The Stuart Sapphire

by Alanna Knight

  Henry was present and Tam observed that he too looked less than happy. He summoned a weak smile and, after a polite question regarding Tam’s recovery, he came to the point of the interview, and bowing to his father he said:

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to give an account of our journey to His Royal Highness—’

  That one swift glance at the prince’s grim expression suggested to Tam that Henry’s return and his tale of the misadventures with the highwaymen had not been well received. Was that nervous gesture of dismissal of the subject one of guilt?

  His suspicions however were wrong. In fact it was doubtful if the prince heard more than the first sentence of Henry’s account.

  Tam had been summoned for quite a different reason.

  There had been a second disaster.

  It had been a terrible evening.

  Since pressures of age-old daily domestic routine concerning bed linen, fires and so forth in the royal apartments could not be ignored indefinitely, the prince had forced himself to return to his bedroom and remove all traces of the marchioness’s presence.

  That included the jewellery she had worn. The task filled him with distaste and loathing. To lay his hands on the glittering jewels in their untidy heap on the small table was to touch cold stones fouled by death.

  Replacing them in their individual caskets, only one remained empty.

  The box which contained the Stuart Sapphire, the marchioness’s favourite adornment, always her first choice for decoration before their lovemaking. With a shudder he remembered that only yesterday he had clasped the jewel held by a belt of diamonds about her slender waist.

  He looked around, fell awkwardly on his knees and scrabbled under the bed. Perhaps the sapphire had slipped off unnoticed and rolled away when Mr Eildor helped him steady the table. It was not there and he sat back on his heels reeling in horror from the full significance of the missing jewel.

  Eagerly he had awaited Henry’s return, dismissing the events of the journey in a casual manner that quite shocked the young man. Henry had expected praise, dramatic sighs. Instead it seemed as if the prince had already forgotten all about the murdered marchioness and that bizarre carriage ride to return her body to Lewes.

  Or, as it transpired, its tumble down an embankment for someone else to make the gruesome discovery, at a safe distance from any association with her recent fatal visit to the Pavilion. Known to be eccentric in her habits, perhaps some member of the marquis’s staff would come up with a satisfactory explanation of why she was naked under her furs.

  But that was no longer of the least concern or interest to the prince, and Henry found himself instead of receiving praise and adulation for his brilliant idea, being bombarded with questions about the missing jewel.

  It was all very trying. Over and over he tried to listen politely, repeating no, he had not seen the Stuart Sapphire when he and Percy were preparing the marchioness for transport. She was wearing only her own pearls, and her cloak had no pockets, he pointed out tactfully.

  Too late, the prince realised, it had never occurred to him that dreadful morning, with so many horrors on his mind, to check that no jewels were missing.

  What about Mr Eildor? Was it possible that he stole it? Possible but hardly likely. Only someone who knew its value would have taken it. A thief would have taken one of the glittering diamonds. And again the prince groaned, tapping his fingers in an agitated rhythm on the arm of his chair.

  What of Percy, he demanded. Was he to be trusted? Was that the answer?

  Henry was shocked. ‘Percy is your most devoted and most loyal servant, Sire. Such a theft by him is beyond belief.’

  ‘Is it now?’ And the prince wagged his head sagely. ‘But there could be other issues at stake, political issues in the making that we know nothing about. When that is the case, even the most trusted servants are not beyond bribery, we can assure you.’

  Pausing he sighed heavily. ‘Indeed, we might even stretch a point to include those nearest in blood,’ he added darkly at which Henry, outraged by a suspicion that the royal glance also included him in this vile category, felt dangerously near to tears.

  But he was safe. The prince groaned, struggled up from his chair to pace the floor.

  The Stuart Sapphire, the most valuable, the most precious of the royal jewels was missing. Already the thought was looming in the back of his mind, whoever stole it had also murdered the marchioness.

  ‘It has to be found. Has to,’ he said. ‘The future of England is imperilled. Don’t you see?’

  Henry didn’t see. His feelings had been hurt and he decided that the prince was indulging in a slight exaggeration and that the future of his own reputation would have struck a truer note.

  Then he had another of his brainwaves.

  Perhaps Providence had meant that Tam Eildor should not have been eliminated and that he should survive the disastrous accident on the Lewes road. Perhaps Providence in the unlikely shape of the Prince Regent intended him for higher things, this Edinburgh lawyer who was used to investigating criminal activities.

  ‘Sire, I have an idea,’ he said.

  And so it was that Tam found himself listening to the story of the stolen jewel, which included the origins of the Stuart Sapphire from the Crown of Scotland. Part of King James the Sixth’s baggage when he became James I of England in 1603, Prince George would wear it when he was crowned King George IV.

  An event, considering the condition of his poor mad father, that was hopefully not too distant, and the prince was already well-rehearsed in the bliss of that future scene, proudly seeing himself wearing the Stuart Sapphire, together with the diamond saltire worn by Charles I at his Scottish coronation in 1633, and inherited by his ill-fated great-grandson Bonnie Prince Charles Edward Stuart who wore it on his return to Britain from exile in 1745.

  Both the Old Pretender, James II, and his son the Young Pretender had passed into history, the Jacobite cause lost forever on the battlefield of Culloden in 1746, leaving disappointed Scotsmen to murmur over their whisky and toast the King over the Water while the Stuart Sapphire passed into the hands of the last surviving son of James I.

  Henry, Duke of York, styled by his supporters King Henry IX, was not only a cardinal but unlike many of his saintly colleagues, Henry practised the morality he preached and thus childless, the Jacobite claim to the British throne perished with him in 1806. At the time of his death he was receiving a generous pension of £4,000 from the English Crown, and as a mark of gratitude King George was offered the Stuart Sapphire.

  ‘It has to be found – immediately! There is not a moment to lose!’ the prince ranted on while Tam listened patiently having decided, rather triumphantly, that he now had the vital clue as to why the marchioness was murdered. Logically it had to be for possession of this particular jewel, since diamonds, emeralds and rubies, more valuable in monetary terms, had been ignored.

  With the reason for the crime, all Tam needed now was the killer’s identity. Logic immediately suggested someone inside the Pavilion, familiar with the prince’s intimate habits and his daily routine.

  Would that hopefully narrow down the list of suspects? he wondered, as the prince continued: ‘I have already sent for John Townsend, our good friend and a marvellous thief-taker. He has been with the Bow Street Runners for thirty years and knows all the tricks of the trade. However, his arrival may take a day or two and we cannot afford to lose any time over this urgent matter.’

  Pausing he looked at Tam intently. ‘As a lawyer we believe you to have some knowledge in the matter of criminal-taking.’

  Before Tam could think of a suitable response, the prince added as an afterthought: ‘As you may require a certain amount of money to make matters more effective, we will provide you with suitable coinage. It is our wish in the absence of John Townsend and, until he arrives, that you abandon your plans to continue your journey and remain here in Brighton. You may proceed with the investigation tomorrow morning.’

&nb
sp; Tam bowed. For ‘wish’, he had already read ‘command’.

  Chapter Eleven

  Much to his surprise, perhaps assisted by the remaining contents of the jug of wine by his bedside, Tam slept soundly, untroubled by either his multiple bruises sustained in the carriage accident or the future of his time-quest. In particular, how he was to return to his own time by the exact same spot at which he had entered the world of Regency Brighton.

  He was awakened by the curtains being drawn, the bright sun of another pleasant summer morning, with birds singing lustily in the garden and the silent footman bearing breakfast on a tray. In his train was a servant carrying the cleaned, repaired and generally restored clothes Tam had been wearing as he leapt out of the carriage hurtling down the embankment on the Lewes Road.

  Realising that he would have been as helpless to deal with shaving via an open razor as an old-fashioned sword, with results no doubt equally catastrophic, he was greatly relieved by the appearance of a valet bearing warm towels who, bowing, indicated that this task would be his to perform.

  Tam accepted gladly and, admiring the man’s dexterity, he was soon shaved and dressed, giving some thought meanwhile to where he should begin his investigations into the missing Stuart Sapphire. Weighing the light contents of the purse he had received from the Prince Regent, about two guineas in coin, he calculated that it was enough to provide food and so forth around Brighton for a few days, but certainly quite inadequate to continue that mythical journey into London he had invented. Or, more important, to get him back along the coast to where the dreaded hulks were moored.

  This meagre recompense for his services suggested a shrewd assurance that he was neatly trapped or detained during His Royal Highness’s pleasure, a sinister overtone. However, it did not take much imagination to realise that the Stuart Sapphire would no longer be in the Pavilion precincts. Whoever had killed the marchioness to obtain it would have decided it prudent not to linger, and at this moment the jewel might be changing hands in London and lost forever to its royal owner.

  Remembering his conversation with Beau Brummell, it occurred to Tam that the thief might have in mind a purchaser close to the royal circle, someone who knew its value in the thriving underworld that had grown around the Marine Pavilion.

  Having had it described by the prince in some detail as a large, dark blue stone, oval in shape, one inch wide by one and a half inches long, in a thin gold frame, he saw that it was striking enough for immediate recognition and, as a gemstone only, it was certainly of less monetary value than the precious gems overlooked by the thief. Its value must lie in its ancient royal associations with the Crown, which would therefore limit the kind of purchaser set on acquiring it.

  The more Tam thought, the more certain he became that the known facts indicated that this was no ordinary theft. The dead marchioness, he did not doubt, had had a role to play but was now silenced forever.

  The next step was how to get an introduction to the criminal fraternity. That presented a problem. His clothes were modest enough for an upper servant and, looking out of the window, he noticed gardeners at work. A rather unkempt fellow was busy with the roses. His appearance suggested that he might have some knowledge of the less affluent side of Brighton life.

  Tam hurried along the royal apartment’s corridors, past the ante-rooms, wardrobe and library, where the prince received ministers and conducted official business. Down the grand staircase and across the hall with its continuation of the Pavilion’s elegant Chinese theme of wallpaper and decoration, in particular a quantity of large vases from the Ming dynasty. Without being challenged by the inscrutable line of guards, he emerged at the front door and circumnavigated the building until he found his way back to the rose garden.

  Opening the conversation with the unkempt gardener with a cheerful ‘good day’ and adding favourable comments about rose-growing, about which he knew absolutely nothing, he said:

  ‘Ah yes, the very jewels of the garden, are they not? Which reminds me, I am a stranger here and eager to purchase a trinket for a lady. A bargain you know, not too costly,’ he added with a knowing wink.

  The man barely looked up from his pruning knife. ‘A trinket sir, what would that be?’

  Tam muttered something about earrings while the man now regarded him, frowning suspiciously. ‘I know nothing about such bargains,’ he said sharply, ‘but there are plenty of shops over yonder—’ pointing in the direction of North Street and the Steine. ‘Some of them might be able to help you,’ he added and turning his back on Tam he returned briskly to his pruning task.

  Taking the hint, Tam headed in the direction the gardener had indicated and, after getting thoroughly lost and confused in a maze of twisting lanes, to his enormous relief he found himself outside the Old Ship Inn, which he had visited earlier with Mr Brummell.

  He paused to read a plaque proudly informing visitors that in 1651 a former landlord, Nicholas Tettersell, had been instrumental in arranging the escape of Charles II to France on his coal brig Surprise, which twenty years later, at the Restoration, was renamed the Royal Escape.

  Presuming the present landlord shared royalist sympathies, Tam stepped into the gloomy interior from the brightness outside to be confronted by a young lad with short curls. A countenance familiar and one he would long remember.

  ‘Jem! Is it you?’ he gasped, delighted at this encounter. ‘I have been so worried about you – how did you escape?’

  There was no response, only a quick glance, a look of astonishment and terror as the boy slipped past him and darted out into the street.

  ‘Jem! Wait!’ Tam yelled and rushed after him. But the boy was even faster moving than he was. The street was deserted and he had vanished into a maze of lanes. Jem, the only link with his arrival in Brighton. And he had lost sight of him.

  Tam stood there helpless and stamped his foot angrily. ‘Of all the thankless little wretches! I saved his life. Damn him!’ Not even a whisper of acknowledgement or gratitude for having saved him from the hulks and from drowning. And what about an explanation for those mysterious smugglers, so keen to rescue the lad that they had thrown Tam back into the sea to drown, after hitting him over the head just to make sure.

  While he stood at the door of the inn, frustrated and fuming, he was aware of a shadow at his side. The genial landlord, flicking a duster idly and regarding him with considerable curiosity.

  ‘Something I can do for you, sir?’

  Tam swung round to face him. ‘That lad who has just rushed out. He works for you? When did you engage him?’

  The landlord smiled slyly and regarded him stolidly. ‘He came to us through friends. A little young perhaps but recommended as being honest.’

  Honest? So he knew nothing of Jem’s thieving activities which had landed him on the convict ship with a sentence of transportation to the Colonies.

  The landlord gave him a sideways glance, a sigh. ‘I doubt that he will be staying long with us. He will soon move on.’ A grin. ‘To better things, if you get my drift.’

  Tam continued to stare at him and he shrugged. ‘Too refined, by far. However, sir, if your tastes lie in that direction, there are many more available in the area. Maybe not so pretty or so well-spoken as young Jem.’

  And Tam did indeed get the landlord’s drift. Perhaps by association with Beau Brummell, whose sexual proclivities seemed doubtful, he was being offered Jem as a male child prostitute.

  Speechless for a moment, he turned on his heel and stamped out of the door, overwhelmed by fury with Jem and disgust with the landlord’s preposterous assumptions, obliterating even the purpose of his visit – information that might lead to the recovery of the Stuart Sapphire.

  ‘Damn him, damn him and damn the Old Ship too,’ he muttered under his breath as, head down, he walked through a tangle of lanes regardless of direction. Tam was trying to sort out how it was that young Jem had managed in the two days since the smugglers took him aboard to find employment in the inn. A remarkable c
hild indeed, this worldly little thief.

  He was walking fast, too fast for leisurely Brighton’s shadowy lanes, and he cannoned straight into a middle-aged lady emerging from a haberdasher’s shop. A scream and her bundles flew in all directions, including her parasol. Her hat flew off and was rescued just in time by the maid at her heels, who shouted indignantly at Tam.

  He apologised, and helped gather together the packages which the maid snatched from him angrily.

  Bowing low, again those apologies and, as the lane was too narrow for a carriage, he said weakly: ‘May I be permitted to see you both safe home, ma’am?’

  The lady was stout but undoubtedly comely, and despite a bosom that was more than ample, she was not unattractive. Expecting an indignant refusal, a tirade of abuse, to his surprise the lady, her balance restored, her gown and hat set to rights, rewarded him with a radiant smile.

  ‘We would be grateful, young sir. It is only a step away – Steine House.’

  She continued to regard him as if pleased – which she was – by the sudden apparition on a rather dull shopping occasion of an extremely presentable young man. The kind of young man she had never encountered before. Someone strange, new and interesting, quite out of place in the Brighton she knew so well. There was an air about him she longed to explore.

  Tam looked at her quickly. There was something familiar about her too. He had seen a painting, quite famous. Equally entranced, he wanted to know more.

  ‘As there is no one to introduce us,’ she held out a firm but dainty small hand, ‘and as I am quite old enough to be your mother, there is no indelicacy involved.’ She added sternly: ‘I am Mrs Maria Fitzherbert.’

  Tam bowed, murmured his name. So this was the Prince Regent’s legal wife, a twice-widowed commoner and a Roman Catholic, whom all the trouble had been about in 1785. Quite suddenly, he understood perfectly what the history books had missed. It was there before him. Maria Fitzherbert had a rare, indefinable, sexual allure, ageless, untouched by time.