Diamonds & Dust
Page 23
“I thought that, when properly cut, the stone might furnish the centrepiece for a new crown,” he suggests.
She sets the diamond down and claps her podgy beringed hands together in glee.
“Oh yes. A new crown for a future jubilee. That would be wonderful. We are delighted to accept this precious gift. Thank you, Mr Garrard.”
She replaces the diamond in the bag. He receives it, bows low and departs. The diamond will be cut and polished in his workroom.
And less than a year after accepting the gift, Victoria will be a widow, mourning the death of her beloved husband Prince Albert, struck down in his prime at the age of 42. Typhoid fever, supposedly.
****
But now it is almost Christmas Eve, and there is snow in London. Snow lines the tops of trees, railings, and roofs. Snow sits on gravestones, settles upon the heads and shoulders of statues. In the streets, snow is churned with ash, soot, dung and mud. In places, it has been swept into grey pyramids. Elsewhere, the press of traffic has cleared erratic paths through it.
In Regent Street, the gaslit shops glitter with a superabundance of tempting festive goods. Bronze kid boots, silks, velvets, point-lace, hats, parasols, mantles, glass perfume bottles, fancy stationery and feather-fans pass by in an endless dazzling procession of visual desire.
Eventually the shops give way to quiet streets, a green space, a dairy, a canal, until finally we find ourselves back in the familiar territory of St John's Wood, with its fashionable and shabby-chic villas.
The curtains of one particular villa have not yet been drawn to keep out the early evening chill. There is a bright fire crackling in the front room grate, warm and welcoming. A Christmas tree stands in the window, lighted with thin wax tapers, and decorated with bonbons and nuts.
In the dining-room, the table is laid for supper with the good silver cutlery, newly shined. Guests are expected, for five places have been set. In the basement kitchen Mrs Hudson, assisted by her niece, is adding the final touches to the meal.
Roast mutton, peas, and potatoes will be followed by currant tart and cheese. A veritable feast. And after supper, there will be Christmas plans and preparations to discuss round the fire.
Look more closely. The first of the guests is just about to arrive. Lilith Marks comes around the corner and walks briskly towards the house. She holds a round parcel wrapped in festive paper. One of her legendary Christmas cakes. She mounts the steps, and rings the bell.
She is followed a few minutes later by a tall broad-shouldered man who approaches the house from the opposite direction. He wears a cloth cap pulled low, and woollen pea-coat. It is Pennyworth Candy. Under one arm, he carries a bottle of wine. A brief hesitation while he checks he has the right address. Then he too rings and is admitted. Finally, the last guest arrives on the doorstep: a thin young man with a pale bony face, and a pale bony nose and a very shiny top hat. Trafalgar Moggs is let into the house.
And now the curtains have been drawn; the front door locked against the outside world. Family and friends are gathering in the dining-room, where supper is just about to be served. There is nothing more to see, and little reason to linger out here in the frost-crisped air where darkness is falling fast.
A cab has recently drawn up at the end of the road. Why not let it bear you away towards the teeming night-time city, with its seductive labyrinth of gas-lit streets where all is dazzlement, music and dancing.
Who knows what adventures await?
Finis
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