2 Priceless

by Marne Davis Kellogg

  She smiled. “I’ll miss your roses.”

  “I’ll send them up regularly.”

  “Good. I’ll like that.”

  They had stopped in front of a plain white satin ball gown with a pleated décolletage and elbow-length sleeves. Wide bands of seed pearls and brilliants circled the cuffs and hem. The gown’s attendant regalia was so complicated, it required two tables to hold it all.

  “So beautiful in Sussex,” she said, and picked up a five-inch-tall diamond tiara, each of its five points punctuated with a large emerald. The scrolls and festoons of its design were so intricate it almost looked like a crown of starched lace. “’May’s best tiara;” she said. “That’s what Grandfather called it.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “This is for Delhi.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I haven’t seen the whole parure assembled for over forty years. It’s quite breathtaking, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed. There is nothing else like it.”

  Lilibet picked up the emerald-and-diamond necklace with its negligée of diamond-and-emerald pendants of unequal lengths.

  “Granny quite moved heaven and earth to get these pieces assembled, didn’t she?”

  “And”—Bradford’s eyes sparkled—“it’s said she cracked a few skulls in the process, as well.”

  They shared a little laugh.

  She studied the necklace. “I’m not sure I want to take it with me—not sure it should leave the country” She turned to him. “Perhaps I should take the copies.”

  Bradford shook his head. “Don’t worry, ma’am. They will be well looked after. You haven’t made a tour like this for many years. It requires such a show.”

  “I know you’re right. As usual.” She replaced the piece lovingly in its velvet case. “I wonder if it will really be my last, my farewell tour.”

  “I rather doubt it, but it will be stupendous, a royal tour of all the Empire’s former colonies. It will be a grand time—practically all of Africa. When was the last time you were in Kenya? Or South Africa and Mozambique?” As he spoke, he stacked up the individual cases that held the parure—except for the tiara, which had its own traveling box—and carried them to their designated transport safe. He kept his back to her as he set the jewel cases in the trunk and swiftly replaced their contents with strings of marbles he’d stashed in the trunk earlier. The original pieces slipped into his pocket more smoothly and quickly than the eye could see—at least an old, trusting eye, like Elizabeth’s—tumbling silently into a nest of shredded cotton. “I understand the people in the Seychelles have planned a parade around all the islands! India, Australia, Hong Kong, Canada, a state dinner at the White House. Oh, my It will be positively majestic. A true ’Progress,’ ma’am.”

  “More majestic if you were along to make sure everything goes just so.” She was starting to sound a little peevish.

  “Now, ma’am, we’ve been over this before. All will be meticulously looked after by Michael. I’ve seen to that.”

  Bradford and Elizabeth were well trained—possibly the best trained people in the world—in the art of keeping their emotions under complete control at all times. And he gave no indication that not only was he impatient with her growing petulance but he was also concerned that she would change her mind and insist he come along. She certainly had the power to do so and he’d seen her impose her will more than once. This was no time to slip up, no matter how difficult the good-bye. They moved to the next table.

  He picked up a sapphire blue evening suit and held it up in front of her. ’This is the most perfect color. It is exactly the color of madam’s eyes. Just beautiful.”

  She smiled.

  “It’s to be worn at the state dinner in Cape Town.” A black leather jewel case with a faded blue velvet custom-molded lining sat open on the table. “I thought the Lesser Stars would be the right touch.”

  “Brilliant. You always think of the right thing. Michael won’t be able to think of this sort of refinement.” There was the tone again, getting close to a whine.

  “Oh, ma’am, that’s not true,” Bradford reassured her, hiding his irritation at the bead of sweat that rolled down the back of his neck from beneath his toupee. “He’s much more of a history buff and protocol expert than I.”

  “Hmmm,” she said skeptically. “We shall see. I don’t believe they’ve been back to South Africa since they left.” She picked up the simple unadorned brooch, one diamond above the other. With their combined carat-weight of 158, the Lesser Stars of Africa—the Cullinans III and IV—were so enormous they didn’t require any dressing up. “I never wear them and they’re so magnificent.” She gently placed the diamonds back in their case where they smoldered from the velvet like briquette-sized coals.

  “Yes, madam.” Bradford checked his watch. Her musing was beginning to put them behind schedule.

  They continued their circuit, with Bradford naming each outfit and pointing out each suite of accessories and accompanying jewelry, and then, in a ceremony as old as time, she watched as he latched and locked each jewel case and melted a large disk of wax across the rim sealing the safe shut. Together they pressed their signet rings into the soft red seal. Once the wax had cooled and hardened, Bradford zipped the cases into anonymous, tightly fitted khaki canvas covers, turning them into ordinary-looking luggage.

  It was time to say good-bye. Lilibet faced him from a proper distance. She kept her hands folded in front of her.

  “How long have you been with me?”

  “Over thirty years, madam. I was only twenty-three when I joined your household staff.”

  She shook her head. “It seems like yesterday.” Her eyes took him in—his frail countenance, and wonderful bright eyes behind his tortoiseshell bifocals, eyes that never missed a thing. The expensive dark brown toupee.

  “I shall miss you, my Bradford Quittle.”

  He bowed deeply. “It has been my honor and privilege to serve Your Majesty.”

  She turned and left the room.

  Shortly, Bradford rang for the guards to take the boxes to Norfolk Airport, where they would travel in their own unmarked business jet to Cape Town, the first stop on the queen’s farewell tour of the Commonwealth.

  O N E

  “Kick?” Thomas’s back was to me as he stooped to toss another log and a bouquet of dried lavender onto the fire.

  “Yes?”

  “We need your help on something.” He put his hand on the small of his back and straightened himself with a slight wince before turning to look at me, his bright blue eyes serious above his black-rimmed reading glasses.

  It was wintertime in Provence and we were sitting in our living room, sipping hot cider laced with rum, and enjoying a rare snowstorm that hid the valley and Les Alpilles, the Little Alps, behind a wall of whirling white. Lamps on the side tables and my long book table beneath the picture window cast a warm glow silhouetting the drinks tray and stacks of books against the starkness outside. The bookcases on the far wall were in shadows but above the mantel, a small light illuminated my most treasured painting, La Polonaise Blancheby Renoir—skaters whirling on a pond in an almost pink snowstorm. Our Westie, Bijou, was curled up on the cut-stone hearth, sound asleep, a fluffy little indoor snowball unconcerned by the change in weather and uninterested in anything not directly related to her stomach or her comfort.

  “‘We’?” I said, feeling a little like the dog, fully enjoying the snugness of my champagne-and-salmon paisley armchair and ottoman, and the cozy softness of my cashmere warm-up suit and the persimmon cashmere throw over my legs. It was absolutely heavenly, and I was unreceptive to anything that might mar this perfect day “That sounds rather regal, Thomas. Are the snow and cold making you homesick for England? Missing the royal ‘we’?”

  “Well, in fact it is the royal we.” He swept fallen bits of bark and spattered coals back into the fire before replacing the iron screen. He rubbed his hands together.

  “Of course it is, darling.�
�� I returned to my needlepoint, a pale yellow canvas covered with bright red cherries with their stems and a few leaves attached here and there. I thought it would make an apt addition to the chaise in our bedroom.

  Some people have pillows scattered around their houses that say things like “Chocolate is Life.” Or “If You’re Going to Run Away from Home, Please Take Me with You.” Or “Give Me the Luxuries of Life—It’s the Necessities I Can Do Without.” A statement I can relate to fully. But the fact is, I’m not a talking- pillow kind of woman. I’m more interested in subtleties and refinements, in living the message, not talking about it. Living a life, not intending to. I loved the cherries because, in fact, our life was a bowl of them. What a thing to be able to say after decades of running and hiding and lying. I’ve finally arrived at the safe harbor I pictured all those dozens of years ago. But interestingly, I’d never imagined a lover, a husband, a partner, a friend as a part of that vision, but here he was. My Thomas.

  If people knew what a completely unlikely couple we are, they would never believe it.

  “I’m not joking, Kick.” There was an attention-getting sharpness to his voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We need your help. It’s serious and highly confidential.”

  “All right, Thomas.” I put down my sewing and sat up a little straighter. I was an expert at confidentiality. I have more secrets than the Sphinx. You don’t get to be the greatest jewel thief in history by blabbing what you know. Correction: the greatest retiredjewel thief in history. “Tell me what it is.”

  Thomas, one of Scotland Yard’s most distinguished, highly decorated, and revered inspectors, also claims to be retired, but things keep cropping up here and there, assignments, secret calls. All very hush-hush. I don’t care for it.

  “The queen has a problem.”

  It was my turn to look at him over my reading glasses. “The queen? And she needs myhelp?”

  Thomas nodded. “She does,” he paused. “I do.”

  I studied his face. “I think you’ve had too much rum, my darling sweetheart, or else we need to go to the sun for a rest.”

  Being married, which I was very new to, is an extremely complicated affair. You make a number of serious promises, and if you want to keep a rich and honest relationship—honesty being something I was new to as well—you can’t just say and do whatever you want, whenever you want. So I bit the inside of my lip to keep from saying no. Absolutely not. Whatever it is, I’m not interested. Find someone else.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Thomas retrieved my mug and took it to the cocktail tray, which he’d set on top of stacks of art and antiquities auction catalogues. “Just let me tell you about it.”

  He measured double tots of rum and poured them into our mugs and then dropped a spoonful of clove-scented butter into each. Then he added a small splash of steaming cider from a stainless steel electric pot that simmered away atop a massive volume of Impressionists that no one had looked inside of for years. He replaced the cinnamon sticks with fresh ones and stirred absent-mindedly. The silence was deafening.

  There was a small—I might even say smug—smile on his lips when he brought me my drink. “Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, and then circled the coffee table and sat down opposite me on the matching ottoman. He took a slows sip of the steaming rum, placed his mug deliberately on the table, and then examined his hands, as though he were considering whether or not to have a manicure.

  “Thomas, if all of this pedantic pondering is some sort of police tactic designed to make suspects crack and spill the beans, as I believe you all call it, it’s extremely impressive, and I thank you for sharing it with me. Now, kindly say whatever it is you have on your mind or pick up your book and read, because you’re coming very close to ruining my perfect day”

  “Sorry.” He grinned and put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and stared deeply into my eyes as though he were searching for something. I suspected, deep down, he was wondering if he could trust me.

  “Thomas. I’m going to count to ten.”

  “There’s been a robbery,” he finally said. “Some of the queen’s jewels are missing.”

  T W O

  I’d be lying if I said that my skin and scalp didn’t buzz up a bit at the mention of the word “robbery” in conjunction with the words “the queen’s jewels.” My heart skipped a beat or two. Like any addict, I had to remind myself almost on a daily basis that I was no longer a thief. I was rehabilitated. I was out of the business.

  “Oh?” I said with as much disinterest as I could muster.

  “The items vanished on the first leg of her world tour.”

  I squeezed my lips shut to keep from asking what was missing.

  “A number of Significant pieces are gone.” Thomas pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and scrutinized it. “Let me see. I’m not sure exactly what these pieces are—you might have heard of them. The Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure … ”

  “Par-rheur,” I corrected him. I worked to keep my voice steady The emerald-and-diamond parure was one of the rarest and most beautiful ensembles of the queen’s collection.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s pronounced par-rheur. A parure is a set of five pieces: tiara, necklace, earrings, bracelet and brooch, or in the case of the Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure, a stomacher.” I touched my head, neck, ears, wrist, and bosom as I said each item. “And I seriously doubt the queen would take the entire set out of the country at the same time—they’re far too valuable and no one’s seen that fantastically tall gingerbread tiara in almost a hundred years.”

  “I see. Thank you.” He ignored my patronization and returned to the list. “And something called the Lesser Stars of Africa.”

  My mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”

  “Completely.”

  “Granny’s Chips?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s what King George called them because they’re chips off the Cullinan.”

  Thomas was expressionless.

  “The largest diamond ever discovered,” I said. “Over three thousand carats. Ringing any bells?”

  “Your point being?”

  “My point, Thomas,” I said indignantly, “is that it’s the single most valuable piece the queen owns. It’s made of the Cullinans Three and Four. I mean, good heavens. This is outrageous. How on earth did such a thing happen? It must have been a family member or one of her servants.”

  “Quite.”

  “Who discovered they were missing?”

  “If I may proceed.” Thomas was so dogmatic—heaven forbid one should veer off the course of process, but naturally that was what had made him such a gifted detective—I could tell he was becoming irritated with all my questions. “When the queen got to Cape Town on the first stop of her tour, a number of the jewel boxes were stuffed with marbles packed in cotton.”

  “And she’s asked you to help?”

  “Well.” Thomas couldn’t help but preen. He had an ego the size of the Taj Mahal, which, of course, was one of the reasons I loved him so. His self-confidence was absolutely impenetrable. “There is precedent. I’ve worked covertly in the queen’s service from time to time and I have pulled off some fairly major coups in my career. Besides, she’d rather not have this made public. If she were to call in Scotland Yard, word would inevitably get out.”

  “I’m beginning to understand. By major coups, I assume you’re referring to our ’Millennium Star Affair.’” I held up my fingers to emphasize the quotation marks. “For which you received all the credit while I did all the leg work.”

  Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t give him a chance.

  “Please don’t get me wrong, darling. I’m delighted you received the accolades. You know how crucial anonymity is to me, but I’ve got the picture: she thinks you’re the one who recovered the Millennium Star, and if you could do it once, you could do it again.”

 
Thomas colored. “She’s based her judgment on that as well as other services I’ve performed exclusively for her in the past. But all that’s beside the point in this particular instance. The point is, I’m now far too visible a personality to take on any sort of clandestine work—everyone knows who I am … ”

  “Really, Thomas. That’s one of the things I love about you – you’re so humble and self-effacing.”

  He gave me an almost impish smile of acknowledgment and appreciation. “ … so I thought perhaps we could work together—something inside the law for a change of pace.”

  I caught the twinkle in his eye. “Where do you think they are?”

  “I’m not one hundred percent certain where they are but we are fairly confident about who has them. The queen’s personal footman, Bradford Quittle, retired, in good standing I must add, when she left on the tour, and vanished. He has recently been spotted in the company of Constantin.”

  “You mean King Constantin?”

  “No, I mean the opera singer.”

  “Oh. How disappointing. It would be so much more interesting if it were the king of Greece.” There was always such backstabbing and skullduggery going on amongst the royal families over their possessions, most especially their jewels, it had practically taken on the characteristics of a sport. And in spite of the fact that I’d retired, I would have loved to get in the middle of one of those notorious royal squabbles.

  For instance, much of the queen’s current collection is thanks to her grandmother, Queen Mary, who could spot an opportunity when she saw it and drive as hard a bargain as the most skillful rug trader. When her cousins, the desperate and beleaguered remainder of the Romanoff family, escaped the revolution and staggered into Sweden without tuppence to their name (but with much of the royal jewelry sewn into their hems and hats) and asked Queen Mary to care for them, give them sanctuary—naturally she agreed. They were, after all, family. But there were conditions, of course, though reasonable ones: they’d have to pay for their room and board with whatever they could muster, which of course turned out to be their best jewelry, which they grudgingly handed over because they had no choice. Today, many of those old Russian jewels comprise some of the most fabulous pieces in the current queen’s collection, a fact that still rankles what’s left of the disenfranchised, disinherited, disenchanted, and discombobulated Romanoffs to this day.