The Mystery of the Jewelled Moth

by Katherine Woodfine

  Her voice drifted off. The others said nothing, but silently gazed at the decaying buildings plastered with tattered advertisements; at a public house where two men were arguing over a bottle; at a woman crouched on a doorstep, feeding a baby. A rat skittered past her bare feet down a passageway and Sophie looked away, shocked. For some reason, she found herself thinking of Sinclair’s: the tantalising glitter of the chandeliers; the hems of the ladies’ dresses sweeping up the thickly carpeted stairway; the soft tinkling of the grand piano. It was hard to believe they were still in the same city. These dank streets felt like another country – even another world.

  ‘It’s better in China Town,’ said Mei, seeming to sense her thoughts. ‘It’s not like this there. Not yet, anyway,’ she added.

  They were getting close to the docks now: the air smelled more strongly of the river. After a few minutes, they emerged on a street where a small market had been set up. There were people selling bits of fruit and vegetables from barrows and little stalls.

  ‘Can we get out here and walk the last bit?’ asked Mei, tentatively. ‘It’s awful kind of you to get me home, but Mum’ll have forty fits if I turn up in a cab.’

  They stopped the driver and hopped down. ‘Why?’ asked Lil curiously, as she paid the fare.

  Mei snorted, her surprise making her less timid. ‘How often d’you think folk like us travel by cab? She’d probably think I’d got in trouble and was being brought home by the police!’

  Sophie was looking around her; it felt much more cheerful here. The whole place was abuzz, the stallholders calling out constantly: ‘A penny a pound for your apples.’ ‘Lovely taters, miss, fine as you’ll see anywhere.’

  Mei led them through the market, looking as at home here as she had been out of place in the leafy Belgravia square. A small boy came running up to Lil, holding out his hands to beg for pennies, but Mei sent him briskly on his way. She led the way boldly along a narrow street of shops and eating places. It was clear that they had reached China Town now, although the street looked much the same, the signs above the doorways of the shops were written in Chinese characters. There were new smells here: unfamiliar spicy aromas, and a rich, warm, savoury fragrance drifting from the door of a little eating place. A wall opposite was pasted with yellowing pages from Chinese newspapers, and Billy showed signs of wanting to stop to look at them, but Mei was already hurrying them onwards towards the shop on the corner, which had the words L. LIM & SONS painted in elaborate letters over the doorway.

  As they opened the low door and stepped inside, a bell jangled above their heads.

  ‘Mei!’ exclaimed a loud, angry voice. ‘Where on earth do you think you’ve been?’

  Joe walked through the City with his hands in his pockets and his head down. He was not whistling now. It had turned into another beautiful summer evening, and yet he took no pleasure in it. Guilt hung over him like a raincloud. He couldn’t believe he had been such a coward. As they’d left Sinclair’s, he had felt fearless, ready to watch out for Lil and Sophie. He had been the one who led them safely away from the Baron’s Boys without being seen. But then, at the first hint of crossing back over into the East End, he’d funked it – slunk away like the coward he was. Why, that kid from China Town had more backbone than he did!

  Back when he’d been one of the Baron’s Boys, Jem, their leader, had jeered at him for not having enough bottle. ‘Nervous as a little girl, ain’t you?’ he remembered him saying through his yellowed, broken teeth. ‘Well you’d better get yourself some guts, petal. You got to have a bit of pluck to get by in this line of work.’

  Pluck was exactly what he did not have. Perhaps Jem had been right. Joe shook his head as he walked, feeling more and more despondent. Whatever would Lil and the others think of him now? He didn’t want to be the sort of fellow who dodged away at the first sign of trouble. He wanted to be brave and decent – like they were. The sort of fellow you could count on. He thought again of Lil’s surprised face as he had bolted from the carriage and felt sick at heart. If only he could be the sort of fellow she would admire – not someone who would only disappoint her.

  He had tried so hard to leave the Baron behind, but somehow, he crept in everywhere: it didn’t matter whether you were in the dark heart of London’s East End or the bright lights of the West End. Wherever Joe went, the Baron would be there too.

  But if that was true, then there was no sense in trying to hide any longer, he thought suddenly. It was no good trying to stick his head in the sand. The only thing for it was to do something – to use their new and dangerous knowledge to stop the Baron for good. All at once, he felt fired with a new resolve and determination – but what on earth could they possibly do against a man like the Baron without Mr McDermott’s help? He buried himself deep in thought as he walked back home to Sinclair’s department store.

  ‘We were worried sick! Your father was sure that the Baron’s Boys had got you! We even had to fetch your brother from work to go looking for you!’ Mum’s eyes were flashing. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw Jessie Bates’s mother down at the market,’ she went on. ‘You told me she was sick in bed and that Jessie needed your help – but she’s as right as rain. How dare you tell such dreadful untruths!’

  ‘Now Lou,’ said Dad. ‘Calm down. We’ve got visitors.’

  Mum paused suddenly, taking in the three newcomers standing behind Mei in the shop doorway.

  But as it happened, neither Sophie, Billy nor Lil had really taken in much of Mrs Lim’s outburst. They were too busy looking around the shop.

  It was certainly quite different from Sinclair’s department store, Sophie thought. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, upon which stood everything from glass jars of humbugs to tins of sardines and balls of string. The air smelled richly of spices and tobacco and cocoa. Strings of scarlet Chinese lanterns stretched across the ceiling, and a white cat slept on a tea chest. Baskets laden with more goods were set out neatly on the floor, and they had to skirt around them as they approached the counter where Mei’s parents were standing, staring at them in surprise.

  Mr Lim was a small man with a strong resemblance to his daughter. His wife, who had red hair and freckles, overtopped him by a couple of inches. She looked especially astonished to see the visitors, and was looking at them indignantly, her hands on her hips.

  ‘We’re sorry for intruding,’ said Sophie hurriedly. ‘We just wanted to make sure Mei got home safely. We should go.’

  ‘No – don’t!’ exclaimed Mei at once, reaching out to grab Billy, who was nearest to her. He looked a little alarmed, and she continued more quietly. ‘Please stay. I need you to explain everything – about the diamond, and about the Baron.’

  ‘The Baron?’ demanded Mei’s father, his face ashy pale. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s go into the back room,’ said Mei. ‘We can close the shop, can’t we – just for a few minutes? Where’s Song?’ She looked anxiously at her parents. ‘There’s a lot I have to tell you,’ she said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As she took her seat at the table in Lord Beaucastle’s immense, dimly lit dining room, Veronica realised that she was nervous. She told herself she was being ridiculous, there was nothing to be anxious about. She’d been here a dozen times before, and what was more, this was a special dinner, given in her honour. Perhaps she was feeling so strange because of what had happened to Emily, she thought. Her death had cast a long shadow over the London Season.

  Lord Beaucastle’s dining room certainly seemed different tonight: gloomy and full of shadows. She had scarcely noticed it before, but now she saw just how different his house was from her own home in Belgrave Square. Isabel favoured dainty, decorative things – frivolous embroidered cushions, enamelled clocks and china figurines. Beaucastle’s home was older, graver. In spite of all its gloss and polish, it felt like it had not changed for a very long time. The wood-panelled walls were hung with dark oil paintings, the ceilings embellished with s
trange carvings. The long table was set with glimmering silverware, trails of ivy and dishes heaped with grapes and peaches, all bathed in pools of light from tall white candles in heavy candelabras. Beyond, in the shadows, a host of silent footmen were ranged, ready to hand out dishes and pour out wine. Lord Beaucastle’s butler slipped in and out of the darkness, as he directed operations in a low, almost inaudible undertone. It was so strange to think this would soon be her home. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling truly comfortable here.

  Guests stretched away from her along the expanse of table: gentlemen conversing in hushed, serious voices; ladies murmuring secrets to each other behind their fans. Some way down the table, she thought she glimpsed the Countess of Alconborough’s ostrich plumes; and there were others too that she recognised: politicians, financiers, aristocrats. Surely that slim, elegant figure on the right was Sebastian Ambermere, the young Duke of Roehampton? And there on the left, in a cloud of tulle and rosebuds, was Lady Hamilton, whose portrait she had seen at the Royal Academy only a few days ago? There was no doubt about it: this was an august gathering. Lord Beaucastle regularly played host to some of the most eminent figures of the beau monde; and now here she was, sitting amongst them at his right hand, trying to look as if she belonged.

  And then there was Beaucastle himself. He was the centre of it all, cordially speaking to first one guest then another, instructing the butler to bring more wine. Watching him, Veronica could not help thinking all over again of the unexpected visit from Miss Taylor and Miss Rose and their friends. Perhaps it was their visit, most of all, which had left her feeling unsettled. She thought again of all they had said about Lord Beaucastle – such nonsense about crime lords and spies and gangs! The very idea was insulting, she thought crossly. Why, she knew that he had been one of the first gentlemen to pay a call of condolence upon Mrs Montague, when the news about Emily came out.

  She glanced under her eyelashes at him. He was so well-respected; a man who told anecdotes about shooting parties with His Majesty the King and lunches with the Prime Minister, who made amiable conversation with her father and who charmed Isabel. He was always kind and solicitous to Veronica herself, too, making sure her wine glass was full and that the soup was to her liking. He was so refined, she thought. He was the last person in the world to have a secret identity – especially not as some sort of East End criminal.

  And yet, it was not as if she really knew him. The thought popped suddenly into her head, quite uninvited. She did not really know any of these people, she supposed, but now she was to be married to Lord Beaucastle, and all at once she felt sure that she knew him least of all.

  The footmen began to serve the hors d’oeuvres, and as they did so, a young man came hurrying in to the dining room. He was tall with rumpled black hair and brown skin, and though he was elegantly dressed, his fingers were all over ink stains.

  ‘You’re late, Henry,’ said Beaucastle, a rare note of disapproval creeping into his voice.

  ‘I – I do apologise – I was rather preoccupied – lost track of time . . .’

  Beaucastle looked along the table, but the only empty seat was on Veronica’s other side. He introduced her to the newcomer genially. ‘Miss Whiteley, may I present Henry Snow? He’s a protégé of mine – a very talented young scientist – who is staying with me at present.’

  Henry Snow gave her the most cursory of nods. As soon as he had taken his seat, he leaned across her to address Lord Beaucastle in a confidential tone. ‘There have been some extraordinary developments that I’m most eager to share with you. The samples from South Ridge are exceptional, far better than the ones from Bethany.’

  Veronica stiffened. South Ridge and Bethany were the names of two of her father’s mines. Why on earth was this strange man talking about her father’s mines?

  ‘The structure of the mineral is such that –’ he went on.

  ‘My dear fellow, this is hardly the time or the place,’ Beaucastle interrupted hastily. His voice was light, but Veronica had the sudden impression that he was watching her sharply. She tried her hardest to look innocent, as though she was absorbed only in eating. But she kept listening with all her might.

  Henry Snow had followed Beaucastle’s gaze. There was a pause, and she saw from the corner of her eye that he was shrugging, as if to indicate that Veronica was quite obviously not listening, and in any case would be quite incapable of understanding him. ‘We must get access soon. I won’t be able to continue without more materials,’ he went on.

  ‘I’ve already told you, that won’t be a problem,’ said Beaucastle shortly, sounding quite unlike himself for a moment before his usual affable manner returned as he added, ‘We’ll discuss it after dinner.’

  Veronica couldn’t help looking up at Beaucastle curiously. He caught her eye at once and she hurriedly smiled at him and manufactured an excuse. ‘I was just admiring that pin you wear, sir,’ she said, her voice coming out a little higher than usual. ‘Does it have any special significance?’

  Beaucastle glanced down at the little gold dragon that he wore pinned to his lapel. ‘This one, my dear?’ he said in his most indulgent, avuncular tone. ‘Why it’s the emblem of my club, Wyvern House. It’s an old English gentleman’s club. Wyvern is an ancient word for dragon.’ He glanced across the table at Mr Whiteley and added in a rather louder voice, ‘As a matter of fact, we’re going to be considering new members soon, and I wondered if your father would object if I put his name forward.’

  ‘My dear Beaucastle! Wyvern House! What an honour – what a tremendous honour indeed,’ burbled Veronica’s father.

  ‘Very well,’ said Beaucastle, looking pleased. ‘It’s settled. I shall put down your name for membership at Michaelmas.’

  Everyone was quite delighted by this display of generosity. Along the table, Isabel was beaming. Even Veronica had heard of Wyvern House. It boasted a very selective, highly aristocratic membership, and was not the sort of place where a man like her father – however rich – would usually be admitted.

  The evening drew on. More wine was served. Hors d’oeuvres were followed by fish, fillet of beef, and then by sorbet, and then by a dish for which Beaucastle’s chef was apparently famous: roasted quails stuffed with pâté de foie gras. Then there was salad, and cheese, but before the dessert course, Lord Beaucastle tapped his silver fork against his glass just once, and the room fell silent.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘Thank you for joining me tonight. I wish to make a toast to the charming Miss Veronica Whiteley, who is making her debut this season. I have no doubt that she will shine just as brightly as the jewel I have given her to mark her coming out – the exquisite Moonbeam Diamond, which she wears so beautifully tonight. So I present to you now Miss Veronica Whiteley – London’s brightest new star!’

  He smiled at her: it was a warm, benevolent smile, but suddenly, she saw something wolfish in it that she had never seen there before. Only days earlier, she would have adored the chance to be singled out for such special attention; now, she felt uncomfortable and confused. She tried to smile back, hiding her unease. All down the table, as if drawn by invisible strings, hands raised their glasses, the ladies’ bracelets gleaming in the light of the candle flames. ‘To Miss Whiteley!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘The Moonbeam Diamond is here – in London? Why didn’t you say something?’ Dad asked Mei gently.

  ‘I tried,’ Mei faltered. ‘I didn’t want to bother you. I – I told Song, but he thought I was being silly.’

  Across the kitchen table, Song shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I had no idea . . .’ He looked genuinely ashamed, and Mei couldn’t help gawping in surprise – Song never admitted he was wrong about anything.

  ‘And the diamond really belongs to the Baron?’ asked Dad, his voice sounding incredulous.

  ‘Not any more,’ explained Sophie, in her clear voice. ‘It did belong to him, but he recently had it made into a brooch to give as a gift
to the young lady he plans to marry – Miss Whiteley. She doesn’t know him as the Baron of course, but by his real name – Lord Beaucastle.’

  ‘Lord Beaucastle . . .’ repeated Dad thoughtfully. ‘I could swear that name sounds familiar. Lou, does it mean anything to you?’

  Mum shook her head. Then suddenly she snapped her fingers. ‘Yes – yes it does!’ she exclaimed in an excited voice. ‘Wait a minute.’

  She bustled out of the room, but was back only a moment later, carrying a small wooden trunk, bound in brass.

  ‘Granddad’s trunk!’ Mei exclaimed, recognising it at once.

  Mum set the trunk down in the middle of the table, and opened it. Mei saw that it was crammed with papers: letters, envelopes and what looked like several old exercise books. Mum fished out a small black book, carefully tied with string.

  ‘This is it,’ she said. She turned to Dad. ‘Remember? We didn’t know what this was when we first went through Granddad’s things – but now . . . look . . .’

  She handed the notebook to Sophie, who untied the knots with careful fingers. Beside her, Mei felt breathless with anticipation, whilst Lil on her other side was twitching, evidently trying to repress the urge to grab the book and rip it open.

  Sophie set the notebook on the table, and they all bent their heads over it. The pages were filled with a hotchpotch of yellowing newspaper cuttings, and photographs. They were surrounded by a latticework of notes in tiny handwriting, written in Chinese characters so faint that they were almost impossible to make out. But even without the notes, the newspaper clippings told them everything they needed to know. Every single cutting – whether a report of a society ball, or an article about a new bill being passed by the House of Lords – mentioned Lord Beaucastle. His name had been underlined in each and every one – sometimes neatly in pencil, other times with a wobbly line of red ink.

  ‘He knew,’ breathed Mei, her mind suddenly flooded with images: Granddad reading the newspaper from cover to cover each day; the careful notes he made; the candles he lit to their ancestors. He had never ceased in his duty, she realised in amazement. He had been the guardian of the Moonbeam Diamond all along. ‘He knew that this man was Waiguo Ren! He must have been watching him all the time!’