The Lost Jewels

by Kirsty Manning

  Just as quickly as the thought arrived, she pushed it away. Her family were thieves. Any one of them could go to jail if Mr. Lawrence turned them in! Her stomach churned at the thought, but in her heart she felt Mr. Lawrence was a kind soul. Still, she remembered the notice from London’s town clerk in the newspaper wrapped around her kippers weeks ago.

  * * *

  When Essie returned home from her Saturday jaunts roaming the curved tree-lined streets and glossy front doors on the way to the Serpentine with Edward, she always made sure to slip a small bag of aniseed drops to the twins when Ma wasn’t looking. The Saturday before, she’d told Edward that Gertie had a fondness for reading, and as they passed a bookseller along Piccadilly Circus, he’d bought an illustrated copy of The Secret Garden.

  “It’s my sister’s favorite book,” he told Essie.

  “You shouldn’t. It’s too—”

  “You said Gertie was quite the artist; I thought she’d like it,” he said simply as he pressed it into Essie’s basket.

  When Ma had eyed her suspiciously as Essie presented the book wrapped up in brown paper and twine, Essie had lied, saying it was a gift from Mrs. Ruben.

  “For me?” Gertie’s face puckered with confusion as she turned the stiff new pages. “A new book,” she said dreamily. “Can you imagine a garden filled with overgrown vines and a wall so high that you could hide from the world? And from Ma!” she added in an undertone as she traced her fingers over watercolor leaves. “She’d never find me. Too hard for a drunk to—”

  “Gertie,” snapped Essie. “Enough!”

  “Why do you always stick up for her? How can you stand it?” Gertie looked at their mother, whose papery hands were shaking as she tried to unscrew the lid of her bottle.

  “Never heard of a Jew that liked giving presents,” muttered Ma as she took a swig from the bottle and sank into the threadbare armchair.

  Essie let her mother’s hurtful comments pass. If it wasn’t the Jews it was the Italians. The Poles. Whoever had failed to extend the credit and hand over a bottle of liquor that week. She didn’t discriminate with her bitterness, and there was nothing to be gained by laboring the point when her mother could barely stand upright and would not remember a word she’d said in the morning.

  Mrs. Yarwood was happy enough to look after the girls on a Saturday. In fact, she insisted on it, though just last week her eyes had narrowed a little as she quipped: “There’s a rosy flush about you of late, Miss Essie. It’s lovely to see you smiling.” She took a breath before her voice dropped and she whispered, “You deserve an occasional afternoon off, but be careful, lass.” She patted Essie’s hand and said nothing about Essie wearing her Sunday best to work on a Saturday.

  The trio of younger sisters enjoyed their Saturdays with Mrs. Yarwood, walking to the Borough Markets to buy soft loaves of bread and hard cheese. Sometimes they’d picnic on the bank of the Thames; other days they’d spend all afternoon in the cheery yellow kitchen preparing fancy meals from a secondhand cookbook Mrs. Yarwood had picked up at a local fair—slow-cooked beef cheeks in red wine and buttery mashed potatoes, pork chops in apple cider with strawberry trifle. Essie would arrive to collect her sisters and be forced to stay for a two-course feast they’d cooked, aprons tied around their waists and flour smeared across their cheeks and little noses.

  Gertie would write down the recipes for ham cooked in cider followed by a tart gooseberry jelly. One evening, when their lips were stained purple, she wrote down recipes for blackberry curd and blackberry jam.

  Today, Essie had arrived at the Yarwoods’ a little earlier and the kitchen was filled with steam and the tangy scent of lemon. As Mrs. Yarwood dictated, Gertie was writing out the recipe for a cough mixture:

  2 spoons honey

  pinch of thyme leaves

  ground peppercorns

  squeeze of lemon (fresh)

  (Add to boiling tea, or water)

  Essie closed her eyes and pressed her hand to the cheek Edward had kissed as he bid her farewell. It had been only the briefest of pecks, but as he leaned close the scent of his soap and freshly laundered shirt had mingled with the muskier smell of his skin. She’d wanted to trace the tip of her finger across his red lips, then across the top of his collar before touching the ribbons of muscle she imagined ran down his back.

  “I’m sorry, Essie. You’re blushing . . .” he’d said as he stepped back.

  But Essie wanted him to stay close, and it took all her willpower to ignore the beating in her ribs and the strange heat that rose under her dress.

  She yearned for more time with Edward. The first few times they’d met Essie had worried that it might be imprudent to see him without a chaperone. But Edward was always so respectful that her mother’s slurred words of warning as she lay smeared in chicken shit and mud started to resonate a little less. This was different. Her mother couldn’t possibly understand. Bad luck and bad choices had curdled Clementine until she was sour.

  Essie looked at the last of the afternoon light streaming in through the kitchen window, then across at Mrs. Yarwood bent over the kitchen table, reciting recipes to Gertie and rubbing the twins’ backs as she spoke with a voice as smooth as honey. The Yarwoods’ home had an easiness; there was a gentle rhythm to life there. The patterns of their days were unchanging. It was a steady home filled with love, laughter, and endless cakes and jams.

  The kind of loving home Essie dreamed of making for herself. The more she saw Edward, the more she craved his company.

  That night, as Gertie slept, Essie eased the notebook out from underneath her sister’s elbow and turned to a blank page at the back where she permitted herself to write:

  Mrs. Edward Hepplestone

  Mr. Edward and Mrs. Esther Rose Hepplestone

  As soon as she wrote it, Essie ripped the page out and used a match to burn it, holding the tip of the corner so as not to scorch her fingers, and watched the ash flutter to the floor.

  Chapter 17

  Kate

  GALLE, SRI LANKA, PRESENT DAY

  To: kkirby@outnet.com

  From: sophie.shaw@shawandsons.co.uk

  Subject: YOU OWE ME

  The subject line made Kate smile; it was typical Sophie.

  Kate was sitting at her hotel room desk making a start on her Cheapside article after an afternoon stroll around Galle. Her walk had taken her along potholed streets crammed with crumbling Portuguese churches, elegant Dutch villas, and British warehouses smothered with bougainvillea that offered glimpses back to the days when ships sailed into port, gathering precious spices, dyes, ebony, rubies, and sapphires.

  She glanced at her own sapphires, sitting on the bedside table . . .

  Marcus had booked separate suites for them on opposite sides of the hotel. Kate’s looked over an infinity pool to the Indian Ocean, and she preferred to write with the plantation shutters open. The humid air that crept into her air-conditioned room was infused with the scents of salt water, sambal, and antique teak furniture.

  She took a sip of her tea and looked out the window to where Olivia and Marcus were sharing an oversize deck chair. Liv shared Marcus’s athletic gait, surfer’s shiny, tousled hair, and easy smile. The eighteen-year-old seemed delightfully untroubled by her father’s introduction of a colleague into their father-daughter getaway at the airport that morning. Perhaps she was used to it.

  “Pleased to meet you, Kate. Dad told me you’re a historian.” Olivia had smiled as she shook Kate’s hand, a little shyer now. “I’ve got exams coming up. I wish I had your ease with old texts—Shakespeare and Austen are killing me. Seriously!”

  “We could chat about them sometime. Which Shakespeare?”

  “Taming of the Shrew.”

  “Feisty!”

  “Is there any other kind of Kate?” chipped in Marcus, amused, as he grabbed Olivia’s backpack from the luggage carousel.

  Now, Liv’s coltish leg was draped over her father’s foot, jittering as she excitedly explained something,
hands gesturing wildly to the sky. Kate wished she could bottle the Australian’s exuberance.

  On the plane from Hyderabad, Marcus had explained before watching a movie that Liv’s mother, Julia—his ex-wife—had remarried an athletic auditor fifteen years ago. Liv had ten-year-old twin half brothers, Jack and Harry, whom she adored.

  “I was always traveling for work, leaving Jules in Sydney with a colicky toddler. I didn’t realize . . . I was young and naive.” He grimaced ruefully. “It was hard on her. Unfair. I thought the work would give us stability, a future . . .” He sighed. “So stupid! I should have been there. Helped more. The irony is, once we split I spent way more time with Liv. Taught her to ride a bike and sail. I spend at least two months in Sydney every year over summer. When I’m away we Skype a few times a week. The past couple of years we’ve tried to squeeze a trip in at least once a year. It’s harder to find the time, though, now that her life is so busy! Musical rehearsals, rowing camps, exams, a party, weekends with friends. Boys!” He shook his head in mock horror. “Dad has dropped waaay down the list.”

  “Sounds like a normal teenager. And Julia? Are you . . .” Kate stopped. It was none of her business whether or not Marcus was on good terms with his ex.

  “Jules and I are good. Andrew’s a great guy. He’s kind, and really supportive of Liv. They live in an old sandstone cottage with a wide veranda overlooking the harbor. Jules teaches yoga at a studio she can walk to. She got the life she deserves.” Marcus had shrugged resignedly as he tapped the screen to choose a movie, conversation over.

  Kate watched Marcus throw back his head and laugh at something his daughter had said. He was lucky to have maintained such a close bond with Olivia, she thought.

  She smiled as she clicked open Sophie’s email.

  Kate,

  Hope you enjoyed the party!

  That image of the Colombian emerald with the Swiss watch inside, then your Golconda diamond, got me thinking . . . Remember the visiting tutor who mentioned this watch in his lecture about emeralds from Muzo, Colombia?

  Kate looked up to see that Marcus and Liv were in the pool now, laughing as they tried to dunk each other. Liv’s skin was brown and smooth—like Julia’s, according to Marcus—but father and daughter shared a high forehead, square jaw, and easy laugh.

  Marcus glanced up at Kate’s window and waved. “You coming for a dip?”

  “In a bit,” she called back. “Sophie Shaw from Shaw & Sons got a lead on one of the pieces. I’ll finish reading her email then come out.”

  “You’re missing out,” said Olivia as she dived under the turquoise water.

  Kate smiled and went back to Sophie’s email, which was as scattershot as when her friend told a story over a beer.

  Anyway, there was a big trial with the East India Company. (You were too hungover to pay attention to this last bit, if I recall.)

  I spent the afternoon at the Parliamentary Archives scrolling through rolls of transcribed legal documents. The original depositions are on thirty rolls of skins which they won’t let me near, which is a shame. I asked to copy a couple of bits, which I’ve attached. There’re also a whole bunch of logbooks and diaries of the East India Company at the British Library. I went and copied some pages, if you’re interested . . . and have half a year to read them!

  You’re welcome.

  Soph xx

  P.S. Don’t be all work in Sri Lanka.

  Kate clicked on the attachment. Sophie had sent the official complaint summarized for the London court.

  28 April 1637

  Gerhard Polman, gem merchant and jeweller, after traversing many countries in search of precious stones . . . in the year 1631 put himself on board an English East Indiaman in Persia on his way home. He had with him a large collection of gems and precious stones, collected during the previous thirty years.

  On the homeward voyage Polman was poisoned by Abraham Porter, surgeon of the East Indiaman, and his goods were divided among the crew of the ship. The crime becoming known, parts of his estate ultimately came into the hands of the East India Company . . .

  Kate scrolled through the transcripts Sophie had sent. It appeared the ship’s crew had killed Polman a couple of weeks out of Mauritius, tore his clothes off and tossed the naked body overboard. They had then helped themselves to bagfuls of jewels and gemstones and snuck ashore at Gravesend before the Discovery reached London. But why was Sophie sure there was a connection to the collection in the Museum of London?

  She continued reading through an inventory of Polman’s chest and cross-checked it with Saanvi’s precise catalog from the museum. There were leather pouches packed with the clearest diamonds, turquoise, and natural pearls from Persia—pawned and resold along Cheapside. Kate found herself flipping between the testimonies, her notebook, and Saanvi’s catalog. So many of the rings and gemstones sounded similar to those in the Polman trial. The East India Company had ended up retrieving some of the jewels.

  But nobody could be certain all the precious pieces that circulated through the hands of the gem cutters and jewelers along Goldsmiths’ Row in Cheapside were ever retrieved.

  Kate trawled through the list until she hit a description that made her heart beat a little faster: a greene rough stone or emerald three inches long and three inches in compass. She did a quick calculation in her head and looked at the dimensions of the watch in her notebook. To achieve all the facets of a hexagon, the rough would have had to have been this size. Emeralds were notoriously full of flaws, and often crumbled at the first cut by a lapidary—it was unusual for an emerald so large to survive such an intense transformation. Her admiration for the artisans who crafted the watch swelled.

  Kate sat back and read over the trial testimonies . . . a man murdered for a green stone.

  She replied:

  Thanks, Soph, amazing work. IOU big time. Love to see any diary entries of the Discovery crew.

  K x

  Then she clicked back to her own document and moved her cursor down to the section on the emerald watch and added in a couple of sentences. When she was done, Kate took a sip from the teacup that sat by her right hand. Though now cold, the white tea was delicious and tangy. As she refilled her cup from the rapidly cooling pot, another email from Sophie arrived. Her friend was a machine.

  To: kkirby@outnet.com

  From: sophie.shaw@shawandsons.co.uk

  Subject: Diary of Robert Parker, SS Discovery, 1631

  She scanned the facsimiles of the diary pages, seeking any personal clues that might link Gerhard Polman’s emerald with the watch in London.

  20 April 1631

  I’ve been long enough in the bowels of a ship to know what I am supposed to yearn for on land. And it is true enough. I can’t think of the last time I touched skin, except on the receiving end of a slap across the cheek from the surgeon, or a kick from the carpenter.

  It’s my job to deliver a draught of beer and plate of salted meat and cheese to the Dutchman’s cabin every night. The look on his face tells me he misses the jewelled yellow rice covered with pomegranate seeds and chunks of grilled meats as much as I do.

  I’m the only one he permits in his cabin. He sits at his desk all day polishing blue, red, and clear stones, setting them into rings and buttons. Yesterday his desk had twenty score pouches of pearls and cloth bags filled with gemstones that I thought his cabin was afire!

  He unwrapped the large emerald and allowed me to touch the green stone. It felt eerie, both a blessing and a curse.

  Afterward, the Dutchman pulled a clear rough from a leather pouch hanging around his neck and held it under the lamplight. His voice was soft, reverent. As if the rough he held was magic. I felt it too. For though the stone was unpolished, when I looked inside it glowed warm with the lamplight. He whispered that this diamond rough was from Golconda . . .

  As her fingers ran over the museum catalog, tracing Robert Parker’s shaky script, she went back to the article she was writing and wrote a new line. When she’d finis
hed, she sent the last paragraph off to Sophie for comment before her thoughts returned to the black-and-white ring. It was entirely possible the Golconda diamond had traveled from India to Persia then on to London in one of Polman’s leather pouches.

  Outside, she saw that Marcus had climbed out of the pool and now stood toweling himself under the shade of a palm. He called out something to Liv about having a shower before dinner, but she ignored him and kicked underwater to the end of the pool. As he bent over, Kate noticed a thick pink scar slicing his back and continuing over his shoulder blade. It disappeared as soon as he straightened.

  Oblivious to her gaze, Marcus was watching Olivia, a proud smile on his face. Kate worried a dark knot in the grain of her desk with her forefinger. The tenderness of his look unspooled a hurt deep in her stomach, but also threads of something else. Something . . . happier.

  Kate’s computer pinged. It was a reply from Sophie.

  Nice work! Now go get yourself a martini by the pool.

  Kate snapped her laptop closed and walked outside.

  * * *

  Kate and Marcus sat beside the pool. They’d finished the last of the sour fish curry and had resumed work on their laptops. Liv had joined them for dinner but had disappeared to study an hour ago.

  “Another beer?” asked Marcus as he signaled to the waiter.

  Kate leaned back in her chair and stretched languorously. “Why not?” she replied as she plucked her tank top from her damp skin at the shoulders and tucked some escapee curls back into her ponytail. Her thick Irish curls were not compatible with the humidity. She wiped her forehead and took a moment to admire the silvery moonlight reflected on the ocean.

  The beers arrived and she pressed hers to her neck, savoring the coolness of the glass against her skin. The heavy air was sweetened with frangipani.

  “Boston’s going to be a hard sell after this,” she joked. But even as she said it, it felt like the waves were tugging at her to come home. She missed her family.

  When Kate looked back at Marcus, his eyes met hers over the top of his screen. But his face no longer wore an easy smile; instead, his expression was darkened by shadows, eyes filled with despair.