The guard led Kate downstairs into the basement, each of them tapping their lanyards on locks in the stairwell to gain access to the next level.
The museum stairwell felt more prison than museum, and it took a few minutes for Kate’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. With every step taking her deeper underground, she imagined murky layers of Viking tools and plague pits pressing up against the concrete foundations. Slicing through the middle would be red ash from when the furious Celtic queen Boadicea set the city ablaze. Debris from the Great Fire and the Blitz would be scattered among the top layers of soil.
Now it was all blanketed by the Museum of London, with its tunnels, pipes, and cables linking the museum to neighboring skyscrapers. You had to hand it to London: she was the queen of reinvention. For more than two thousand years, London had picked herself up and raised her fist—like the defiant Boadicea—at anyone who tried to quash her.
London also buried her secrets deep in the layers of damp bog.
Kate needed to uncover at least one of them.
“Here we are,” said the guard as he keyed a code into a number pad on a steel door and shoved it open with his shoulder. “After you, Dr. Kirby.”
Kate stepped through the door into a fluorescent-lit, low-ceilinged room that was part laundromat and part middle-school science lab. Rows of tables covered in leather and velvet dissected the room, and a pair of women in lab coats peered into microscopes or maneuvered pieces onto felt-backed mounts. Pieces Kate recognized from the articles Jane had sent.
“Dr. Kirby—Kate. At last! Welcome.” The elegant museum director crossed the room with her arms outstretched. “I trust you had no problems signing in.”
“It’s great to see you, Lucia,” Kate said, beaming as she stepped into the older woman’s embrace.
Lucia Wright’s dark hair had the faintest silver threads at the temples, and her body—toned and lithe from years of marathon running—seemed almost waiflike in her navy Chanel suit. Kate rested her head briefly on her mentor’s shoulder and breathed in her jasmine perfume—a blast of summer in this sterile room.
When they drew apart, Lucia put a maternal hand to Kate’s cheek.
“You look . . . well,” she said softly, a strange alloy of pride and sympathy in her gaze.
Kate broke eye contact and glanced across at the security guard, who seemed a little bewildered by this familiar greeting.
Ten years ago, Professor Lucia Wright had supervised Kate for her PhD in medieval and Elizabethan history at Oxford, and the pair had become friends. It had been Lucia who had recommended the young historian to private collectors in Hong Kong and Dubai, as well as several industry publications, after she graduated. Whenever Lucia was in the US and Kate was home in Boston, they would meet. It had been a little over four years since they’d caught up in person. Neither had had the slightest premonition back on that sunlit morning over espressos and panini that Kate’s life was about to implode . . .
Turning to face her mentor once more, she said, “I’m fine.” A half-truth. A lump started to form in her throat. She smoothed the curl at her temple back into her ponytail.
“When Jane called to say she was hoping to commission you to write the exclusive piece I was thrilled. You deserve this . . .” Lucia tilted her head to the side. “Make no mistake, Kate—you were granted access because your research work is the best. I know you will give these pieces the coverage they deserve.”
Kate swallowed and met her mentor’s eyes with a silent thanks. A shadow on the far wall caught her eye. She glanced across the room, straining to see the fine gold and enamel floral chain a dark-haired woman was stitching very precisely onto a velvet-lined board.
“We have the handful of pieces you requested laid out for you in the locked room next door. Hard to narrow it down from over four hundred items, isn’t it?” Lucia gave a sympathetic smile. “The photographer is running late, I’m afraid. He came straight from Heathrow. Front desk is just trying to work out what to do with his surfboard.” She tapped her left foot in frustration as she looked at her watch.
“The photographer is Marcus Holt, I gather?” Kate tried to keep her voice even, but Lucia caught her rolling her eyes.
“You know him?” Lucia cocked an eyebrow.
Everyone knew Marcus Holt’s reputation as an energetic photographer who shot cover stories for every prestige publication, from Vogue to National Geographic.
“Of course! Jane introduced us a couple of years ago at a jewelry fair in Hong Kong. We’ve worked on a few stories . . .” Kate shrugged. “He’s Australian,” she added, as if that should explain everything.
Lucia’s eyes met Kate’s.
“He’s very relaxed . . .”
“Clearly!” Lucia looked at her watch.
“He doesn’t just get it done, he brings out the beauty—the magic—in his images. Marcus sees things other people miss.”
“Excellent. Hopefully you’ll discover something new while you are in London.” Lucia’s brown eyes twinkled with encouragement.
There was no need to mention the sketches tucked neatly into the back of her notebook. Not yet, anyway.
“Hope he gets here soon. I have to be at a board meeting in thirty minutes, then in the city for the rest of the afternoon trying to convince our major donors to chip in for this new site. You’re coming to the party tonight at The Goldsmiths’ Company, I hope?”
“Of course,” Kate replied. “Sophie sent me an invitation as soon as I told her I was coming to London.” She heard a card tap, a security beep, and a click as the door unlocked.
“Professor Wright. So sorry I’m late.” The tall photographer strode into the room, black camera bag flung over one shoulder. He took Lucia’s slender hand in his and beamed. Uncombed sandy hair just brushed his shoulders, and his dark eyes shone. “I’m Marcus Holt. Thrilled to be here. Thanks so much—”
Lucia cut him off briskly as two pink apples appeared on her cheeks. “Happy to have you.” She gave a little cough to clear her throat. “And you know Dr. Kate Kirby, of course.”
“Of course! Hello, Dr. Kirby.”
He turned toward Kate and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, his unshaven face abrasive against her skin. He smelled of sweat and salt water.
She eyed his crumpled linen shirt and couldn’t help herself. “Did you surf here?”
“Might as well have. Delays at Heathrow . . .” He dropped his smile for a moment, eyes apologetic. “Hey, I’m really sorry to keep you waiting.” He casually swung the camera bag onto the table and grabbed a second bag from the security guard. “Thanks, mate.”
Lucia was back to business and eager to be on her way.
“Now let me introduce you to our team.” She beckoned to the pair of women who had paused in their work at Marcus’s arrival. “This is Saanvi Singh, conservator of jewelry,” Lucia said, introducing the dark-haired woman. “And Gayle Woods, curator of medieval arts.”
Marcus and Kate shook hands with each.
“I was in Geneva last year—your paper on medieval brooch restoration was amazing,” Kate told the conservator. “I’ve been quoting it ever since.” She smiled. “Hope you don’t mind if I pick your brains while I’m here. I’ve got a big list of questions to ask.”
Saanvi blushed and nodded.
Lucia beamed at Kate. “Sounds like we got just the right person.” She turned to Marcus. “Jane assured me you two make a great team.”
“We do,” said Marcus, smiling. “As long as I do exactly what Dr. Kirby here instructs.”
Not for the first time, Kate was struck by his easy manner and casual, just-off-the-beach charm. He was comfortable around couture designers and jewelers, but equally attentive to academics and journalists.
“Now, I can’t let either of you touch any of the jewels,” Lucia warned. “I know you’ve signed the paperwork and all the non-disclosures, but I just have to make that very clear.”
Kate nodded, then looked at the photographer.
/> He shrugged. “Sure,” he agreed.
Kate’s heart started to race as Lucia keyed in the code to enter the safe room. Who knew what stories she was about to uncover? When most people looked at a gemstone or a piece of jewelry they saw astonishing beauty and exquisite devotion from their creators. Love and hope. But her job as a historian was to look past the shimmer and try to work out how each piece was made—and, importantly, why. It was up to her to join the dots between the craftsman and the recipient. Sometimes she found a trail of broken hearts and betrayal. Even murder. It was a puzzle Kate never tired of trying to solve.
She took a deep breath to steady her pulse as she stepped into the vault. Her eyes jumped between three rows of tables covered with velvet displaying ribbons of enameled gold necklaces, to pools of sapphires and turquoise, from a row of gold buttons and diamond rings to the biggest emerald she’d ever seen, sitting atop a pedestal. The hairs on her forearms stood on end.
“Boom!” said Marcus as he entered the room with his camera bag. “I get how that person felt when they found the first uncut diamond rough glinting in the light. Gets me in the guts every time.”
“Me too,” said Kate as she steadied herself against the closest table with her hand. She didn’t dare admit that sometimes her first glimpse of a famous jewel she had longed to see could be disappointing. Like meeting Tom Cruise and discovering he was much smaller in real life. Or when David Beckham started to speak with a high-pitched voice. How could reality ever compete with the retouched glossy images presented to the world?
But there was no disappointment this time.
Saanvi shot Kate a knowing look and ushered her across to the far table. “Hard to believe this collection was buried sometime in the 1600s.” She waved at the enamel necklaces. “Those are pristine. They’d never have survived this long if they’d been worn. The enamel would have rubbed off, and the gold and jewels been sold or reworked and reset. If we start over here, I’ve laid out some of the pieces you requested. The rest are in the room we were just in for checking before they are packed back into storage. Here . . .”
Kate stepped to the edge of the velvet-draped table, angled the light, and leaned down using the eyepiece she pulled from her kit bag to study a pale cameo—a Byzantine pendant. The catalog image hadn’t prepared her for the soft drape of the robes, the repentant tilt of a head.
“White sapphire?”
“Yes. It’s St. Thomas. This taller figure with his hands raised is Jesus, proving to his apostle that he was nailed to the cross.”
“Then rose again.” Kate longed to run a finger across the relief of St. Thomas and the contours of the gold mount. Instead, she reached for her notebook and pen and started to take notes.
The Incredulity of St. Thomas—most famously painted by Caravaggio.
She paused . . .
Here, in the relief of a translucent sapphire, Kate felt witness to something intimate and tender.
Top of pendant is a single natural pearl—piety and hope.
Trust and devotion. Unconditional love and hope.
A talisman for someone to wear close to their heart?
She imagined the Byzantine jewelry workshop crammed between stalls selling squeaky white cheeses, lemon-scented honey cakes, toasted pistachios, and syrupy sweetmeats in front of the Great Palace in Constantinople. The lapidary craning over the gemstone in a sliver of light from his open window, whittling away the grooves with a tiny chisel and hammer to carve the hairline before polishing it on a stone wheel.
“Who’s that?” Marcus pointed at the teardrop pendant from the far side of the table as he set up his camera and spotlights.
“Doubting Thomas,” said Kate.
“Aren’t we all?” he quipped as he screwed a wide lens onto his camera. He’d angled the lights over the jewelry, and a dark shadow obscured his face. There were stress lines at his eyes and across his brow.
Kate turned back to her work and scribbled Doubting Thomas in her notebook, and circled it.
Doubt was never far from her shoulder. Each day she asked, “What if?” in essays and articles. Her life was consumed with questions of the past. Her ex, Jonathan, had said as much the day he’d left her for New Zealand two years ago. He’d decided to take a different path to healing—apparently Kate was no match for pristine mountains and endless fly-fishing.
“Katie,” he’d said with his typical surgeon’s plainspeak, “you spend all this time traveling around the world chasing other people’s stories. When you’re home, you’re hiding in that library wallowing in the past, looking at other people’s treasures. When are you going to look up?”
But Jonathan could never understand what a joy it was to spend hours deep in books and archives, studying precious jewels that whispered secrets from long ago.
At the opposite table was a trio of cameos made to be worn at the neck: a Florentine portrait; Queen Elizabeth in Spanish Armada–style; and an intricate carving of Aesop’s fable “The Dog and the Shadow.” These spoke of seventeenth-century London. Home to immigrants and traveling artisans and craftsmen who crisscrossed the oceans and traveled silk routes, laden with wooden chests and saddlebags filled with spices, seeds, and gold.
“Kate?” Marcus had finished setting up.
He stood in front of a cluster of emerald pieces gathered together, glinting and drawing the eye like a line of showgirls.
An emerald watch, a salamander brooch, and a parrot cameo. Saanvi picked up the salamander in her gloved hand and held it up under one of the spotlights. The creature had been picked out in circles of emeralds soldered together with gold links. Kate wanted to poke her fingers into the tiny mouth dotted with black enamel because she was certain she would feel teeth. The brooch was turned over to reveal twin curved pins to secure the salamander to a hat, and more flecks of black enamel on a white belly that looked like the finest strands of hair.
“The mystical creature who rose from the fire, the salamander,” said Saanvi.
Kate tilted her head. It was one of the collection’s most iconic pieces, five hundred years old, and yet she didn’t know what to make of it. It was trying to tell her something . . . but what?
Marcus pointed at the hexagonal emerald watch as big as a baby’s fist. “I’ll shoot this first. I’ve never seen an emerald so big. Is it Colombian?” he asked.
Saanvi nodded. “Muzo. I can’t believe this stone didn’t splinter when they carved out the inside for the watch. We think the watch parts could have been made and assembled in Geneva.”
Kate sucked in her breath. It was the most spectacular and audacious pairing of craftsmanship and imagination she was likely to see in her lifetime. If anybody ever asked her again why she worked as a jewelry historian, she’d simply point them to this exquisite emerald-cased watch. She copied the precise dimensions from Saanvi’s catalog and then jotted down some questions.
Was emerald cut in London? What cities would it have passed through?
Royalty or wealthy aristocrat?
The next display was a series of bejeweled enamel buttons, together with some enamel necklaces with flowers: roses, bluebells, and pansies.
Kate leaned over the last four buttons, gathered in a separate velvet box, and checked to see that Saanvi and Marcus were busy setting up the shot for the emerald watch. While the photographer moved to his bag to grab a different lens, she slipped the clear envelope with Essie’s sketches from the back of her notebook and held it beside the buttons.
“Where’d you get that picture?” asked Marcus as he came up behind Kate’s shoulder. “It’s the same button, isn’t it?”
Kate flinched and put her index finger to her lips as his eyes widened in recognition. She’d spent years trying to access these buttons at the museum, and the picture did appear to be similar to the jewels in front of her.
Essie—or whoever had drawn Essie’s pictures—had captured the likeness. The spirit. Kate imagined a line of these beauties down the back of a prim Elizabethan gown, or
used to tether a gentleman’s cape as it flew behind him atop a galloping horse. Her great-grandmother could have seen a button like this anywhere. There was no proof that Essie’s sketch was of a Cheapside button.
Marcus’s eyes flicked across to where Saanvi was setting up a shot in the lightbox, then to Kate as he sucked in his breath. He mouthed, “Sorry,” and raised an eyebrow.
Kate shrugged and slipped the image back into her notebook, hoping he would get the hint.
As Marcus left her standing beside the buttons, she realized that matching this picture to them didn’t prove a thing. The buttons were similar, that was all.
She glanced at the emerald watch and thought of Essie. Her great-grandmother had had the Irish gift of the gab and would sing Kate to sleep in her crib with wild tales of leprechauns and fairy queens. She spoon-fed her folklore and history with every mouthful of boiled potatoes and onions.
But Kate’s favorite was the tale of a mysterious man who bewitched Essie with his emerald eyes in Cheapside.
Chapter 3
Esther Murphy
LONDON, 1912
The jewels were discovered the same day Essie Murphy fell in love. She had her brother to thank for both, of course—though in the years to come she’d often wonder which one came first.
A buried bucket of jewels.
A man with emerald eyes.
The tale would become as much a part of her Irish folklore as Midir and Étaín. Cut and polished over the years, with the roughs tossed out with the sorrow, betrayal, and loss. No one would know it had begun as equal parts tragedy and romance.
That fateful morning, Essie had pulled the front door shut behind her and prayed her mother was drunk enough to remain in bed.
Freddie had left at dawn for his long walk to work. It was up to Essie to walk her sisters to school before she too started work.
Behind her, the little twins Flora and Maggie giggled as they sat on the front step. Gertie, who was older, bent down to fasten their laces, snatching their skinny ankles and saying, “Stop moving about or I’ll tie these laces together. See how far you’ll get!”
The Lost Jewels Page 2