It was a crisp autumn morning, and Richard was lost in the tune playing through his headphones as he swept the floors of the bus depot. For a decade, his life had revolved around this place—the familiar hum of engines, the comings and goings of weary travellers.
Then, a fragile voice interrupted him. “Excuse me?”
He turned to see a woman in her thirties, her face pale and her eyes swollen from weeping. A babe rested in her arms, and two older children clung to her skirts.
“Can I help you?” Richard asked, pulling off his headphones.
“I—I need to get to Manchester. Could you spare a ticket?” Her voice wavered.
“Something the matter? You look troubled,” he said.
She hesitated. “My husband… he’s not a good man. I haven’t heard from him in days, and his words—his threats—frighten me. My sister lives in Manchester. But I’ve lost my purse. Please, help us.”
Richard couldn’t refuse, though it meant parting with the last of his wages. He bought the ticket and handed it to her.
“God bless you,” she whispered, tears spilling anew.
“Mind those little ones,” he said kindly.
“Your address—may I have it?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to repay you. Please.”
Reluctantly, he gave it, and soon the bus carrying her and the children vanished down the lane.
That evening, Richard returned to his cottage, where his daughter, Beatrice, awaited him. She was all he had left after his wife abandoned them years ago. Though his heart had ached, he’d carried on for Beatrice’s sake.
At just ten years old, she shouldered responsibilities beyond her years—tidying, cooking, even kneading dough for their bread. Their evenings were spent by the hearth, swapping tales of their day.
The next morning, Beatrice shook him awake. “Father! Come quick!”
Bleary-eyed, he followed her outside to find crates piled by their door. Atop one sat an envelope. Inside was a letter:
“Dear Richard, it’s the woman from the station. I wished to thank you for your kindness. These are belongings I meant to take to Manchester, but you should have them—sell them, if you can. May God bless you.”
As Richard read, Beatrice had already pried open a crate. A crash—she’d dropped a china figurine. Annoyance flickered in him, but then he glimpsed something gleaming in the shards. He picked it up—a diamond, cold and clear under his breath.
“Blimey! We’re rich!” he gasped.
“We must return it!” Beatrice insisted, spying the sender’s address on the packing slip. “It isn’t ours!”
“Think of what this could do for us, Bea! You could go to a proper school!”
“No, Father! What if it’s someone’s last hope?”
Though tempted, Richard feigned agreement. Instead, he visited an antiquarian, Mr. Whitcombe.
“A fine stone,” the man murmured through his loupe. “Exquisite cut. Worth at least £80,000. Where did you come by it?”
“An inheritance,” Richard lied. “Will you buy it?”
Whitcombe excused himself to make a call, then returned. “I can offer £8,000—no papers, you see.”
Richard protested, but the man stood firm. Defeated, he left, plotting to forge documents and sell it elsewhere.
At home, silence greeted him. “Beatrice?” No answer.
A note on the table froze his blood: *”Bring the gem to the address below. No police, or the girl dies.”*
The woman’s words echoed—*”My husband isn’t a good man.”* The shipping address matched the note. Heart pounding, he raced to a decrepit townhouse.
A scarred man answered, pistol pressed to Richard’s temple. “The diamond?”
Richard handed it over, but the man snarled, “This is paste! Where’s the real one?”
Then Richard remembered—Whitcombe had dropped it. He’d switched them.
“You’ve three days to bring £8,000, or she’s dead,” the kidnapper spat.
Richard stormed back to the shop. “I’ll take your offer!”
Whitcombe smirked. “Too late. Not interested.”
Realising the deception, Richard struck him down, bound him, and snapped his picture. He left a note for the constables before hurrying back.
At the townhouse, Richard taunted the kidnapper: “Your partner talked. The real diamond’s in his safe. He’s dead now—I made sure of it.”
Enraged, the man stormed off to the shop—straight into the waiting arms of the law. Richard freed Beatrice.
“Father… did you kill him?” she trembled.
“No, my dear. A bluff. But he’ll hang for his crimes.”
And so it was. The villains were caught, though Richard knew he’d face questions for his delay in reporting the diamond. Still, Beatrice was safe—that was all that mattered.
