Chapter 16 #2
I beamed and went to stand before the case of watches. A careful survey of the plaster wall behind her indicated not a single crack—nothing that suggested an opening, unless it was behind the mirror.
The bottom of the cabinet was lined in a cream-colored silk, with the watches laid out six inches apart. Some were closed, to reveal the elaborate carving of the covers. Others were open, to reveal the delicate hands.
Despite my true purpose, I found myself admiring them. Each showed the same time as the standing clock nearby.
Now I needed to discover if they did repairs in the shop or sent them elsewhere.
“Mum?”
“I was just admiring how perfectly they keep time,” I said. “To the minute. It’s remarkable.”
She dimpled. “We pride ourselves on selling objects of beauty that work properly.”
“But if it doesn’t keep time?” I asked and added apologetically, “My husband is rather particular. He despises lateness in anyone.” My tone suggested that I’d been on the receiving end of his ire, and sympathy flashed across her face.
“If the watch ever fails to keep time, we will fix it at no charge, if you buy it here.”
The back of the shop consisted of three doors.
One, set back farther than the others, clearly led to the alley behind; it had two shining dead bolt locks.
The short hallway to it was between two other rooms that jutted into this main one, each of which had a closed door with a crystal handle and simple keyhole.
One was likely an office and workroom, the other a set of stairs going up.
“Do you do all your work on the premises?” I asked. “You don’t send the watches away, do you?”
She glanced toward the door behind me. “No, it’s all done here by our jewelers.”
“Lovely.” I tapped the glass with a gloved finger. “Could I see this one, please?”
She brought it out. “This is a beautiful Breguet,” she began. “Only a few of these were made . . .”
With half my mind, I listened to her describing the watch. With the other half, I took in the rest of the store.
Large gilt-framed mirrors hung on the walls, and two smaller mirrors hung at an angle from the ceiling. I hadn’t seen ceiling mirrors in the other shops, but the value was obvious.
Next, I asked to see a Le Phare repeater, and as she withdrew it, the door to the right opened and a man of about seventy emerged.
He stepped forward to converse in a low tone with the younger man, who resembled him enough that I’d guess he was his son, or a nephew, perhaps.
The two men disappeared behind the door.
The creak of the stairs as they climbed was audible.
“Was that the owner?” I asked. “He reminds me of my grandfather, with the stoop and the spectacles.”
“Yes, that’s Mr. Simonson. He began the shop in Clerkenwell and moved it here two years ago.”
“Does the family live upstairs then?” I asked.
She gave me an odd look.
“I had a friend whose parents own a haberdashery,” I said by way of explanation, “and they lived above it. We used to go upstairs for our tea. I imagine it was convenient, although sometimes I think her parents wished they could’ve lived away from it.”
“I daresay they would,” she murmured. “But the younger son is bedridden and needs help all day. He came back from the Crimea just a boy of sixteen with his leg blown off.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” I said, feeling genuine dismay. “And he’s been an invalid for twenty years? The poor man.”
She nodded. “It was a terrible thing, and he’s in a good deal of pain.”
The door opened, revealing the son, whose face was dark with anger. I handed back the watch I held.
“Would you like to see another?”
“No, thank you. But I will bring my husband. I think he’d like this one best”—I pointed to the gold Breguet, the first I’d held—“but I’d like him to choose.”
I stepped away, pausing by a case that held gold rings.
In the mirror, I watched as the man approached the clerk, coming close enough that her body tensed and she leaned away, although she held her ground.
His left hand clawed around her elbow, and she flinched.
His jowls shook as he quietly berated her—for answering my questions? Not making the sale?
Abruptly he released her and turned away. She rubbed her elbow and caught my eye in the mirror. She flushed with embarrassment.
If the man hadn’t been standing there, I’d have told her he was the one who should be ashamed.
This was impossible, of course, so I did what I could.
I turned back and said in my sweetest tone, “Thank you again. You’ve been so much more helpful than the clerks in other shops. I’ll be back with my husband soon.”
With that, I departed and started in the direction of the fenced alley that ran behind the shop.
Given that there were constables stationed by the alleys after dark, I had wondered if we might come in through an upstairs window or across the roof instead.
The presence of the Simonson family in the quarters above made that unlikely.
But at least I’d learned the necklace was on the premises, in the workroom to the left.
There was no constable at the alley’s entrance; apparently, he didn’t arrive at his post until later.
When I could be sure I was unobserved, I approached the gate.
A padlock hooked through a metal loop secured two iron bars as thick as my arm.
With all vertical bars, the gate provided no convenient footholds, and the height was such that no one could easily be boosted over.
It would require a rope ladder with grappling hooks. Good lord.
I walked around front again, strolling the pavement opposite Willingham’s and Simonson’s.
It was then that something curious struck me.
From left to right, the facade of the building consisted of a wooden-framed door, then a narrow bit of brick, a large plate glass window, then an expanse of brick, then another window, then Simonson’s door.
But recalling the main rooms of both stores, I thought the brick section in the middle seemed oddly large.
Was it possible that the inside walls of the two jewelers didn’t touch?
It seemed there was a gap of a few feet between them.
What could be the reason for that? Privacy from each other? Storage?
I left Hatton Garden considering these additional obstacles and possibilities. How I wished I knew where Amelia was, for she might have helped me. But she had left the night I saw her at the inn, and keeping herself to herself, she hadn’t yet sent me her address.
As I crossed Leather Lane, I turned back to examine the row of plate glass windows glinting in the late-afternoon light, the cloth awnings fluttering in the breeze, the pedestrians on the pavement, the traffic thinned from earlier.
I exited Hatton Garden and walked south, as I had before.
At the corner, I observed a wine and spirits store across the way and a cheese shop beside it—both of which no doubt stocked commodities brought in from across the Channel.
I halted, thinking.
The shop clerk had said Simonson’s had moved to Hatton Garden only two years ago from Clerkenwell, like many other jewelers. Before that, the area was home to a miscellaneous collection of shops, many of which received smuggled goods.
James knew this area, for it was here he’d made his nighttime escapades, transferring goods through secret passageways and back alleys. The shops were cheek by jowl; no doubt some of the passages remained. And perhaps he’d have an idea about why there seemed to be a space between the two jewelers.
If I was reading him right, he wouldn’t mind me finding him to ask.