The Pearl Thief Read online

  ‘You say your father saw the best in everyone, but rarely the flaws.’

  ‘He took everyone at their word and believed only the best of each. The Mayeks had a voracious desire for status and wealth. Back then we simply gave and received friendship; we didn’t realise they had an agenda.’

  ‘What did his father do?’

  ‘I think he was a councillor, so that gave him some standing in the community, and he ran the local grocery store. But while his son was pressed from a similar mould, it was the newer version.’ Her tone had a cynical edge now. ‘Rudy lusted for riches, status, but above all, the power and recognition that go with it.’

  Daniel nodded and allowed a silence to lengthen between them.

  She broke it first. ‘Did you know these sellers were known as bouquinistes? Antiquarian books and the selling of them along the River Seine date back centuries.’

  He smiled. ‘I am convinced ancient history makes you feel safe.’ She nodded. ‘Let’s wend our way to the hotel for something warming to drink. How about some cake?’ He enjoyed the pleasant smirk of laughter this prompted. ‘Katerina, you’re so trim – thin, in fact – I don’t think you ever have to worry about what you eat.’

  ‘Years of restraint, I suppose. I learned to survive on very little.’

  Daniel smiled as if he understood but of course he didn’t. He hadn’t had to survive more than the inconvenience of war. He’d only become involved militarily in the final year of the conflict and by then his clever mind had kept him on British soil, working for the government’s war effort rather than as a soldier. Still, it wouldn’t do to not empathise by trying to walk in her shoes.

  Nevertheless, she’d delivered him. After years in the wilderness of information, this exquisite, damaged woman of Prague had brought Ruda Mayek, the monster he hunted, to his door.

  Daniel had needed to restrain himself when she first mentioned the name. He’d known it was coming and still he’d wanted to jump to his feet and yell his excitement, but that would have given the wrong impression of his intention, and of course it would have frightened Katarina back into the shell where she hid. He, Daniel Horowitz, was likely the first person to coax this tale from its owner in more than two decades.

  And he needed all of it because Katerina Kassowicz was going to lead him to Ruda Mayek, if the bastard was still alive … and if he was, then Daniel would take no small pleasure in delivering him from existence.

  So, he didn’t want to break the magical spell of this day that had coerced Katerina’s memory into giving up its secrets. If she went home now, he might never see her again, least of all hear the rest of her story.

  He’d led them to the hotel in St Germain that he’d promised. ‘Come on, let’s have a meal. Then you won’t have to think about dinner,’ he urged.

  ‘I never think about dinner,’ she quipped and he believed her.

  ‘Yes, but I need feeding and it’s past midday.’

  As she agreed with a smile and watched him signal to the waiter that they would like a seat in the restaurant, she reminded him about a visitor from the United States who had caused a stir with his remarks about French eating habits. ‘Do you remember?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘He was a sociologist and made the comment when interviewed that the French stick to a strict regimen of three meals a day and are happy to remain hungry in between.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Oh, our children are given their goûter after school because they’re famished, but do you eat anything between your meals?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’

  The waiter had seated them and was flicking out napkins across their laps and handing them each a menu.

  ‘And he made the observation that sticking to such strict meal-times was akin to living behind a cage in a zoo.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘Well, give me the French zoo any day to the American one!’

  ‘Touché,’ she said. ‘Just a niçoise salad for me, please,’ she said to the waiter.

  ‘Two,’ Daniel added. He was not famished but he liked that they were now anchored into seats and a situation conducive to talking. ‘No wine. Perrier.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the man said and disappeared from their view.

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘That you’re eating, yes,’ he replied.

  Katerina smiled. ‘You’re killing me.’

  ‘Only with kindness,’ he jested. ‘Tell me about the Pearls.’ It was the right moment to ask this. ‘I mean, I want to hear what happened when you saw Ruda in the piano room that day when you were older, wiser to him, but the Pearls have me intrigued.’ He’d diverted her to the jewellery because he was worried that she might be frightened to open the door onto what happened next with the monster of Hvozdy.

  ‘Ah, the Pearls, yes,’ she sighed. ‘That part of my story really belongs to my mother. She first showed them to me when I turned thirteen.’

  I laughed at my mother standing on a ladder, while the top half of her had disappeared into the roof. Her voice sounded muffled, captured by the musty yet somehow comforting air of our attic. Each of us had a trunk up there with old toys, curios, various memorabilia that seemed important for us – or our parents – to keep. None of us was allowed up the ladder for fear of falling, although I was nimble enough with all my tree-climbing expertise that I could have ascended at twice the speed and dexterity of either of my parents. Her legs disappeared now as she pulled herself into our attic.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I yelled up. I could hear her creaking around, the timber struts gently protesting their irregular use. The chemical smell of naphthalene drifted down as my mother had clearly stirred something that had mothballs buried within.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ she called back and then I heard only murmured sounds. I waited, listening to the timber, knowing roughly whereabouts in the roof she was by those sounds. And finally I heard a yell of triumph. ‘Here they are!’ I could make out. ‘I knew we’d brought them. Your father prefers to carry these with us each summer holiday here at the villa.’

  Her legs reappeared, gingerly stepping down, feeling carefully for the next rung of the ladder. Dust motes floated down with her to catch the light and dance around us like tiny sprites.

  I frowned. ‘What is it?’ I’d not seen this velvet bag previously, so now my curiosity was fully piqued.

  ‘He couldn’t bring the small chest they were originally in – it’s bronze, decorated with ormolu, and very heavy. So that’s back at home in the cellar,’ she said, ‘but we wanted you to see these at long last,’ my mother continued, leading me to my parents’ bedroom. I couldn’t tell if the suspense was deliberately being built or if it was in my imagination. ‘You’re old enough now and soon eligible for the biannual ball hosted by the Baroness. I think we might work out how you might wear these for that special night.’

  So she’d already given the main clue that this was jewellery. I waited as she laid out a velvet bag of rich carmine, the fabric so thick the folds held their shape to look like the ridges of the hills our villa sat amongst. She began to fuss with the golden plaited ties, as thick as my fingers, that bound the bag tightly at its top. Education about art and antiquities at my father’s coat-tails suggested that I was looking at something that may have belonged to the nobility, perhaps even royalty, given its colour.

  My mother lifted the contents halfway from their velvet prison and I gasped – predictably, I suppose – and my mother beamed, holding the Pearls half in, half out of the pouch.

  ‘Darling Katerina, I wore these to my first ball and your grandmother wore them to hers. I hope you will have the opportunity to do the same. Once is enough, as it was for me and for your grandmother.’

  I stared at the serpentine curves and drops of glimmering pearls and then my mother pulled what I could only describe as a rope of these lustrous stones free of the bag to reveal a teardrop-shaped gem, in the colour of the anci
ent ice of a glacier I’d seen in an encyclopaedia. And yet it was more cerulean than blue, now that I tore my gaze from the iridescent pearls to the gem itself.

  ‘It’s a sapphire, darling, from Kashmir in India’s north, and many centuries ago it was apparently worn in the ceremonial headdress of the maharajah’s favourite elephant!’ she exclaimed, laughing at the notion. ‘It was probably thieved and found its way into what is now Turkey, but back then was part of the Ottoman Empire. You really should get all this history from your father but in short, this piece was constructed at the behest of the king …’

  ‘Sultan,’ I corrected. I didn’t mean to sound in any way haughty, but I was absorbed by the fascinating story and I wanted to be sure I understood it properly.

  ‘Oh, yes, whatever he was called. He had a vast harem of women awaiting his pleasure. They were called his wives but as always there were favourites. The head wife was given a special name, not that I recall it —’

  ‘She was called the sultana.’

  Her mother waved the clarification aside. ‘The story goes that she remained his favourite and these pearls were strung for her in early medieval times.’

  ‘How were they worn?’

  I remember how my mother tittered and then urged me to let her place them on me. I watched, fascinated, as she hung this carefully entwined single rope around me like a garment where it sat heavily sinuous, cold against the parts that touched my skin. I was tall for my age but the gemstone hung low on my belly. My mother smiled again. ‘I’ll tell you what that stone means and why it hangs where it does, darling, when you’re old enough to understand.’

  I looked back at her quizzically. ‘Tell me now.’

  She shook her head and grinned. ‘Next year, maybe.’

  ‘How did we come to have these?’

  She told me what she could, but I learned they went back through generations. ‘Do you like them?’

  ‘They’re beautiful.’ I frowned. ‘Why are you tasting them?’ I asked, astonished.

  She chuckled. ‘Do this,’ she explained and I followed her, lifting one of the fat, gleaming pearls to my mouth.

  ‘Not tasting, testing,’ my mother assured me. ‘You know your father and his almost religious fervour for authenticity. He showed me this when they first came into our possession. What do you feel against your teeth?’

  ‘I feel the grit of sand.’

  ‘Good. I’ll teach you what he taught me. I’ve never forgotten how amusing he made it sound. It’s an old jeweller’s trick. Your father explained these fabulous pearls were the work of a host of oysters who’d been so irritated by something foreign that had found its way into their shells that they began to coat it with a substance known as nacre, I’m sure he called it. It is this coating of calcium that produces the marvellous luminosity of a natural pearl, grown wild in the depths of waters either fresh or salty by a vexed mollusc, as he described it.’

  I was young to be acquiring such sophisticated knowledge in jewellery, so that mental image of the angry oyster stuck with me. ‘So many genuine and perfect pearls,’ I breathed, testing a few more.

  ‘Yes, my darling girl, and one day these will be yours. I told you they’ve been in my family for endless decades, handed down from mother to eldest daughter. They’ve always been known in our family as the Ottoman Pearls.’

  I never did get to wear the Ottoman Pearls outside my mother’s bedroom.

  Katerina gave a fleeting polite smile to the waiter as the salads arrived; their leaves were crammed with tuna and studded with fat, black olives, both gleaming from the heavy drizzle of olive oil. ‘Bon appétit,’ the man wished them.

  ‘And now they’ve turned up at the British Museum,’ Katerina concluded.

  Daniel nodded his thanks, eager to be rid of the interruption. ‘And you want to know who is selling them?’

  ‘Not selling … not immediately, anyway,’ she corrected, holding up a slender finger. ‘They have been offered as an exhibit, although I gather they carry a caveat that should the British Museum wish to have them within its permanent collection, then it could purchase them.’

  ‘I see.’ He wasn’t ready to push her into the inevitable. So again, with his renowned crocodile-like patience, he backtracked, pulling them both away from where he desperately wanted to lead Katerina. He diverted her with his skill, making it sound effortlessly casual. ‘I didn’t know that about testing pearls.’

  Masterfully distracted, she gave a soft smirk. ‘It’s a cursory test – a reliable one – as is the bounce test.’

  ‘Bounce?’

  ‘Fake pearls bounce high when dropped. A true pearl will only make it half the way back.’

  He gave a tutting sound of pleasurable dismay. ‘Anything else?’ She frowned, and he liked watching the arc of her eyebrows knit briefly. ‘Obviously today there are more sophisticated ways. The museum will have the Pearls authenticated via X-ray, no doubt.’ She prodded at her salad, very little making it onto her fork and ultimately her mouth. She chewed carefully before continuing. He found all her mannerisms addictive to observe. ‘But my father said an old torch and a jeweller’s loupe will give you most of what you need to know about whether they’re natural or cultured. I should add that the more spherical the pearl, the more precious it is – so, the paler, the rounder, the bigger each sphere, the zeroes will just keep being added to their value. And each one of the pearls in that rope is near perfection in its roundness. And their colour …’ she shook her head and he sensed sadness.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I was simply recalling that if a pearl is creamy, that’s one thing – it’s what you’d expect. But the paler and silvered pink the pearl, the more iridescent it is, the more precious it becomes.’

  He could guess. ‘And I’m going to assume that each pearl in yours is not only perfectly round but perfectly pink?’

  ‘Pinkish,’ she qualified. ‘You don’t want pink, but you want the suggestion of it. The perfect pearl and thus the perfect set of pearls gives off a blush when in motion around its wearer, but there’s a silvery quality like mercury to the very best.’

  ‘They sound amazing, even without the sapphire.’

  ‘They are unique. Priceless. Irreplaceable, dating back to the thirteenth century.’

  He blew a soft whistle, genuinely impressed. ‘I think you need to eat.’

  ‘I think you need to stop mothering me,’ she cautioned but with the softest smile he’d seen from her since their conversation had begun.

  ‘It feels good to look after someone.’

  ‘Is there no one in your life?’

  ‘No one I choose to spend my life with, other than family.’

  ‘But you live in France. Why?’

  ‘Anonymity.’ It was only a half lie.

  She shook her head, looking back at him slightly perplexed. He sensed Katerina knew when a person needed their privacy; she’d presumably spent a lifetime guarding hers.

  ‘Well, you’re a good listener, Daniel.’

  He liked to hear her say his name.

  ‘You know more about me than any other living person,’ she admitted. ‘And I’m not sure how it’s happened.’ She waggled her finger. ‘You have cast a spell on me.’

  No, just a particular and well-honed set of skills, he thought.

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I allowed the memories such free rein.’

  He waited.

  ‘It’s out now and I have no experience of how to pull it back into its box. I shall share it with you now and then perhaps I shall feel unburdened and able to walk away from it. Is it possible, I wonder?’ she said now almost to herself, fork held in long fingers. ‘That in getting it out, releasing all the pain, I can let it go? Perhaps not fully, but maybe I can live a life that doesn’t taste so constantly bitter.’ She gave him an unexpected and genuinely warm smile. ‘I’m rambling to myself.’

  ‘And the Ottoman Pearls?’

  Her damaged gaze cut back from the window and acros
s the table to him, sharp as cat claws. ‘I don’t know.’

  He heard only the truth in her uncertainty.

  ‘Apart from your family, who knows of their existence?’

  ‘My parents didn’t make a habit of discussing them and certainly not of revealing them to people. They were a showpiece and hardly something you’d pull on for an evening. They were an heirloom to be passed down, worn maybe once, perhaps twice on special occasions by the fortunate woman of the line.’

  ‘You care about them, surely? I mean, they’re yours.’

  ‘They were meant for me. I’ve never taken ownership of them. I’ve never put them on since the day my mother placed them around me to demonstrate how they should be worn.’

  ‘You want to claim them, though, right?’

  ‘Do I?’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘I’m not convinced I need them in my life. They would only reinforce what I’ve lost and potentially become a fresh curse on a life that needs no more pain. I wouldn’t have occasion to wear them, I wouldn’t ever sell them, I wouldn’t even want to look upon them, so there’s no point.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You can’t walk in my shoes,’ she said, her tone sad.

  ‘I want to try. Finish your salad and your life story for me. I need to know it … all of it.’

  ‘I can’t eat any more.’

  He looked at her plate of food, rummaged with but still nearly as full as when it had arrived.

  ‘I insist you nibble on some more tuna and eat the boiled egg.’

  ‘You’re such a bully, Daniel.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Right, eat while I order some coffee and then I want you to take us back to the moment Ruda walked in on you playing the piano.’