Annabelle Underwood's adventures: Dollar Princess (Part 1)

In elegant Boston of 1911, Annabelle Underwood thought she was attending a perfectly boring society gala. But when the lights suddenly go out, a young heiress has her jewels stolen under the eyes of all the guests and especially Annabelle’s! A priceless necklace vanishes… but it is a mysterious eye-shaped brooch that seems to conceal the true secret.

Amid deception, secret passages, and buried memories, Annabelle must uncover what the thief was really after.

An intimate, mystery-filled investigation where the heart sometimes matters more than fortune...

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Hello everyone, nice to meet you all. So I have in my hands a collection of letters, old dusty and terribly fascinating letters. The very first one dates from 1910 and tells the adventure of Annabelle Underwood. Right now, all you have to do is listen and enjoy the story. And one more thing, I prefer to warn you but English is not my native language. I'll apologize in advance and I promise I will try to improve as quickly as I can and for the acting too. So now you know everything, shall we begin? This story is called Dollar Princess. Sunday, April 9th, 1911. My dear, I hope you have been well since our last exchange of letters. Right now I am in Boston with Haydn, Professor Johnson and the rest of our team. Those ambition are to reach the North Pole. Three other people are travelling with us. Two researchers, Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones, and a guide, an adventurer, as he likes to call himself, Mr. Brown. They are all delightful, and after the dreadful investigation we had endure in New York City, a little rest in Boston was more than welcome. With Haydn, we visited the surrounding area and the universities such as Harvard and we met people who were truly fascinating and passionate. I took the opportunity to spend many days educating myself in the various libraries while Haydn went off on photographic expeditions. I know myself well. Once absorbed in a book, I can spend entire hours without lifting my head. I don't like being still. I am a woman of action. But if the book is interesting enough, I forgot everything. The world around me vanished for as long as I remained bent over those beautifully whitened lines that told me and taught me so much. I never earned a single diploma. Too busy travelling the world and solving investigations, and that was perhaps one of my only regrets, to take the time to learn for days, months, even years a subject as captivating as medicine, history, physics, art, biology, chemistry, geography, philosophy. My problem, and I imagine you have already guessed it, was that I didn't think I could choose. Everything appealed to me, and that was no doubt because I could never bring myself to take the leap and return to studying. I admire all the more people like you, able to spend entire decades exploring the same subjects without ever growing tired of it. And so the day passed without incidence, rest and reading. Professor Johnson spent most of his time seeking the final funding we needed in order to carry out our expedition. We had, moreover, been invited to a gala, a celebration in honour of I don't know whom, to which Haydn and High have been summoned. The resolution of our investigation into the series of murders linked to the arsenic pigments in New York City had caused quite a stir here. By now, my reputation was firmly established. I was as well known as in Europe and by some miracle and a certain twist of the press, Haydn had become my psychic, my inseparable partner. We laugh a great deal reading the various newspaper articles that paint our portrait, and yet I could not help admitting that part of me enjoyed his companion. He had become more than a mere acquaintance, a true friend, someone I trust completely. You know me, in truth, I am not someone who formed attachments easily, and even less so in daily life, but with Haydn there was no difficulty at all. We got along wonderfully, and I can already see what you are about to say, but there are not a single romanting feeling in what I had just written to you, but a deep affection, like the one I share with you. And I know for certain it is the same for Haydn, I have no doubt of it. But let us return to our story, for if I am writing to you, it is not to speak of Boston's fine weather or its universities and libraries, but to tell you about a small adventure that had happened to me a few days earlier as we were on our way to that very gala. Had no desire to go, you know me, I cannot bear crowds. I know, it may seem at odd with my persona and my temperaments, but if there are too many people around me and above all too many strangers, I truly feel ill. Unfortunately, had no choice. We live in a capitalist society, and even the world of research needs money to find its work, and we need it. So it was validly that I went in evening dress through. It was magnificent. It was a creation by Paul Pray of extraordinary elegance. I had received it as payment for an investigation in Paris. It came from his boutique on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Nourre. I must confess had fallen in love with his style and the badness of his design. I thought that in that moment the only joyful thing that would happen to me would be the change to wear such a splendid gown. Well, as always, fate deceived me, for an incredible case was waiting for me there. As I left my room, Haydn was waiting patiently, superbly dressed as well, in a suit for the occasion. He offered me his hand as we went down the stairs and took a taxi to the reception. I took it gladly. We arrived at a magnificent townhouse belonging to the Hamilton family. The place was decorated with tastes, if one could call it that. It was rather exuberant, in my humble opinion. The owners seemed eager to show the world, so they were rich, very rich, without caring for harmony or balance between the decorative element and the objects. Haydn thought the same, but at the same time, for him, the most beautiful thing was surely a montane chalet surrounded by nature and its precious animals. In fact, it didn't seem very comfortable all of a sudden amid all those people. He didn't belong there. We made quite a pair, the two of us. Our names were announced at the entrance, and all the guests turned to look at us. About a hundred people were there, watching us, while the host welcome us with a glass of champagne. The beginning of the evening went as expected, plenty of shatter, laughter, and conversations of varying seriousness. It was still less boring than I feel. Some people proved more interesting than expected. About an hour after we arrived, a young woman came down this grand staircase. She was magnificent in a dress by the courtier Georges Goyet. In dark tones, it could only heighten the contrast and show to advantage the dozens of diamonds and precious stones that covered the upper part of her body. She wore simple earrings and diamonds cut in a peel shape. The necklace around her throat, however, was far more complex. It depicts flowers in their natural form, with a huge diamond at the center, catron. Around it was other flowers. The centers were made of emeralds, green enamel leaves surrounding them, adding an ornamental natural cravity to the piece, and ametist imitating trailing flowers rang all along the top of her bottom. Each purple flowers encycled a pearl. This necklace of absolute complexity was a true technical fit, a masterpiece of high jewelry that had come up at auction only a few days earlier. The new owners had taken advantage of this evening to display a new acquisition to every curious eye. And just below, at the level of her chest, slightly hidden along the Ametis flowers and pearls was a brooch of an amel representing an eye, a magnificent green eye, exquisitely made surrounded by green beads, surely malachets. A beautiful piece, reminiscent of 18th century love brushes. Yet it did not have anything like the same value as the other jewels in her parole. A surprising combination in her parts, an assortment that seems almost sentimental. The two items she had processed at auction in her cell house at the beginning of the week. The heart belongs to a famous opera singer who, fallen into misery and burdened with debt, has been forced to sell all her possessions. That former celebrity has, sadly, seen her wealth fade as quickly as her youth. The expression, one man's misfortune is another man's happiness, seems perfectly suited to the moment as a young woman, one of the richest earners in the United States, descended the steps of her family's townhouse one by one. A broad smile on her lips held height, it was her moment of glory, her moment of brilliance in every sense of the words. At the bottom of the stairs, she hurried toward us, taking my arm in a splendid manner. Seeing her face, I realized she was far younger than I thought, barely eighteen. She immediately asked us to call her by her first name, Beryl, rather than her family name, Hamilton. She was not unkind, but not very interesting. She would not leave us alone, introducing us to everyone who passed by, then telling us every bit of gossip she had heard about them once they moved away. She was in her elements, in her words. I listened without saying anything, and I confess to my great shame, in such tedious evening, nothing is more diverting than gossip. She finally let us go, reluctantly, when her father called to her from afar to introduce her to a young man. Her arm tightened a little around mine when she heard her father's call. She left us simply by saying that Juty was calling. With a wary step, I watched her disappear into the crowd. 11 o'clock was not far off when Haydn and I decided to leave. Fatigue had taken over and I must admit that the bubbles of champagne had the dreadful tendency to make me drow the. Then the lights went out at once. A faint crackling sound preceded a loud clack. The furze has given up. Electricity was cut through the house and we found ourselves into darkness. A stern silence accompanied the lack of lights. Before the staff hurried to fetch scandals and to try restore power. Why darkness still rained? A cry ran out, followed by the sound of a body falling. I moved towards the commotion. The hearse I had just heard belonged to the young Ernest. It was Beryl who had fallen. When the light came back a few moments later, I found her on the floor, her dress torn at the chest, and her neck completely bare. Her precious jewel had been stolen and all under my eyes in less than a few minutes. Astonishing. As the light returned to the house, her cries turned into sobs. Then she began to scream. Someone had stolen her jewels, but who? With a nod, I signaled to Haydn to go to the room's only entrance so that no one could leave without our noticing. Instinctively, I counted the people present. Between the staff, the owners and the guests, no one was missing. No one. Which meant the thief was among us. Beryl then threw herself into my arms and begged me to find the person who had dared steal her precious jewels. Behind her, I saw her father shaking with rage. Someone had dared rob him in his own house. His hunger only grew mixed with helpliness, for he must have drawn the same conclusion as I had one of the person present was guilty. The police were called quickly and search were carried out, but nothing was found. Nothing. The thief seems to have vanished into thin air, as if by magic, leaving not a trace. Well, not quite. I knew how that person has escaped through a concealed door hided behind one of the tapestries in the drawing room. A door that only the owners and some of the staff knew about. Certainly not the guests. A secret emergency exit. How could the thief have known about it? The staff and all the guests were quickly cleared by both the police and myself. None of them was guilty. Two o'clock in the morning struck when the last guest left. Beryl threw herself into my arms once again, begging me to retrieve her jewels and promising in exchange to finance our entire expedition. As I was about to refuse such payments, her father asked me to follow him into his study. He explained that just before all this, he had signed a large check to Professor Johnson so that we could finally undertake our expedition. A passionate admirer of the Far North himself, he had given the money willingly and would not take it back. But he hoped I could help them discover who was the thief, who was the cupid. He seemed worried not so much by the thief as by the identity of the cupid, because, according to him, it could only be someone close to them, perhaps even a member of the family. Very few people knew of the Hyden Dorse's existence, and even fewer knew where the key that opened it was kept. After his speech, I could only accept, relieved that the expedition's funding was not at stake. As I left his office, I make my way through the house into its smallest corners to understand exactly what had happened and how the light has been cut artificially. The timing was far too perfect for it to have been an accident. Berlin and Haydn followed close behind as I explained how the cupid has switched off all the lights at once. In the first box, the porcelain cruise fuse has blown, a faint smell of heat still lingered. To make them blow, nothing could be simpler. The thief had deliberately damaged the wire of a lamp near their hiding place. I remember that when we arrived, it has not been lit. The intruder must have plugged it in in the right moment to cause a short circuit and create a sudden blackout. Moreover, the fuse look worn, very worn indeed, almost at the end of their life. Thus, if the lamp stratagem had failed, the light would probably have gone out anyway. This person has clearly prepared the move well and knew the heart as thoroughly as they knew the physics lesson. Three questions remained. How did the cupid know this tonhouse so well? Why seal the brush those value was far lower than the necklace? And how that thief managed to tear them off so easily? The answer to these three questions would lead me to the thief. I was certain of it. And that's all for today. Thanks again for letting all the raids through. Please don't hesitate to subscribe and give us a like. And if you do like what we're trying to do, please don't hesitate to talk about it to your friend or family. See you soon for more adventures with Annabelle Underwood.