Chapter 26 #2
I’m not immune to dodges I work on myself, I thought. But I could see it working on Mr. Fuller too. The lines around his mouth deepened with pain. “Thus, we have two monsters, one begotten by the other. God, there’s no end to it.”
He said this more to himself than to me, and I held my tongue.
“So Maggie returned to London, wanting revenge,” he said heavily.
“When Maggie discovered that Simonson’s was cleaning the famous necklace, she saw her opportunity. She knows people who can pick locks and crack large combination safes.”
“And she pulled you into it by kidnapping your sister.”
I nodded.
“But how will the fraud be discovered?”
“A letter, sent to the marquess, alerting him.”
His fingertips pinched the chair rail. “And it’ll ruin Simonson, when it’s made public. The marquess’s word will be above question, which she’s counting on, no doubt.”
“The difficulty is that Maggie’s scheme required violence—the murder of a constable.”
His face paled.
“Maggie planned it for tonight.” I spoke slowly, wanting to be sure I was understood. “It was done last night instead, with no one harmed.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “So you headed her off. Does Maggie know?”
“I’ll see her after I leave you.”
“Ah.”
“The marquess will receive a letter this morning warning him to retrieve the necklace and have the gems checked for authenticity. It’s already in the post.” I patted my pocket where the diamonds were.
“I’ll deliver the diamonds to Maggie, you print your story about the necklace, naming Simonson’s.
” I swallowed down my fear that he would refuse.
“And my sister will be released. You’ll have your witness, the Fairleigh murderers will be found, and the Yard will have solved an important case. ”
“Is there any chance the diamonds can make their way back to the necklace?”
I hesitated. “I think so. Maggie would likely hold on to them for a while, until the fuss dies down, before she has them cut.”
He sat, picked up his pen, and drew a fresh page toward him. “Simonson deserves worse than he’ll get with this.”
My relief made my breath catch, and I couldn’t reply.
He dipped the tip in the well, shedding the excess in three taps. He stared off into space a moment and then looked at me. “Can you keep silent for twenty minutes?”
I nodded and turned up a palm as a sign for him to go ahead.
He began to write—the black nub of his pen moving across the page, scratching line after line. I watched, marveling at his steadiness and haste, until I recalled that he’d no doubt had great practice in composing his stories quickly, much as I’d practiced changing out gems.
He reached the bottom of the page and began a second without pause.
A dip of the pen, scratch, scratch, scratch, another dip.
All the while I sat in silence, though I itched to seize the first page and read it.
When he reached the end of the second page, he set them side by side and reread them, crossing out a word, amending a line.
Finally, he spun them toward me. “See if it’s the truth. ”
I brought them closer to my side of the desk and began to read:
fraud at hatton garden
Who among us but a thief can tell a diamond from its false sister, paste?
No one, of course. This is what unscrupulous jewelers depend upon when defrauding a na?ve customer who has entrusted them with precious keepsakes and heirlooms.
This newspaper has witnessed definitive and undeniable proof that three diamonds from an important family heirloom have been replaced with counterfeit gems at Simonson’s Jewelers in Hatton Garden.
The public should take note, for this is no small theft.
The diamonds, each approximately one carat in weight, are estimated to be valued at over two hundred pounds.
It is likely that in an effort to disguise them, they will immediately be cut into smaller stones, diminishing their overall value but making them easy to sell in the open market.
They are likely gone forever—and were it not for the truth brought to this paper by a knowledgeable informant, the owner might never know.
The necklace, an heirloom worth well over two thousand pounds, was taken into custody by the jeweler for cleaning and repair, in preparation for its appearance at Lord Charleton’s Grand Ball next week.
This ball has long been considered one of the most important events of the London Season, where two of Queen Victoria’s children shall be present.
It is the responsibility of the jeweler to safeguard all valuables from theft—whether it be a tradesman’s modest watch or a duchess’s tiara.
Simonson’s makes a grand show of this: There are locks on each door, front and back, and a large black bulwark of a safe with a combination lock and impregnable hinges.
It is nigh impossible that even the canniest, most practiced thief could enter unobserved and obtain access.
Indeed, the obvious conclusion is that this theft must have been enacted with the knowledge and willful collaboration of, if not by, the jeweler himself.
Ever since the discovery of the mines at Kimberley in the southernmost regions of Africa, diamonds have been considered rare and precious stones, surpassing rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and pearls in value.
However, by virtue of their luster and transparency, diamonds are easier to counterfeit than other stones.
The newspaper has received no comment from Simonson’s Jewelers.
I looked up in admiration at the cleverness and opaqueness of his sentences. Nowhere did it state outright that Simonson had perpetrated the fraud. “Strictly speaking, it’s true,” I said cautiously.
“Have you anything to add?” Mr. Fuller asked.
“You might want to say, ‘several diamonds,’” I said. “And two locks on the front and back doors, of the Yale variety, as well as the usual devices to prevent thievery, including mirrors and camlocks on the cases.”
His eyebrows rose, but he added those words. “Anything else?”
“No.”
He set it aside. “The story will be typeset this afternoon and will run in the morning.”
I rose. “We’ll go to the Yard as soon as my sister is free. We’ll try to be there by eleven o’clock tomorrow.”
“Begging your pardon.” Mr. Fuller’s eyes were narrowed. “I don’t mean to frighten you, but do you think Maggie will keep her word and let your sister go?”
My stomach plummeted, and I took reassurance from the thought I’d clung to for days now. “I don’t know what she’d gain by not.”
“True,” he conceded.
“She has my sister,” I said. “What choice did I have but to try?”
From the newspaper offices, I crossed Southwark Bridge and walked to the Elephant and Castle, for what might be the last time.
I climbed the stairs to the goods room and pushed open the door.
Five women stood there, women I didn’t recognize—Maggie was replacing us quickly, it seemed—and the room went silent as they stared at me.
Yes, I had an ugly bruise on my face, but I doubted that was why.
“I need to talk to Maggie,” I said.
“Go on, girls,” she said, and they filed out, passing me with curious looks.
I closed the door and reached into my pocket for the cloth pouch. I spilled the three diamonds into my palm and showed her.
She stared for a moment, then her gaze flashed up to me. Her expression was furious, and her voice was a lash. “That was supposed to be tonight. You were not supposed to do this yourself!”
“Doing it my way, I didn’t have to kill anyone.
” I placed the gems on the desk before her.
“But it’s done, exactly as you would have wanted.
The gems taken and the necklace put back in its box.
It was already sealed with ribbon and wax, so as you said, it’s not likely it’ll be inspected again before it reaches the marquess.
I left everything exactly as it was, down to the number that was at the top of the combination lock of the safe when we arrived—which was three. ”
She withdrew a jeweler’s loupe from her pocket and rolled the diamonds toward her with the fingers of her good hand, taking them up one by one and peering at them. She set them down and nodded. “Now we need only wait for the story. I’ll send a letter. It may take a few days.”
“No, it won’t,” I said. “I put a letter to the marquess in the post this morning. He’ll retrieve the necklace when the shop opens, I imagine.
Give him a day to find a jeweler to verify it.
He’ll report it to the Yard, and the story should run by tomorrow.
You’ll have the diamonds and the revenge, and I get my sister—immediately.
You swore to me on your child’s grave, Maggie.
The minute the story runs, you give me Sarah.
” My hand clenched Amelia’s pistol, though I didn’t remove it.
“And if you don’t, I go to the Yard and tell them everything. Don’t think I won’t.”
Her eyes flashed to my pocket and back to my face. She saw I meant it, and there would be no easy disposal of me in the meantime. She shrugged. “Why would I keep her? You’ll have her back as soon as the story runs.”
I started for the door.
“Where are you going?” The tone of her voice turned me back to her.
She seemed truly curious, as if now that the end was in sight, and I was no longer her tool, we might return to our former footing.
I sensed that she had other questions too—not the least of which was how I’d accomplished the dodge.
“It’s not your concern,” I replied, my voice flat with indifference. “Not anymore. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It was only half past twelve, with visiting hours another thirty minutes away, but at the hospital in Denmark Street, a surprisingly kind nurse saw me fidgeting on the bench and motioned me over. I asked to see James.
“I suppose you’ll say he’s your brother?” she asked drily.
Clearly, she expected a lie, but I was tired of lying. Tired of double-dealing, of ferreting out other people’s thoughts and motives so I might counter them. Whether she let me in early or not, I’d tell the truth.
“No,” I said simply. “But I love him. He got his leg cut up and broken helping me.”
Her expression softened. “Ah, get on with you, then,” she said, pointing to the flight of steps. “Second story, through the door on the left.”
The unexpected kindness put a lump in my throat. I croaked a thank-you and headed upstairs.
It was a long ward, and I found James halfway down one of the whitewashed walls in a narrow metal bed, with a pocket watch–sized white plaster on his head and a much larger one enveloping the lower part of his leg.
His eyes were shut, his cheeks pale under the beginning of dark whiskers, and guilt thickened in my chest at the thought of what he’d done for me, at what might be a terrible cost. All this for someone who would likely be leaving him.
The thought clenched cruelly at my heart.
I couldn’t let him see it. I forced a few measured breaths and composed my face before I put my hand to his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were shining black buttons. Laudanum, no doubt, for the pain.
“Kitten,” he slurred.
Was it a warning?
I leaned in to kiss his forehead. It was cool to the touch—no fever, not yet, thank God—and the pool of hope in my heart grew. “There’s no one here watching us, is there?” I murmured.
“Only you.” His eyes closed again, and his hand groped for mine. “Why?”
“You called me ‘Kitten.’”
His eyelids flickered open again, enough that I could see the smile tucked into the corners.
“I like to call you that in my head. My name for you and no one else’s.”
Something between a laugh and a sob bubbled up. “That laudanum’s addled you something fierce,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, and was rewarded when one side of his mouth turned up. I poured a cup of water for him and helped him drink, then pulled a chair close. “What do the doctors say?”
The drink roused him. He put out his hand again and drew my fingers to his mouth before he replied. “It’s a fracture and a bad cut but it’ll mend. I can come home in a few days, with crutches. You can wait on me. Hand and foot.”
I managed the laugh he wanted. “But what about the filth in the water?”
“No infection yet. When I got here, they soaked my leg in some carbolic solution that hurt like the devil.”
I swallowed, hoping the pain meant the medicine was strong enough to work its magic against the river’s poison.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“How much do you remember?”
He was silent a moment, thinking, and his voice wasn’t much above a whisper. “The tunnel. You and Art behind me. A gunshot. A doctor, but I don’t know where I was. I was half out of my mind with pain. Were you there?”
“In a different room, but yes.”
He looked at me, his worry piercing the laudanum fog. “Good lord, Kit, how bad was I? I wasn’t talking, was I?”
“You didn’t say a word,” I assured him, and his face eased. “And I’ll tell you everything.”
So I did, including what happened when I saw Maggie and that Mr. Fuller’s story would appear in the morning paper. “Then I’ll have Sarah back. Maggie said she had no reason to keep her,” I concluded, wanting to give him that assurance.
He nodded and his eyes closed. Exhaustion deepened the lines around his mouth and his fingers folded over my hand, which lay on his chest. I felt his breath, rising and falling like a tide. He could have died last night. We both could have.
And the dodge wasn’t over yet.
Suddenly overcome by feeling, I bent my forehead to his chest, a single jagged sob escaping, and his other hand came up to rest on my hair. “Oh, love,” he murmured. “Oh, love.” I turned my head to lay my cheek on his chest as sobs wracked me like some terrible sickness.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried, and it made me think of the day I’d found Sarah weeping over Little Nell’s death in that book by Dickens.
Her tears weren’t just for Little Nell. I understood that now.
They were for Ma’s death too. For Da’s leaving. For all the sadnesses she’d ever seen.
Perhaps all our sorrows are linked like this, a basted stitch of red thread, appearing and disappearing, on the right and wrong sides of the cloth.
Losses and near losses, whether real or in novels—all part of the same strand, each new one sadder because of the previous ones.
And it seemed to me that nearly losing James was one more stitch along that line of losses—only he wasn’t gone.
He was right here, solid under my cheek, his hand in my hair, murmuring to me in as tender a voice as I’d ever heard.
Yes, grief and tragedy could change people down to their bones.
But so could loyalty and love.