The Diamond Hunter Read online

  ‘Have you eaten his pies?’

  ‘No. Chances are they contain cats or dogs . . . or both.’ He winked.

  Clem was aware of how close he leaned. She could smell the sweet lemon scent of his shaving soap. She closed her eyes and she was back in Africa, just for a moment, standing and watching her father shave using the identical soap. She couldn’t conjure his face, only his hands. They were large and the fingernails were grubby; her mother must have died by then or he would have taken more care. The flash of the cutthroat razor reflected sunlight slicing its way through a thin gap in the corrugated-iron walls of their shanty. And then the fleeting vision was gone. To cover the suck of her disappointed breath, she spoke quickly into the pause she’d created. ‘Tell me about these women to whom you referred earlier.’ What an odd question, she privately berated herself. Where did that come from, Clem?

  ‘What can I say? The women I seem to come into contact with are either vacuous spinsters scheming towards the ideal marriage, or they’re raging suffragettes who are just plain scary.’

  She laughed aloud. ‘Priceless but cruel.’

  Will shrugged. ‘Much worse are the elder women in these circles, who hover like vultures. They’ve turned their youngsters into women who think snaring a man with status and wealth is more important than any happiness.’ He shook his head. ‘All of that said, I don’t blame them – they will of course do their utmost to ensure their daughters and grand-daughters make the best unions. But they all but sneer at the notion of love, and especially compatibility. It’s not something to which they encourage their girls to aspire. To me, marriage has to be about enjoyable companionship first. If I’m going to spend my life with someone, I want to truly like her. Not just how she looks or how she treats me – I want to like the person she is: how she thinks, her aspirations, how she moves through the world.’

  ‘Gosh, Will, that sounds daunting.’

  He pressed his lips together with resignation. ‘Hence no marriage, and me moving towards my thirty-second birthday, much to my father’s despair. He wants grandchildren – grandsons, to be specific.’

  ‘Girls not good enough, eh?’

  ‘He’s old-school, Clementine. And because my mother died soon after my brother was born – and died – he hasn’t had anyone to counter his gruff, rather medieval attitude.’

  She smiled sadly for him. His upbringing made more sense when he put it into context. She hadn’t known he too was motherless or that he’d lost his brother. Maybe that began to explain his often-sad expression.

  ‘Must’ve been hard growing up with a tough father and no mother.’

  ‘No harder than for you without your parents, Clementine.’

  ‘Yes, but I was loved, Will. Adored. My uncle knows no bounds when it comes to me, and I don’t say that with any pride. But I do love him back with all of my heart.’ She didn’t understand why something akin to pain ghosted across his earnest face. He looked away, trying to dodge her notice, but she saw it nonetheless.

  ‘Now, my Aunt Esme is quite the character. She’s my father’s sister and the antithesis of him. I think you’ll enjoy her.’

  They’d moved well and truly out of the city now and were skirting Regent’s Park.

  ‘Oh, I see where we are,’ she said. ‘London Zoo is over there.’

  ‘Correct. And we are but minutes away now from Primrose Hill. The whole region was originally part of one of Henry VIII’s famous chases. It was purchased from Eton, actually, about half a century back to extend parkland for the poor of north London, so they could have open air space for recreation.’

  ‘I like that,’ she admitted. ‘Those of us who have must try harder for those who have not.’

  ‘Spoken like a true humanitarian.’

  ‘I do hope so, or what’s the point in being influential?’

  They turned into a wide street, its two sides separated by communal gardens in the middle. The tall terraced homes were picked out in pastel colours, as if they had been fashioned from ice-creams.

  ‘Oh, Will, it’s beautiful. Surely these inspired the doll’s houses that little girls play with.’

  He grinned. ‘You could be right. My aunt’s house is not one of these. Not quite so narrow.’

  Aunt Esme’s house turned out to be so splendidly large that it could have swallowed three of the terraces they’d been admiring. It sat alone among extensive grounds that backed onto open parkland.

  Will’s aunt came outside to meet them. Even from inside the carriage, to Clem it looked as though she were wearing a pair of curtains.

  ‘Oh, heavens. After our conversation I realise she really does look as if she’s torn down the bedroom drapes and thrown them on!’ Will admitted.

  Clem burst into astonished laughter. ‘Don’t be unkind,’ she admonished him.

  He helped her out of the carriage. ‘Thank you, driver.’ He’d already paid the man but flipped him a coin as a tip.

  ‘Oh, my darlings!’ Esme said, fluttering down the steps like a mother hen rounding up her chicks. ‘William,’ she said, offering both of her powdered cheeks for kissing. ‘Hug me, you wretch. It’s been far too long.’

  He obediently pulled his cooing aunt close as Clem readied herself for the onslaught.

  ‘And who is this delicious creature, Will?’

  ‘Aunt Esme, I’d like you to meet Clementine Grant.’

  ‘Grant? The Grants of Chester, or the Grants of Northumberland?’

  ‘The latter,’ Clem obliged, a little disappointed that his aunt seemed to possess the pretensions she found loathsome.

  ‘My dear girl, how wonderful. Your grandfather was born in an age that wasn’t ready for him.’

  That surprised Clem. She admonished herself for judging too fast. ‘So they say.’

  ‘I should warn you that my aunt rarely forgets anything. She reads the newspaper as you do, and that makes her a formidably well-informed dinner guest.’

  ‘It’s why I don’t get invited to dinner much any more, my darlings. I think I make the women feel uncomfortable and the men awkward. I just prefer intelligent conversation to banal chitchat. Now, dear Clementine – your name is as sprightly and pretty as you are . . .’ Will cut her a brief look of apology but Clem was now intrigued by his aunt. Besides, she made it sound more like an observation than a contrived compliment. ‘I was at court when your mother attended her first ball. She was a stunner and I don’t think the apple has fallen more than an inch from the tree.’

  ‘You knew my mother?’

  ‘I wish I had, my dear. I observed her, as many did, but she was in a space of her own – if I might put it that way? People could hardly tear their gaze from her.’

  Clem followed Will’s example and kissed his aunt on both cheeks. ‘Thank you for welcoming me to your home on such short notice.’

  ‘Nonsense. The pleasure’s mine. I love to have young people around me. Come in, come in.’

  She led them through the reception hall directly to an orangery that contained its own water garden; the sound of the water dribbling over a mound of mossy rocks was as soothing as it was attractive.

  ‘Oh my, Aunt Esme – I hope I may call you that?’

  Her elder nodded with pleasure.

  ‘This is very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you. I cannot claim the glory. This is all darling Freddie’s vision.’

  ‘Uncle Fred was a keen naturalist,’ Will explained. ‘He built this space so my aunt could admire the outdoor world, which tends towards inclemency, from the comfort of inside.’

  Aunt Esme sighed. ‘Freddie loved this outdoor room, but his real prize is somewhere Will shall take you after some refreshment.’ She dragged on a bell pull.

  ‘You look like the cat that’s licked the cream, Aunt Esme. What are you up to?’

  ‘Oh, you know me, Will. Sit, my dear.’

  Clem seated herself in a high-backed cane chair. ‘How lovely.’

  ‘My husband was a helpless traveller – like you
r grandfather. He collected these in India. The harlequin-pattern floor tiles are from Italy, and the pots are from China, the citrus trees from America . . . and on it goes. But you know plenty about all that, I’m sure, Clementine?’

  ‘I am surrounded both in London and in Northumberland by the world,’ she said in a breezy tone.

  ‘Oh, I wish Freddie were alive to hear you speak about it all. Ah, here comes our treat. Have you tasted the sponge cake named after our queen?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘Our recipe comes from the royal household. My cook used to work at the palace when she was much younger and she had access to this recipe. The jam is blackcurrant, from our garden.’

  Clem admired the two-tiered sponge being delivered by a smiling household servant: its top layer sat upon a cloud of whipped cream like a cumulous drifting upon an oozing sky of glistening black jelly. Icing sugar was dusted across its top. ‘That looks nothing short of sensational.’

  ‘Tastes even better. Yes, please, Holly, if you’d pour. With lemon or milk, Clementine? It’s a fine orange pekoe from Darjeeling.’

  ‘Just lemon. No sugar, thank you.’

  ‘I haven’t offered anything savoury because Will has asked me to pack a small picnic for you both.’

  ‘Has he?’ Clem replied, accepting her slice of cake from Holly. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes. He wants to surprise you, so I’ll leave it at that.’

  The Victoria sponge fulfilled its promise and soon they were all momentarily silenced, chewing on the plump and airy sugary confection which ultimately drew groans of pleasure.

  ‘This is so light and delicious,’ Clem admitted.

  ‘We should thank the heavens for the invention of baking powder,’ Esme said around another forkful of the cake.

  ‘And thank heavens for our cook, who knows how to use it,’ Will replied.

  Clementine was soon entirely under Esme’s spell. This was a woman after her own heart, who was far more interested in the world around her than her own private world of privilege.

  Their conversation roamed from the introduction of numbered plates for cars in France to the aim of liberation of Macedonia from the Ottoman Turks and the world’s fair in Chicago, which had been held the previous year to celebrate the four-hundredth anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the New World. There had been a sideshow and an amusement park, apparently, Esme exclaimed. The discussion moved on to reading and whether Will had read Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Adventure of the Final Problem’. He assured his aunt that he had. And their discussion came to its close on the topic of a pair of extraordinary Persian rugs known as the Ardabil Carpets.

  ‘Mid-sixteenth century,’ Esme said. ‘Freddie would have climbed over hot coals to view them. They’re in tatters, apparently, but they are likely to sacrifice one for the other so it can be preserved at the Victoria and Albert Museum.’

  ‘I would definitely wish to see that,’ Clementine admitted.

  ‘We shall go together, my dear. I gather they may call upon public funding, as the restoration is going to be exorbitant. It will take years, no doubt.’

  ‘That’s a promise,’ Clem assured her.

  ‘Well, Aunt Esme, thank you for this spread. I think it’s time to take Clementine through.’

  ‘Through to where?’ Clem wondered. ‘This is all so mysterious.’

  ‘Off you go, you two. Consider yourselves chaperoned. I shall be resting for an hour and then I have a dinner engagement. Bit of a journey by carriage, so I may not be here to see you off, but the picnic will be ready for you.’

  Clem glanced at the clock with its sonorous tick and wondered when this picnic would occur and why. It was already late afternoon but Will clearly had a plan.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear. This has been a true pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve enjoyed myself very much,’ Clem replied, hugging Aunt Esme and realising that beneath her billowy sleeves and heavy clothes the woman was rather hollow and fragile.

  ‘Aunt Esme, thank you as always,’ Will said, hugging his aunt tightly, then offering Clementine his arm. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I can’t wait. All this cloak-and-dagger has me intrigued.’

  ‘The honey is on the hallstand for you, Will,’ his aunt said in an airy tone as they walked away.

  ‘Honey?’ Clem repeated.

  ‘Be patient. You’ll find out.’

  21

  ‘Uncle Fred called this his “tropical house”,’ Will said, as they emerged around the corner of the building into the vast side gardens. The honey he carried glimmered like late-afternoon summer light, its colour reminiscent of those dying moments as the slipping sun kisses the world golden and daubs the fields with amber as dusk’s shadows start their march.

  If Clem had thought Aunt Esme’s orangery worth commenting on, this palatial glasshouse stole her breath. She stared at it in wonderment. It was a huge and gloriously decorative construction of metal and glass, yet it looked so spectacularly light that it appeared to hover above the ground. She must have murmured this aloud in her awe because Will was suddenly answering her thought.

  ‘Yes, I gather that was the effect he wanted, and you’ll understand when we go inside.’

  ‘The glazing is damp?’

  ‘We’re lucky it’s a cool day. Come on, I’ll let you discover why.’

  They stepped inside and Clem gasped at the breathless warmth.

  ‘Tropical garden; be warned. It’s humid in here but it’s worth it. Maybe you remember this heat from Africa.’

  ‘No,’ she said, unbuttoning her jacket, which already felt too clingy; she was unaware of the effect her gesture had on her companion. ‘It wasn’t a wet heat like this. It was fiercely dry.’ She was surprised how she could suddenly feel that ferocity of long ago, like a furnace in her mind. Her jaw fell open with surprise at the sight of a butterfly with a wingspan larger than her hand, dancing through the air.

  She gasped again. ‘Oh, Will!’

  He slid her a grin of genuine pleasure. ‘It’s my uncle’s butterfly house. Before he died he collected every specimen he could from around the world, and faithfully cossetted the cocoons and caterpillars to keep their species going. We have butterflies here from every continent, and my aunt employs a permanent butterfly keeper.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ she breathed in wonder, now noticing dozens more of the winged beauties. ‘But you’d lose so much heat through the glass, surely?’

  ‘You’re right, but Uncle Fred wanted everyone to gaze at the specimens and learn about the natural world. Some people are scared of flapping wings, so the glass makes it possible for all to enjoy it.’

  ‘Now there’s a humanitarian at heart.’

  ‘Come on. Let me show you.’

  He led her around the enormous space – as tall as it was wide, with the November day a broody presence above them. It felt as though they were floating in the sky, with so much glass surrounding them.

  ‘I adore this, Will. I feel like I’m in a fairytale cathedral.’

  ‘Excellent. Pleased to find something new for the girl who has everything.’

  ‘You have certainly impressed me.’ She breathed out a happy sigh as a butterfly landed on her arm. It was a tawny colour with cream shadings and what looked to be an eye staring back at her.

  ‘That’s called the owl butterfly. Caligo memnon, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, you dreadful show-off!’ she said, falling just a little bit deeper for his helpless charm.

  ‘I learned every species when I was growing up, so I have to show off to someone. Now, watch and see why it’s called the owl.’ He touched the wing softly and the gentle creature obliged, spreading both wings.

  ‘Oh!’ What looked to be an owl’s face with serious, staring eyes fixed her with a stern gaze. ‘How splendid,’ she exclaimed as her winged companion flapped away.

  ‘That one is from Central and South America, but look, here comes another – this on
e hails from Mexico through to the Peruvian mountains. It’s called Heliconius hecale, or Hecale longwing.’

  A startling orange and black butterfly with brilliant white spots danced past them.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she cooed.

  They entered the full space of the glasshouse, where palm trees bent their fronds, rhododendrons with glossy leaves provided settling spots, and tropical blooms offered nectar. The air moved with rapturous colour as butterflies from around the world flew in their erratic manner.

  Again, it was though Will could read her thoughts. ‘They have evolved to fly in this strangely non-linear style as a way to avoid predators. This way, their flight can’t be easily predicted.’

  ‘Clever little things,’ she said absently, mesmerised by a superb blue butterfly that shimmered around her. ‘Let me guess, South American?’

  ‘Bravo!’ he said. ‘Blue morpho. Ah, now, look at this beauty, called a tailed jay, this time from Asia.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen that shade of green before. It’s as though it carries its own light beneath its wings.’

  Will pointed. ‘Over there is a large tree nymph. And that one, sitting in the trumpet of that flower, it’s one of my personal favourites – its wings are so elegantly striped but exquisitely bright with those vivid red edges. Meet the scarlet Mormon, from the Philippines.’

  ‘Dazzling,’ she said, shaking her head and pointing to a blue, yellow and black butterfly. ‘Go on, show off.’

  ‘India leafwing, and there, a red lacewing, also from India.’ He turned back to her, looking oddly hesitant. ‘I’m so glad this has made you happy, but will you allow me to show you why I brought you here?’

  She nodded.

  He took her hand and she felt a spark of pleasure at the sensation of his skin against hers. Clem wanted to convince herself it was the humidity making her feel momentarily light-headed, but his sudden exclamation distracted her from pursuing the truth.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered, sounding triumphant. ‘Here is the Danaus chrysippus.’