by Sophia Tobin
THE CITY OF LONDON
The sunshine was bright to Jonathan’s eyes, after the days inside in the cool purple light of the Club. The sunlight made him feel saved, and lost, all at the same time. Sitting in the basement vaults the night before, as the bombing shook the Club to its foundations, he had allowed himself to hope that a mistake had been made, and that the diamond was real. When he woke, his hope was gone; like drunkenness he had slept it off. It was the rollercoaster of it. Because as he began to think again, so it revived.
As he came down the front steps of the Club, putting his hat on his head, he decided he would keep asking the question, until the right answer was given. He had known a man like that, before the war: a man from university, who had risen from the working classes. Bullish persistence had seemed, then, a regretful quality to Jonathan; rather vulgar, rather unnecessary. Either one cleared the hurdle at first leap, or not at all. But now, only now, he felt the need for it.
The bombing had changed the City of London. He wandered, bewildered, towards High Holborn. Past collapsed buildings, torn-up roads, exposed pipes and ‘Danger’ signs. Some buildings were still whole and standing, some were precarious. He passed drifts of rubble; quiet people, hurrying on, taking refuge in silence that answered as courage. There was a strange subdued diligence in the air: no wailing, or crying; these things were superfluous. There was the occasional shout: an instruction, a joke, a request for tea. A bus turned, re-routed, and Jonathan caught sight of the passengers, their calm faces at the window. After the first shock, no one needed a door hanging off its hinges, or a person out of their wits.
As he walked on, Jonathan felt his optimism pall. Not because of the ruins he saw; he was, at least, still alive. He felt a secret exhilaration at that. No, his fall in mood was because he thought he might reach the café and find it gone, wiped clean off the face of the earth. And if that café was gone, he had no idea how to find his contact. He could make enquiries in Hatton Garden – but. The thought tired him so that, traversing a cracked pavement, broken upwards as though the force had come from beneath the earth, he wondered if he might not lie down and rest, here, on the broken ground.
He took another step, and thought of Livy at the Club, looking through the boxed archives, something she had been doing assiduously over the last day or two. She was quiet, but efficient: she had a job to do, she said, and she would do it. ‘A mystery,’ she said. ‘I always liked solving those.’ Her foot tapping against the floor. Tap-tap-tap, as steady as a clock, keeping time. She might dislike him, he thought, but she wanted to know where the diamond was, just as he did.
He had watched her. Sitting quietly at her basement desk – a broken table, one leg supported by an old book which had bomb damage. Lifting the lid of a box, and laying it flat, interior facing up. Picking up the first letter and unfolding it carefully with her reverent hands. The way her face stilled, and opened, to the musty papers. She had small hands, pale and dramatically veined, and unlacquered fingernails. So different from her predecessor, he thought: the red-nailed Miss Hardaker. He had kissed her once, too, years ago. Reached out and taken hold of her as, he thought, he had the right to do.
As Livy leaned forwards, the waves of her brown hair fell forwards too, leaving the back of her neck exposed. He had watched her a good long time, and she had not lit a cigarette, or spoken, or done anything other than read the letter in front of her, written by a long-dead architect who she had never met. He hoped that, one day, someone might read his letters with such reverence.
‘He is agitated,’ she said. ‘Henry. He feels his orders are not being met.’
Jonathan had not told her where he was going today, and felt slightly ashamed, as though he were violating some kind of pact which he had not been aware of forming.
Let the diamond be real, he thought, and I will tell her everything.
Let the diamond be real, he thought, and I will never touch her again. I will be the faithful husband I have never yet been.
He passed a man, dressed like him in overcoat and trilby hat, hollow-cheeked, and pale-haired, his lips forming silent words as he passed. The man tripped and fell into Jonathan; Jonathan supported him.
‘I say, forgive me.’ A strange, ghastly smile filtered over the man’s face. A difficult politeness, in the midst of desolation.
‘Are you all right?’ said Whitewood, bluff, reassuring. A kindness to be strong, and to pretend the other man was strong too. This was how wars were fought, and griefs were borne.
‘I am. Thank you.’
They parted then, two London strangers. And as he walked, past a knot of heavy rescue workers and police and firemen, looking at the heap of rubble which had until last night been a building, Jonathan felt in his pocket. The stone was still there. It was precious to him. He was ashamed at how precious, in the midst of the ruin of human lives.
*
Mrs Cohen’s café on the corner of Greville Street and Leather Lane had miraculously survived the night, and Jonathan could see Mr Moscow sitting at his usual table, like a woollen-clad miracle. There was a slight problem at the door, when Jonathan could not remember the code word he had been given. The man at the door was immovable, and Jonathan knew there was no way he could bluff or bluster his way through. He was not respected here. If anything, his voice counted against him, but to pretend to be anything other than who he was seemed ridiculous. Luckily, Mr Moscow caught sight of him through the haze of cigarette smoke, and sent one of his sons to tell the gatekeeper to let him in.
This was the only place Jonathan could remember feeling self-conscious in. The air was dense with smoke, the warmth of steam and bodies, and the noise of conversations being conducted in many different languages. As he walked towards the steady-eyed old man, sitting at his table with his cup of tea, he felt a flush move up his neck and into his face.
Jonathan pulled out a chair opposite him. ‘May I?’ He glanced to the right. The table next to theirs was home to an intense chess game, but the two players had stopped and were looking at the stranger.
Mr Moscow’s elder son, who sat next to his father, nodded. The younger son had gone to talk to an acquaintance. Mr Moscow himself, his face as lined as an Ordnance Survey map, with his ravines and extravagant pores, kept his unblinking dark gaze on Jonathan for as long as he could, beyond the bounds of civility. Then he took a sip of his tea.
‘Nice to see you, Mr Whitewood,’ he said. His cigarette lay smoking in the metal ashtray with its broad rim, cut in with semi-circles. There were no paper packages containing gemstones on the table, just a small cloth pouch containing, Jonathan knew, the tools of his trade.
Jonathan found himself focusing on his own discomfort. He was beginning to sweat in the oil-drenched smoky air. He felt almost anaemic sitting opposite this old man, who was possessed, he was sure, with a powerful spirit. A kind of animation that Jonathan could only dream of. He marvelled at Moscow; the man carried only the smallest notebook, where he made notes of diamond deals. The notebook was not out today. Jonathan wondered how the war had affected his trade.
‘What do you want?’ Mr Moscow’s son now.
Jonathan cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, I should have said. Mr Moscow, you will remember, perhaps, the meeting we had before.’
‘Of course. I remember everything.’
‘Pa.’ The elder son tutted.
‘I do.’ This was a statement of fact, it seemed.
Jonathan persevered. ‘You may remember that I had a diamond in my family.’
‘Yes, a most unusual case.’ The old man waved his hand. ‘What of it?’
Jonathan took out his package and put it on the table. It was not wrapped in paper, as diamonds usually were; he realized now he should have done that. It was simply swaddled in a clean handkerchief.
‘You walked here?’ Mr Moscow looked alarmed. ‘If it is what you told me, you are a reckless man.’ It was clearly not a compliment.
‘I’ve been told it’s not a diamond,’ said Jonathan, thinking: emm
et the valuer, bloody emmet, with the tips of his moustache waxed, saying I am very sorry to tell you, sir, that it doesn’t seem to be a diamond. Now, it seemed stupid to have believed him. ‘I’m still sure it is. But I know you will be able to confirm it.’
‘I see.’ Moscow’s lips twitched with amusement. Still, he did not unwrap the stone; just left it lying on the waxy red and white checked tablecloth, alongside a ketchup stain. Just to emphasize his nonchalance, he sipped his tea.
‘Before I look at it, shall we be clear?’ he said. ‘If it is a diamond – if, if, if, I spend my life on ifs, Mr Whitewood—’
‘As we all do, these days,’ said Jonathan, and couldn’t keep his tone clear of bitterness.
‘If it is a diamond,’ said Moscow – no room for sentimentality, his rather disappointed gaze seemed to indicate – ‘if you wish to sell it – which you do, otherwise why come here? – then I wish to have first refusal.’
Jonathan opened his hands, palms up. ‘But of course,’ he said.
And with that settled, the diamond dealer took his loupe from the cloth pouch, and began to unwrap the stone.
CHAPTER TEN
1838
Henry Dale-Collingwood returned to his West end club at six. It was dusk in the city, and the lamps were lit, but he did not glance to his left or right as he ran up the steps and into the lobby, handing his coat and hat to the attendant. Normally on such an evening he would have enjoyed sitting at the window of the library, his chair pulled discreetly to one side, watching the traffic on Pall Mall, cabs running people to the theatre, to dinner, to indiscretions. London by gaslight fascinated him, and especially when watched from a warm room with a good fire. But not tonight. Although his body was full of strength and energy, his mind was tired. He took a table for two in the dining room, asked for a drink, and declined to order dinner just yet.
He sensed the head waiter’s bewilderment, and knew that in changing his routine he had caused an astonishment close to offence. So it was with relief on all sides when his friend Peregrine arrived in the dining room. The waiter brightened, obviously hoping that this sprightly young gentleman would set things back on the right track. And he was correct. ‘Duck, spinach and a baked apple should set us to rights,’ Peregrine said, having briskly consulted the menu, ‘and a full claret-jug, if you please.’
Henry silently sat back in his chair, content for everything to be done, his mind still full of the day’s events. When the wine was brought he toasted his friend, hoping that it would restore him to conviviality, but it did not.
‘I saw a horse shot today,’ he said.
Peregrine choked on his mouthful of wine. ‘That’s a nice way to begin our evening together, I must say,’ he said, once he had recovered himself.
Henry smiled. ‘I apologize.’
‘What if there had been ladies present?’
‘Here?’
‘Well, yes, point well made, but – we are meant to be gentlemen, aren’t we? And I am sure that is not the correct way for a gentleman to begin polite conversation.’ His own shakiness about his social standing made Peregrine fastidious. It had the reverse effect to his intention: it flagged his lack of confidence.
‘Your perception of yourself as not quite a gentleman yet really bothers you much more than it does anyone else,’ said Henry. They had met at the Royal Academy drawing schools. Both sixteen years old; both with more determination than the sum of the others’ in the room put together. It could have alienated them, and yet from the first day, they had formed a bond.
Peregrine swallowed another mouthful of wine to fortify himself. ‘That’s because you’ve got a duke buried somewhere in your lineage, but I haven’t. A speck of dirt on my collar or cuffs and I feel I am on the defence. Horse shootings are not on the list of civilized topics for conversation. And why did you see a horse shot, for God’s sake? It should be a gentleman’s privilege to avoid such things.’
‘There was a carriage accident.’
Peregrine made an indiscriminate noise of disgust. ‘There is enough trouble in this world without discussing it over dinner.’
Dinner was served. Henry turned the conversation to Peregrine’s current preoccupation. He was designing a town-house for a wealthy patron who had bought a house in the West end and razed the site. The style had been dictated by the owner. ‘It really is too much sometimes. I shall name this a new style: Ultra-gothic. Could we fit in another arch, Mr Brownlow? Another arch? There are already two thousand pointed arches in that place. I dream of arches, and of arches within arches. But the interior – he gives me all the freedom I wish for, I suppose because he is not married yet, and so there is no special darling for him to please. And as a result, I am obsessed with the interiors. I care more about the coat-hooks than I do the capstones.’
Henry listened with amusement to his friend, laughing when he was meant to, and sympathizing too. They both ate quickly. And it was only when Peregrine ate his last mouthful of baked apple, and put his spoon down with a hearty clunk, that he turned from his building project to something else.
‘There’s something the matter,’ he said, wiping his mouth on the starched napkin. ‘Is it the horse? I suppose if you must talk about it.’
He clearly expected his friend to laugh, but Henry only smiled gently and, staring at the tablecloth, put his own spoon down.
‘It’s not the horse,’ Henry said. ‘Just a difficult day. Tomorrow, I will be better and brighter – you picked a bad evening to dine with me, that’s all, and I apologize for my lack of good humour.’
‘In that case, I insist I dine with you again tomorrow,’ said Peregrine.
‘Agreed, and heartily,’ said Henry. ‘Mirrormakers’ is playing on my mind. Some of the internal arrangements to the service rooms – may I show you the plan? It is in my room.’
‘Gladly,’ said Peregrine. ‘As long as we can smoke a cigar there. I’ve stolen two of my fathers’. I know, I know, it’s a poor thing for a man of two-and-thirty to do, but no matter what I buy, he always gets better. And a man shouldn’t be made to feel inferior by his father’s cigars.’
They went upstairs together, greeting some of the other members on the way. Henry had a suite: a bedroom, a dressing room and a small sitting room. The lamps were all lit, but the room was still in that low, grainy light which, Henry thought, sometimes was called cosy, and sometimes melancholy. He went to his desk in the dressing room and heard Peregrine exclaim. Returning, he saw a familiar female who had shocked his friend by skittering out from behind one of the heavy curtains, where she now and then stowed herself.
‘Good evening, Foi,’ said Henry. ‘You’re not meant to be in the rooms at this time of night, are you?’ He spent most of his time with Foi stating the obvious.
The maid curtseyed low in his direction and gave him a knowing smile. ‘Just thought I’d check that all was in order in your room, sir,’ she said. ‘You know I always make sure you have the best. And there was a letter for you.’
He took it from her with good humour. ‘Off you go,’ he said, and she left with another smile.
‘Is she a whore?’ said Peregrine, after the door had closed, rather more loudly than he should have done, and evidently in the hope that the departing Foi would hear him.
Henry broke open the letter with rough hands. ‘She’s harmless enough. But she shouldn’t be around here at night. I’m honourable, of course, but the others . . .’
‘I have no idea why she’s following you around. You’re so ugly, especially when one compares you to me – and I’m here often enough. I’m surprised she’s never – er – approached me.’
‘Perhaps she’s never happened upon you in the right circumstances. I’m sure that’s all which is keeping her from storming you.’
‘And what’s her dreadful name?’
‘I have no idea. Everyone calls her Foi. Why do you want to know? Are you planning to propose to her?’
Peregrine pulled a face; Henry well knew that he was
planning to marry up, and his intensity had already won him admirers from the groups of pale, young, pious ladies he wooed at Southwark Cathedral each Sunday with his downcast looks alone.
‘God damn it.’ Henry closed the letter and fought the urge to crumple it up.
‘Henry?’
‘Another letter from the committee of the Mirrormakers’ Club. It’s always the same: courteous to my face, then half an hour after every site visit they sit down and write out what they so sweetly describe as “their concerns” as if I don’t know my own business. I’ve built railway stations, for God’s sake!’
‘Technically, you’ve built one railway station.’
‘And they don’t think I can manage their wretched little building.’
Peregrine put his hand on Henry’s arm. ‘My dear chap, this is not a wretched little building. This is a jewel, at the heart of the City of London: the same City from which you draw most of your clients. You’re in sight of St Paul’s and dealing with the type of people you always deal with. Did you think it would go without a wrinkle?’
Henry put the letter down. ‘No.’
‘And are you letting your clerks take the correct burden of the work, or are you, as usual, trying to do everything yourself? Normally I wouldn’t object. I know how you are, but—’
‘But what, Perry? Do you think I cannot manage it?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. If Her Majesty asked you to rebuild Buckingham Palace you could manage it. What I am trying to say is: normally, you would laugh at this kind of thing. It’s simply what we have to deal with, isn’t it, Henry? But tonight you don’t seem to be thriving on it. And dinner wasn’t so bad that it should put the night in your eyes so completely.’
Henry sat down in one of the faded leather easy chairs. ‘It has been a long winter,’ he said.
Perry sighed. ‘I know. And your parents, and Kitty.’
Henry nodded, suddenly unable to speak. His parents, and his beloved sister, all swept from life by an infection, while he was building a civic hall in Birmingham. On his return he had stood in the empty doorway of the family home in Russell Square, listening for them. He knew they were not there, but he almost – almost – thought he could hear them.