The Diamond Hunter Page 19

  Will laughed. ‘Maybe I shall. For now, though, Reggie, let’s talk about this latest venture of yours. It’s certainly audacious. Risk insurance, you say? I understand risk, of course, but tell me what you understand.’ He signalled to the waiter to bring coffee.

  ‘Well, now, Will. Lloyd’s is looking beyond the marine insurance it has been so deeply invested in, and I would imagine that finding new and creative ideas is at the forefront of the minds of canny underwriters, particularly the new breed like you.’

  ‘My father would not touch anything but marine.’

  Reggie shook his cigar fingers at Will. ‘But you would, Will. I know it. And you must, if you’re to survive and flourish into the new century. Anyway, to the entrepreneur of today’s Britain, what we see ahead right now is progress and prosperity.’ He swept a hand, trailing cigar smoke. ‘We own an empire!’

  Will nodded, letting Reggie speak as coffee was quietly poured and the waiter withdrew. ‘Corsets are loosening, the old chophouses now fashion themselves as fine dining establishments, coffee houses turn into restaurants, and people spend, spend, spend in their new mood for luxury and ostentation.’ Reggie laughed. ‘I know all about it because my father led this charge well before his time.’

  Will agreed; it was true that the wealthy in these good times were looking to spend on all manner of new forms of entertainment and consumer goods.

  ‘Music halls and theatres shot up at the beginning of this decade like daffodils in spring, Will. Glamorous new hotels, clubs and other establishments that take guests – well, there is going to be risk, whether it’s a failed theatrical presentation or a fire. The owners, the promoters, the participants, they all need insurance. You simply have to extend your thought. If a ship needs insurance for safe passage with lives and cargo to protect along with the vessel itself, why wouldn’t the Savoy Theatre need to insure its premises, its patrons, its productions, its people?’

  Will’s gaze narrowed. Reggie was certainly talking to his sensibilities, especially his modern approach to today’s commercial insurance. Despite his conservative upbringing, he wanted to be at the forefront – to take his firm into the new century strong and as a market leader.

  ‘Do you know, Will, I can see a time —’ he lifted a shoulder as though unsure — ‘not yet, I grant you, but some time not too far away, when insurance will stretch to underwriting the star tenor’s voice, the eyesight of an artist, the hearing of a composer – not that it bothered Beethoven – the legs of a ballerina —’

  Will began to laugh, stopping Reggie mid-flow. ‘I hope I’m alive to witness that,’ he said, sipping his coffee, genuinely amused.

  ‘Oh, you may jest, but mark my words.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you, Reggie. I know you’ve a sharp mind for business opportunity and I suspect you’ve inherited your father’s talent for anticipating tastes and fashions before the rest of us. The point is, however, that you are likely well ahead of your time.’

  ‘I’ll take that compliment, Will Axford,’ Reggie said, beaming. ‘And for now I content myself with suggesting to you that we work with theatrical companies. They need insurance against potential disasters, from starlets breaking an ankle to fire closing not just a show but the theatre itself.’

  ‘I don’t disagree. Certainly, it is a concept I’m prepared to seriously consider.’

  ‘Is that a diplomatic way of saying no, Will, because you’re not prepared to risk offending your father? Rather odd for a member of the new generation to be resistant to change.’

  ‘I just need to do some research and canvassing of my own.’

  ‘Well, don’t take too long. I plan to put money into some big shows this year.’

  The coffee was drunk. It was time to get back to the City and the frenzy of Lloyd’s.

  ‘Come to dinner with the theatre folk. We can start seeding the idea over champagne and happy conversation.’

  ‘Reggie, we should talk about how you will fund your part in it.’

  ‘Is my line of credit in question?’

  Here we go, Will thought, softly, softly. ‘No, it’s not that. My father is a cautious man, as you well know. And the moment I broach the subject of insurance beyond ships, he’s going to shut down. His memory is long, Reggie. He will immediately remind me of your insolvency.’

  ‘Of two decades ago?’ Reggie sounded incredulous.

  Will sighed. ‘Your insolvency was not a secret.’

  ‘It was not my insolvency. I had to take the reins after my father died. Keep in mind my sister had just died too. My stepmother was dying and I had a tiny niece orphaned in the African desert that I journeyed to rescue. Despite all that family drama I still resolved the debt I inherited.’

  ‘I’m sorry I have to ask.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why this is important now.’

  ‘Because my father has the memory of an elephant. And any business I propose that links you to our firm will inevitably trigger the conversation about Millwall Iron Works.’

  ‘Heavens! Even I’ve forgotten that disaster – and I didn’t make the deal. My father did!’

  Will waited.

  Reggie began speaking slowly, as though forcing his breathing to remain calm. ‘While in Africa, I funded some diamond diggings. It was a long shot but I was hearing about nothing but success at the Big Hole.’ He pressed his cigar hard into the ashtray on the table. The motion was an angry one. ‘When I arrived, a new seam in the diamond funnel had just been discovered. Men were nearly hysterical at their claims. My own brother-in-law was one of them, working himself to death.’

  ‘I had no idea about this.’

  ‘No, well, why should you? I met a skeletal, feverish drunk when I travelled out there to visit my sister’s grave. James Knight died a few days after I arrived.’

  ‘Clementine was lucky to have you there.’

  ‘Yes, I feel it was Fate pushing us together. To this day I don’t know what she lived on. It looked to me like fresh air and laughter. Anyway.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Someone who had exhausted his funds sold me his claim for a song. And I guess I just brought luck with me because two days after I took over the claim, the man I’d employed to dig for me unearthed a splendid cache of roughs. I brought them back, sold a few and restored balance to the books.’ He shrugged, lifting his hands to emphasise he had nothing more to say on the topic. ‘That’s it.’

  Will didn’t feel entirely satisfied but before he could prod further, his companion leaned in and fixed him with a stare.

  ‘You really must meet Clementine, Will. She has had a very solid idea that I think you could help her with . . . and benefit from. I told her I’d introduce you.’

  Ah, so that’s what the photo and the tender history lesson were all about. Will kept his expression neutral. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I mentioned her interest in jewellery but she has a specific and perhaps predictable leaning towards diamonds. Clementine has been preparing to approach various parties about an idea to reduce risk in the diamond industry. I think your professional expertise would be wisely accepted – and there’s money to be made, Will.’

  He blinked. ‘You wish me to have a business meeting with your 29-year-old niece?’

  Reggie exploded into laughter. ‘Watch out, Will. That starched collar is creating a visible red mark. People like Clementine will shake off their petticoats and probably run the bloody country.’

  Will looked around to see who might be listening. He turned back to see Reggie grinning. The man spoke in a softer voice. ‘Meet her.’

  ‘Humour her?’

  ‘Heavens, no! Have you not listened? This is a modern woman with modern ideas. I promised her I knew someone her age who might be willing to listen to her proposal.’

  ‘Is it going to upset my father?’

  ‘Most definitely,’ Reggie replied with glee. ‘And it’s about time you cast off your own blinkers, Will. Her Majesty won’t live forever, and the heir apparent is a man for the age. H
e’ll bring innovations when he wears the crown.’

  It felt like advice to ruminate on. Reggie’s ideas were like a powerful current through him, lighting up his mind so he could see a clearer path. And it wasn’t marine insurance – it was finding new avenues for risk cover. Only in the last few days he had been pondering the potential for insurance against burglary. A spate of violent break-ins in London had prompted residents to call for police to be armed with proper weapons; a corps of vigilantes had even been proposed. Will’s thoughts, however, had roamed to insurance against the risk of theft. It was so audacious he hadn’t yet dared mention it to his father, but listening to Reggie’s smirking criticism he felt freshly motivated to act on his idea. If he didn’t, someone else would. The wretched Rupert Perkins was always sniffing around in the underwriting room, hoping to eavesdrop on unsuspecting merchants and perhaps pick up ideas he could cash in on.

  ‘All right, Reggie. I shall meet with your niece.’

  ‘Excellent decision. Come up to Woodingdene. How is your weekend after next?’

  Will smiled. ‘I am free, as far as I know.’

  ‘Take the train. It’s a marvellous journey – I’ll send the coach to pick you up on Saturday. You’ll get in around noon. Lunch on the lawns if the weather’s kind. Should be splendid.’

  How could he refuse now? ‘Fine.’

  ‘Leave this with me. I’ll settle up,’ Reggie said, waving him on. ‘You must need to get back to the office.’

  Will stood and the waiter was at his side to pull away his chair. Out of habit Will began dusting himself down of any crumbs. ‘I do, but —’

  Reggie gave a tutting sound. ‘See you in the north, Will. Bring warm clothes and stout shoes.’ He held out a hand, its nails neatly trimmed and buffed.

  Will shook it. ‘Thank you for lunch.’

  ‘The least I could do, dear boy.’ He turned to the waiter. ‘Please tell the chef the cod was beautifully cooked, but just on the lemon sauce . . .’

  Will departed, moving through the large dining room. The crystals of the chandeliers threw their light upwards so the whole space was bathed in a muted sunshine glow of wellbeing and calm. Its wall sconces and softly burnished timber walls created a warm, cosy atmosphere that could trick the luncheon patrons into losing their sense of time.

  So why didn’t he feel that way as he left Reggie Grant and his assurances in the restaurant?

  ‘Slice of stilton, sir, before you leave?’

  Reggie couldn’t stomach another morsel. Throughout the luncheon his belly had been churning and he had felt nauseous throughout. Will Axford was a sharp young operator but a careful one. The prod about Millwall had been particularly painful, cutting deep to where Reggie’s fears lived. Nevertheless, his performance had been solid gold . . . diamond, even. He allowed himself a smile and turned it on the deferential servant awaiting his instruction. ‘I won’t, but thank you. Big meal coming up this evening with friends.’

  ‘Right you are, sir. Should I put this on the account?’

  ‘If you would.’

  The waiter shuffled off in his polished shoes and Reggie was reminded that the man with the ever-helpful demeanour could so easily have been him. His life must be one of forced cheer, laughing at jokes he didn’t find funny, hoping for that big tip, and probably getting by on little sleep and lean pickings while the hotel’s customers ate like kings.

  His thoughts shifted and he privately congratulated himself on how adroitly he’d redirected young Axford from arguing for financial stability to considering new forms of insurance. It was a double coup, drawing Will into the web he was cleverly spinning. Now all he had to do was ensure the two young people became such excellent companions they couldn’t imagine life without each other, and then he would have Will Axford in his back pocket. The man was hardly going to feel inclined to ruin his father-in-law.

  Regarding the more urgent matter of his almost certain insolvency within the year, he would need to act swiftly. At least he’d not had to confront that with Will – and if Axford didn’t know, then the greater financial community had not sniffed the rot . . . not yet.

  It seemed he’d inherited more than just his father’s predilection for speculating. He’d also absorbed the old man’s audacious taste for investing at the highest possible point of risk. This approach could mean either great rewards or crippling losses. His father had enjoyed years of reward but Reggie, it seemed, was less adept. He had the will and the passion but not the skill to know what might win or what might fail. He put it down to the era he had been born into. It had all been so much easier for his father.

  He refused to accept that his investments were rash to the point of being suicidal. And then there was the gambling. It was astonishing how that ‘distraction’, as he liked to think of it, had trapped him in its grip. It had all seemed such fun – simple entertainment, even. But now his gentleman bookmaker was calling in the debt and the less gentlemanly men he played cards with were making rumbling threats. His liabilities were mounting up around him.

  If Will Axford even caught a whiff of the true extent of his debts, he would not only close all lines of credit but would no doubt bring hell down on Reggie and all his business dealings. Will was that sort of man: the kind with a conscience and a moral fire within.

  Reggie thought about what potentially lay ahead if he was found out. It frightened him. Would she remember? She rarely spoke about Africa these days; in truth she’d barely spoken about it since she first set eyes on Woodingdene and fell under her grandmother’s spell for those few bright weeks. And then, her heart broken once again, it was into the arms of her uncle, who had soothed her and made promises. He had worked hard over the years to push Africa from her mind, removing all reminders, burying her early childhood with each new summer bringing new frocks, picnics, friends’ birthday parties and distance. It was that last he was most interested in.

  By the time she’d been presented at court, Clementine had taken her mother’s surname – although he preferred to think of it as his, because he thought of her as his daughter, anyway – and her only link to the desert was her love of diamonds.

  He’d had one of the roughs cut and polished for every birthday, so by the time she turned twenty-one she had sufficient diamonds in the bank to make a magnificent bracelet. Reggie couldn’t fathom his luck that Clementine, who had proven herself to be relentlessly sharp and forever curious, had never asked about the provenance of those diamonds. She had simply believed him when he said that her father’s diamonds had been lost in the drama following his death.

  Even so, this fortunate situation sat like an anxious shadow in the background of his life. Clementine’s questions about Africa had given way to melancholia at losing both parents and being wrenched away from the life she knew. He had kept her life busy, engaged, so filled with affection and activities that a young child could hardly fail to enjoy it, and soon enough the questions had stopped, the memories had faded and Africa was simply her past.

  But the truth was he’d never fully relinquished the fear that one day Clementine might decide to remember the diamonds in the ragdoll.

  16

  WOODINGDENE ESTATE, NORTHUMBERLAND

  November 1894

  Will Axford watched Reggie wince as he leaned on the walking stick.

  ‘Clem, perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing Will around the grounds?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, turning that dreamy-eyed gaze upon Will. He had not been wrong when he looked at that photograph a fortnight ago. ‘Mr Axford?’ She gestured towards the charming stone path that led down through the various levels of the surrounding garden.

  Will was not one to lose his head over anyone or anything, but since his gaze had first lighted on Clementine Grant he’d felt a powerful attraction he had been fighting for the past hour since coffee and sandwiches had been served in one of the many drawing rooms of Woodingdene.

  ‘We call this the Vase Room,’ Clementine had said, relaxed and immediat
ely easy in his company. He’d noticed her hand did not shake as she poured him his coffee and she had not lowered her gaze when offering him some of the delicacies she admitted she had helped to prepare. She was not in the slightest intimidated by his presence.

  ‘Your sandwiches are most delicious, thank you. And the staff don’t feel awkward about you being downstairs?’

  She immediately made him feel stuffy by letting out a soft laugh. ‘I don’t run that old-fashioned sort of household, Mr Axford. Besides, I’ve been a general nuisance in the kitchens since I was seven. I’m like a much-loved old saucepan down there.’

  Hardly a saucepan! Clementine Grant looked unlike any of the beauties he’d been associated with previously, and she looked ten years younger than her age. There was something unusually confident about her. Her eyes, which were larger than he’d first assumed, were a rare shade of green-grey, reminding him of a valley mist he’d been driven through on his approach to Woodingdene. Within minutes of being in her company he knew that her looks, though mesmerising, were irrelevant. More importantly, he felt he was in the presence of a woman the like of whom he had never encountered before.

  It was not that he considered himself especially handsome – though he was ribbed by old friends and colleagues that it was only because of his looks that he’d got anywhere. And it was not that he believed himself to be such a catch, despite plenty of women waiting for the elusive card announcing that Mr William Axford had come to call. It was simply that he was a target for many families looking to make the ideal marriage: he was young, healthy, possessed good teeth and had his features all in the right place. His surname snapped many to attention, his financial status part of the strong appeal to parents, and his connections and status were impeccable. He was the ideal husband for the ambitious woman being married off.

  ‘You’re very independent, aren’t you?’ he’d said, accidentally letting his thoughts become audible.