Chapter 47
Two days later, Phyllida made The Mudlarkers’ Club’s second WhatsApp video call.
‘I’m so glad you could all make it,’ Phyllida said. ‘Oh, and here’s Laila, too. We haven’t seen you for a while.’
Laila waved.
‘Geez, Phyll, it looks like you’ve just killed someone,’ Nick said.
Phyllida’s face and apron were splattered with blood-red spots.
‘I’ve been wrangling a pomegranate,’ she said. ‘Getting seeds out is, I imagine, just as messy as murder.’
‘So, what’s going on? You seem more flustered than de-seeding a pomegranate should ever make you.’
‘Oh, no, Nick,’ she said gravely. ‘This is me excited.’
‘Excited?’
‘Someone has commented on my Instagram post.’ Phyllida turned her phone to the laptop camera to show them the comment. ‘Can you see it?’
Four heads leant closer. Timothy put his glasses on.
‘It’s a bit blurry,’ Timothy said. ‘Can you hold the phone still?’
‘Sorry, it’s my hand. I can’t stop shaking.’
‘Why don’t you read it out to us?’ Gemma suggested.
‘I had to show you because I didn’t want you to think I was making this up or playing an April Fool’s joke on you in November.’
‘Can you tell us already?’ Laila said.
‘The impatience of youth.’ Timothy laughed.
‘Okay, here goes.’ Phyllida paused, took a deep breath and began.
‘Do you remember how I told you that one of my followers is historian Megan O’Connor?
She’s been following me for a while now and has been so wonderful at providing commentary and offering support.
I try and do the same for her as she also likes mudlarking.
But of course, I know nothing compared to her.
Anyway, she’s very knowledgeable and I trust her completely.
She does want to come and give us a talk but has been too busy of late.
She goes by the Instagram handle of “history rocks” if you want to look her up … ’
Gemma moved to the sofa. She was getting used to Phyllida’s storytelling. It reminded her of her father’s made-up bedtime tales when they were children. Although he took forever to get to the action, it was the detail and his florid descriptions that made her love them.
‘Did she comment on the brooch Gemma found?’ Nick asked, as keen as Gemma was for Phyllida to get to the point.
‘This is what Megan wrote: “I may be completely wrong, Phyllida, and I don’t want to steer you in the wrong direction, but I think the brooch could be something special.”’
‘Something special?’ Nick said.
‘Megan says it’s likely to be a hundred per cent gold because no other metal comes out of the river with a lustre like that.’
Gemma touched the brooch. She was wearing the sweatshirt she had on the day before with the brooch still attached.
‘She also says it could be old,’ Phyllida continued. ‘Medieval even. And she recommended that we get someone to look at it.’
‘Okay, let’s do that,’ Nick said.
‘Gemma? You’ve gone awfully quiet. Please don’t tell me you’ve thrown the brooch back into the river?’ Phyllida said.
Gemma shook her head. ‘I’m wearing it.’ She showed them the brooch which was looking flamboyant and incongruous against her drab sweatshirt.
‘Oh, my God, you can’t let it out of your sight,’ Nick said, suddenly panicked.
‘I thought you didn’t believe it was anything,’ Phyllida said.
‘I don’t. But what if it is? How cool would that be?’
‘There seems to be a lot of conjecture with not a lot of evidence,’ Gemma said. ‘It could just be one of those Scottish brooches from the Victorian period.’
‘Or maybe it’s just a cheap replica,’ said Nick, reluctantly reining in his excitement.
‘Or a cheap replica,’ Gemma agreed.
‘I’m with Phyllida. The only way we’ll find out is by sending it off to the experts,’ Timothy said.
‘If it is real gold and more than three hundred years old then we’ll need to give it to the Finds Liaison Officer at the Museum of London,’ Gemma added.
‘I tell you what, why don’t I get in touch with one of the curators at the British Museum?
’ Timothy said. ‘There’s one I’ve met a few times.
Delightful woman. She wouldn’t mind having a look at it and she’ll be able to tell, I’m sure, if it’s old and gold.
Then we’ll know what we need to do with it.
Or should I say, what Gemma needs to do with it. She was its finder after all.’