not a victim.

Banerjee entered quietly, removed his hat, and gave a respectful bow.

“Your Majesty,” he began. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

She nodded once. “I want this matter resolved quickly, Mr. Banerjee. Discreetly.”

“I understand. But I must ask direct questions, even if they seem… impertinent.”

A faint smile. “I’ve faced invasions and scandals, Mr. Banerjee. I can manage questions.”

Banerjee took a seat opposite her, notebook in hand but barely used.

“Was the necklace always intended to be displayed last night?” QUEEN pauses “Originally, no. It was to remain in the private vault. But Lady Beatrice suggested it might be the perfect centerpiece for the evening. A symbol of legacy.”

“So, the decision was made spontaneously?” Banerjee asked “Within the day.”

Silence. The crackling fireplace filled the space where suspicion had just been born.

Banerjee softened his voice.

“I’m not accusing her. But if we accept that the theft required inside knowledge, then it narrows the circle dramatically. Someone either overheard you… or you were overheard.”

Her gaze shifted, just briefly, toward the tall windows. The curtains were closed — but not soundproof.

Banerjee made a note — but didn’t look down.

“I hope you’re wrong,” she said softly.

Banerjee bowed down and left the Queen alone.

After hours, Banerjee returned to the exhibit room. The police bustled about, but he ignored them. He looked again — not at the obvious, but the margins.

Then he saw it. A faint smudge outside, on the stone near the window. He called me over.

“Ashok — this mark.”

I studied it. “A shoeprint. Someone climbed the wall.”

Banerjee turned to Davies. “Any children among the guests?”

Davies frowned. “Lord Harrington’s grandson. A tall boy. Known troublemaker.”

We followed the trail outside and found a partially buried monogrammed handkerchief — “H.H.”

“Harrington’s initials,” Davies muttered.

Banerjee didn’t speak. Not yet.

We scouted the lawn further. Near the hedge, he bent down again. A cigarette butt.

“Gold Moon,” he said. “Cheap. Recently smoked.”

Davies blinked. “None of the guests—”

“One person does,” I said. “The butler.”

“This cigarette,” Banerjee said, holding it up. “Yours?”

“I occasionally indulge—”

“You were outside. Then inside. You climbed the wall, disabled the alarm. You knew the Queen’s schedule, her instructions. You left the handkerchief. A distraction.”

Charles’s mouth opened, then closed. He was caught.

“I overheard the Queen. I knew where she’d place it. After the guests left, I acted. I needed more money for survival. For my family. The bonus she gave me was gone in weeks.”

He sighed. “The boy — I paid him to eavesdrop. He didn’t know the whole plan. I left the handkerchief to point you toward him. Bought me time.”

We retrieved the necklace from a hidden compartment in his dresser.

The Queen, upon hearing the truth, nodded solemnly. “He was with us so long. I never thought—”

Back home, the hills were silent again. The air carried pine, and the past felt a world away.

Banerjee sat on the veranda, sipping his evening tea. I sat beside him, flipping through my Diary.

“So,” I said, “what tipped you off?”

He smiled faintly. “Three things. The handkerchief — too conveniently placed. The cigarette — a cheap habit the guests wouldn’t touch. And the Queen’s original story. Only someone close enough to overhear her would know where the necklace was kept.”

“And the boy?”

“A red herring,” he replied. “A pawn used by someone who knew how to manipulate appearances.”

I nodded. “Brilliant deduction.”

He chuckled. “Just another case, Ashok. Just another case.”

But I saw the gleam in his eyes. This case had stirred the embers.

As the sun dipped behind the Himalayas, casting long golden shadows across the valley, I knew one thing for certain: Arun Banerjee’s retirement would never truly be quiet.

Somewhere, mysteries waited to be solved. And he — no matter how many cups of chamomile he drank — would always be ready to answer the call.