by Carol Hedges
He sighs – a dangerous manoeuvre, given the tightness of his waistband. On the one hand, there’s the guv’nor fossicking on about his spends, on the other, there’s the mater trying to get him to court that sour-faced redhead. Between the two of them, Gussy doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. No wonder he prefers the company of his horse.
And now the stable door opens, and the other current source of his misery comes swaggering in.
“Ah, there y’are Guster,” George Osborne exclaims. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere. Might have guessed I’d find you in here.”
He peers at Charger's flank.
“Gad, that’s a shine! Are you trying to wear the poor beast away?”
Gussy fidgets with the brush. George is supposed to be his best friend, having filled that role ever since public school days, but recently he’s never felt totally at ease in his company.
Maybe it is the elegant cut of George’s uniform – the result of being able to afford the best army tailor in London. Maybe it is George’s nonchalant devil-may-care attitude. Or maybe it is George’s finely-chiselled, handsome face, which is already beginning to show the early signs of a life of drink and debauchery.
Whatever the reason, Gussy only knows that he has been sedulously avoiding George Osborne. He wishes he could to do so now. Sadly, he can’t.
“And how’s my future brother-in-law getting’ along?”
George’s black eyes sparkle wickedly, and he smacks Gussy on the back.
“Um ... I thought it wasn’t settled yet,” Gussy stammers.
“It will be, Guster. Only a matter of time. Just got to get round to poppin’ the old question. Tie the knot next Summer, what d’ya think? I love a Summer wedding, don’t you? All those fine looking gals in their light dresses.”
Gussy swallows.
“But demmit, George, you hardly know Izz. How can you marry her?” (He pronounces it ‘mawwy’.)
George Osborne grins at him.
“What is there to know? They’re all the same, women, underneath. Eh, Guster?”
“But ... but,” Gussy splutters, “you don’t love her. And she don’t love you.”
George Osborne throws back his head and laughs. An ugly sound that makes Gussy's horse snort and stamp its feet.
“'Fore Gad, Guster, you are a fool sometimes! Love? What’s love got to do with it? Marriage is a business deal. I get what I want, and so does she. Love? Listen, as soon as she’s dropped a couple of sons, she can pretty much do as she pleases. I won’t care.”
Gussy grits his teeth, and resumes grooming Charger. He hates this conversation. He hates George Osborne. He turns his back, hoping that George will take the hint and depart.
“Meanwhile, I’m still a free man,” George continues, evidently not taking the hint, and showing no sign of departing. “Which means I still have a right to my pleasures. How about it, old friend?”
“How about what?” Gussy asks sulkily.
“Tonight. You and me and a couple of the fellahs. Dinner at my Club, maybe take in a show after, then on to Mrs Frost’s. I’ve had it on good authority that she’s got some new girls in. Fresh from the country and young. Very, very young.” George Osborne licks his lips. “How do you fancy some sweet virgin flesh?”
Gussy breathes in sharply.
“Oh, don’t fuss, Guster. Once I’m properly engaged, I’ll forsake the 'ladies' and reform. You’ll see. But in the meanwhile ... what about it?”
“I’m not sure,” Gussy says unhappily. “The guv’nor wrote that he don't want me getting’ into any more scrapes.”
George swats this ludicrous excuse aside, as if it were a troublesome gnat.
“Scrapes? Nonsense, Guster. What’s life about if it ain’t about havin’ fun? Damn it, we’re entitled to enjoy ourselves while we’re young. Anyway, what do you think your pa got up to when he was your age? Much the same, I wager. As did mine.”
The thought of his stern-faced, repressive businessman father ever frequenting the likes of Mrs Frost's establishment almost reduces Gussy to verbal incoherence.
“I’ll think about it,” he says at last.
“You’ll do it, or I'm a Dutchman,” George counters, with another hefty slap on his back. “Now hurry up groomin’ that nag. I've got a little card game startin’ in my room, and there’s a seat for you at the table.”
****
A little while later, Josephine returns to St John’s Wood. She has visited several charitable institutions with parcels of her uncle’s clothes, and the satisfaction of doing good is sitting inside her like a small warmth. She enters the hallway and is just hanging up her bonnet when Annie bustles out of the parlour, a duster in one hand, and an important expression on her face.
“There you are, miss. Lady Hartington called while you were out.”
“Did she leave her card?”
Annie shakes her head.
“My Lady did not stay long. The aristocracy don’t like to be kept waiting, miss. Perhaps you didn’t know that?” she says pertly.
“I’m sorry, Annie, but as I was not expecting her, I cannot be held responsible for my absence. In any case, I had important business to attend to.”
Annie’s mouth closes in a firm line, but her face belies the opinion that no business could possibly be more important than entertaining a member of the aristocracy.
“Could you ask Mrs Hudson to make me something to eat?” Josephine continues. “Then I shall have to go out again. I have an appointment at the bank.”
Annie starts towards the kitchen, before remembering her primary purpose of the day.
“Before you go out again, I should like to talk to you, miss. If it is convenient.”
Josephine sighs. Now what social faux-pas has she committed?
“Perhaps later, when I get back,” she says, finally managing to hang up her bonnet. “Now please, can you go down to the kitchen.”
Josephine climbs the stairs slowly. All the way back she has been steeling herself for this moment. Already she feels a sense of desolating emptiness, knowing that she will no longer see the diamond bubbling light, no longer cradle it in the palm of her hand, or feel its familiar outline under her pillow when she wakes in the middle of the night.
In her life so far, she has lost everybody that she has ever loved. It is a painful wrench to part with this, even though she knows it is for the best. She enters her room, and goes straight to the writing-desk, where she has taken to keeping the Eye of the Khan during the day while she is out.
She opens the top drawer. The diamond is not there.
She feels all round inside, her fingers expecting at any second to close on the stone’s cold familiar hardness, but her hand comes back empty. She pulls the drawer out, and upends it. The diary, and a few keepsakes fall to the floor.
The clock ticks like a whip.
Her heart lurches, falling away inside her, as if someone has stolen her soul. Suddenly she feels ice-cold. The air sings in her ears. Time runs backwards. She has been here before. She has never been here before.
While she is still reeling from the shock, Annie enters, carrying a plate of ham sandwiches.
“Your luncheon, miss.”
Josephine stares at her.
“Have you been in my chamber since I went out?”
“No, miss.”
Her brain is whirling with possibilities and impossibilities.
“Has anybody else been up here? Maybe Mrs Hudson? Think, Annie.”
Annie frowns.
“No. Nobody has been here. Why do you ask?”
A germ of a suspicion begins to bud inside her.
“The visitor. Lady Hartington. Can you describe her?”
Annie purses her lips.
“She wore a beautiful long fur coat – mink, I think it was. Very expensive, I’d say. And one of those cunning new fur hats. Cossack style. I’ve seen one just like it in a magazine. All the rage amongst the upper classes, they say.”
“But he
r face, Annie,” Josephine interrupts impatiently. “Describe her face.”
Annie looks resentful.
“I didn’t see her face, miss. It was covered with a black lace veil.”
Of course it was.
“How long was she in the house?”
“As I said,” Annie replies pointedly, “it was only a short visit. I’d gone down to the kitchen to get her a cup of tea, and when I returned, she had left.”
And taken the Eye of the Khan with her.
Suddenly feeling sick inside, Josephine sinks onto the bed.
“Well, I’m sorry, miss.” Annie tosses her head. “It’s not my fault if you weren’t here. Perhaps she’ll call again.”
Oh no she won’t. She has got what she came for.
Josephine forces herself to stand upright.
“I must go straight out now, Annie. I do not know when I will be back. Please don’t let anyone into the house. Anyone at all. Do you understand?”
Annie’s face is one big resentful sulk.
“What about your luncheon?”
Josephine ignores the question. She pushes past the maid and heads down the stairs. She has suddenly remembered when, and from whose lips, she first heard the name Lady Hartington.
Annie hastens after her. She has a speech to deliver, and if she doesn’t deliver it now, it will be too late. Her box is waiting by the kitchen door; a boy is coming round to collect it at 2.30. And Miss High-and-Mighty is well overdue for a few home truths.
“Miss, I have something to say to you. It’s important.”
Josephine whirls round.
“Oh for goodness sake, Annie! Can’t you see I am in a hurry? What is the matter now?”
Annie bridles indignantly. She is not used to being spoken to like this.
Nevertheless she draws herself up, clears her throat and launches into her prepared speech.
“It is my intention to leave your employment forthwith,” she begins, pausing on the ‘forthwith’, a word which she thinks makes her sound grand and important. “I have recently managed to secure a new and better position with a very respectable family. However, before I depart, I would like to take the opportunity to offer a few remarks. Ever since your arrival, I have observed that -”
Josephine raises a hand.
“Fine. But I really don’t have time for this now.”
She crams on her bonnet.
“Good-bye Annie, and good luck.”
She stumbles out of the house. Fortunately, a cab has just drawn up at the corner of the street. She hails it, and gives the driver instructions where to take her.
****
A cold, sleety rain is falling, sharp as nails, as Josephine alights at Hampstead High Street. She left the house in such haste that she has not brought an umbrella. She hurries along Flask Walk, head down against the stinging drops trying to tie the strings of her bonnet a little tighter with freezing fingers, until finally she reaches the Lily Lounge.
It is not yet the hour for afternoon tea, so the Lily Lounge is unlit and the door is locked. She hammers upon it until a neatly-clad waitress appears. She gives Josephine a curious stare, then points to the Closed sign.
Josephine shakes her head, and indicates that she wants to enter. Now. After some mutual gesticulating, the waitress disappears, to be replaced by Lilith herself, who takes one look at her stricken face, and immediately unlocks the door.
“What on earth has happened?” she exclaims, drawing Josephine inside.
“The diamond has been stolen.”
Lilith breathes in. Then she says calmly,
“May, cut our visitor a slice of the veal pie. A big slice please. Then butter some bread, and make us a pot of tea.”
While May hurries to do as she is bid, Lilith leads Josephine to a table and pulls out a chair for her before she sits down opposite, taking Josephine’s hand in hers.
“Tell me everything at once,” she says quietly. “Leave nothing out.”
She listens intently while Josephine relates the events of earlier on. Only when Lilith hears the name of the visitor does her expression change.
“It was not Lady Hartington,” she states.
“I thought not. But how can you be sure?”
Lilith smiles wryly.
“Lady Caroline Hartington fell off a horse when she was in her early thirties. She injured her spine very badly, and she still walks with a stick. It would’ve taken two footmen to carry her up the few steps to your front door, let alone up the stairs to your chamber. She spends much of her time either in the country, or visiting foreign spas in the hope of finding a cure. Whoever called round was clearly an impostor.”
“The Countess?”
Lilith nods.
“I think it very likely. I have made a few inquiries since we met. It appears that Lady Hartington met this Countess at a Hungarian spa last summer. She was very taken with her, and a close friendship quickly developed between them. This led to an invitation to visit London for the Winter season, and stay in one of their houses. They own several houses, one of them in Russell Square.
“It is clear that the Countess has helped herself to Lady Caroline’s calling card, then used it to gain entry to your house while you were out. Your servants would hardly have queried her identity, would they?”
Lilith pauses.
“But it also suggests to me that somebody has been watching the house, for she clearly knew that the diamond was there, and also which room it was being kept in. And, crucially, she also knew that you would be out when she called. Have you noticed anything unusual recently?”
A shiver runs down Josephine's spine as she recalls the strange unearthly figure standing in the midnight street in the moonlight, staring up at her window.
“I ... might have seen something, yes,” she falters, and tells Lilith about the strange nocturnal prowler.
“Then that is how it was done.”
“As easily as that?”
“Believe me, it is how most crimes are carried out,” Lilith remarks drily. “And it is why so many criminals are never apprehended.”
She sees Josephine's face fall.
“But that is not the case here,” she adds quickly. “Now eat your pie, and drink your tea while it is hot, and then let us put our heads together and see if we can devise a plan to catch this evil Countess, and bring her to the justice she deserves.”
While Josephine eats, Lilith walks quickly up and down, her lips tight, her brow furrowed in a frown of concentration. Eventually her expression clears, and she nods to herself in a satisfied manner. She approaches the table.
“I have it,” she says. “Or at least, I think I see a way forward.”
She pulls out a chair and sits down.
“In four days’ time, there is to be a Christmas Ball at the Hartingtons’ London house. It happens every year and is a huge society event. Everybody, including the Countess, will be there. The Ball goes on all night. If we could find some way to get into the house in Russell Square where the Countess is staying, we can search for the diamond. Once we discover it, we have the proof we require to report her to the detective police.”
“But what if we don’t discover it?” Josephine asks.
“Oh, we will,” Lilith nods sagely. “It will have been hidden in a jewel case, or in a drawer somewhere. Rich aristocratic ladies keep their jewellery and precious items close by, in my experience. Besides, Lady Caroline always leaves London for the Continent straight after the Ball is over, and I’m sure the Countess will accompany her. She will be very anxious to get out of London quickly, so there’d be very little point placing the diamond in a bank or with a jeweller.”
Lilith pauses.
“The only problem we have is finding a person who will help us break into the house. I do not suppose that you know any housebreakers or cracksmen, do you?”
For the first time since she arrived, a ghost of a smile flits across Josephine's face,
“No, I don’t,” she agrees. �
�But I think I know someone who might.”
Lilith's eyes widen.
“Then I suggest you make haste to contact them,” she says tartly. “In five days, your diamond will be out of the country, possibly along with your uncle’s murderer. We must move fast, for we have very little time.”
****
In a city of nearly 2,800,000 people, you might think that the chances of casually meeting someone you knew would be statistically remote. In reality, you would be surprised how often it happens.
Isabella Thorpe and her Mama are shopping in Regent Street. They are just coming out of a haberdasher’s store where they have been looking at a display of laces and ribbons.
Before that they were looking at pins and fans in another store. They are having a nice little shopping trip. Mrs Thorpe arranged it. A bit of mother-daughter bonding.
To Isabella, it feels more like mother-daughter bondage. She is desperate to escape to number 17 Red Lion Square, where she is sure Henry is waiting impatiently for her. She has had to put him off for several days now, and she aches inside with longing. She wants to feel his fingers caressing her neck again as he arranges her hair. Sometimes she can barely breathe for thinking about him.
Meanwhile Josephine King is hurrying along Regent Street, unaware of who is walking towards her. She has come from Westminster Bridge, where she has just given the crossing sweeper some more warm clothes to tide him over the cold winter. And in return, he has given her some useful information.
There is nothing like running across an old friend in town. Sadly, this is nothing like running across an old friend in town. Josephine spots the Thorpes a split second before Mrs Thorpe's beady eyes light upon her, but it is a second too late to pretend otherwise than that she has been recognised. She pastes a polite smile onto her face, and mentally starts working on an escape route.
“Josephine! Josephine King!”
Mrs Thorpe hurries forward, holding out two fingers of her gloved hand.