The Diamond Hunter Read online

  Clem chuckled. If only Mrs Chattoway knew.

  A gentleman opened the door. A bell sounding overhead announced her arrival, and then door was locked behind her.

  ‘We can’t be too careful these days,’ he said with a self-conscious shrug, noticing the query in her expression. ‘You must be Miss Grant? Mr Izak is expecting you. Please go through.’

  Clem saw a smiling couple, clearly about to become engaged – the woman was trying on a ring as the man behind the counter beamed. Another gentleman was frowning at a ring, as if trying to decide whether the lady it was intended for would like it. She heard the assistant murmur softly, ‘We do have a marvellous oval emerald if you think the sapphire is too dark. Together with the diamonds it would look exquisite.’

  There weren’t only rings on offer, of course. Clementine knew Izak’s was just as capable of selling a magnificent strand of pearls, a ruby necklace, an opal brooch or a dazzling bracelet of amethyst, as catering to the engagement and wedding market.

  The assistant who’d welcomed her was guiding her down a small entrance hall to the back, where some steps led up to what she presumed was the house. She was relieved that this was to be an intimate conversation. A small man with a jolly glint in his wise eyes met them at the top of the stairs, where they widened onto a landing. He was wearing a tailored morning suit with a high collar that was crisply starched, as were his cuffs.

  ‘I’m Sammy Izak. Welcome to my home, Miss Grant.’

  She stepped past the deep mahogany door into a panelled drawing room that was painted in a soothing duck-egg blue, with moulded plaster cornices. It spoke of wealth, and at first glance she sensed only restraint. Granted, the decorative shields competed with gilded carvings, and the heavy velvet curtains of navy blue surrounding the elegant windows were tied in place with ostentatious golden ropes, but beyond that there was no crowding of ornaments – the only possessions were books. A fire burned gently within the pale marble fireplace. Coves on either side were loaded with leather-bound books: so many she could smell the soft animal hide. A table beneath one of the windows acted as a desk, and upon it, Clem noted, was a cabinet within which jewellery glinted. Perhaps this was where Mr Izak checked the final pieces in daylight before they were sent downstairs for one more polish. Other plain mahogany doors were closed that led off elsewhere. This was Mr Izak’s private domain. It was a large space, presumably covering most of the shop below, with two seating areas. An arrangement of sofas close to the fireplace felt intimate and social. Instead, her host guided her to a different area inhabited by four armchairs clustered around a low table.

  She rarely felt nervous, priding herself on her composure in all situations. But not today.

  ‘Miss Grant,’ Mr Izak said, offering her a seat. ‘It’s an honour.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine, together with my gratitude that you have allowed me to meet with you here.’

  ‘Well, I admit to being intrigued.’

  She smiled, wondering if he would be feeling quite as cheerful after she finished telling him why they were meeting. Seated, pulling off her gloves, she sighed, looking for the right way to start. ‘I feel it will sit between us if I don’t apologise for May 1883.’

  He grinned, knowing precisely why she had raised the date. ‘Nothing to apologise for.’

  ‘I’m not one much for parties and balls now, but I was really rather objectionable on the topic when I was eighteen. These days I am far more reasonable and can be persuaded to attend social gatherings that matter to others. You see, that’s what I was missing about Queen Charlotte’s Ball – how much it mattered to my uncle to see me make my debut during the London season.’

  ‘I am not a betting man, Miss Grant, but I would happily wager that Mr Grant wouldn’t think any less of you because of it.’

  ‘Thank you. Mr Izak —’

  ‘Call me Sammy. I insist.’ It felt instantly awkward because the man was three times her age, and though known to be modest, he was one of the legends whispered about in jewellers’ circles. ‘Please, I do prefer it. Everyone calls me Sammy.’

  Clem didn’t feel ready to jump right in, so she remained on the solid ground of small talk. ‘I believe you made my grandmother’s engagement ring.’

  ‘I certainly did. Lilian Hatherby, before she married your grandfather. She was a tough taskmaster – she wanted it just so,’ he said, smiling benevolently. ‘But you, my dear, are the image of your mother. The likeness is astonishing.’

  ‘You knew her?’ This was an unexpected surprise, but of course she hadn’t known her mother long enough to learn such history.

  ‘I made the tiara that Louisa Grant wore as a debutante for her Queen Charlotte Ball.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that! I’m sorry – my grandmother never mentioned it.’

  He waved this away and continued his recollection. ‘Your mother needed no adornment, to tell you the truth. She was a great beauty with a spirit to match.’ His voice was like runny caramel: sweet and smooth. It relaxed her to be with him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Clem said, feeling suddenly emotional to meet a stranger who’d perhaps known her mother better than she had.

  ‘Now, I have brewed some fresh coffee. Please?’

  ‘I do mean it – thank you, Sammy, for meeting me under all this secrecy.’

  He poured her coffee into a glass, which she found novel and delightful. ‘Your grandfather and I go back. You probably don’t know that I introduced your grandparents to each other.’ He sipped on his coffee and nodded to himself as if approving of the flavour.

  ‘I did not know that,’ Clem replied, trying to mask her amazement.

  ‘It was many years ago, when your grandfather’s head was a mass of thick, yellow hair. He was such a scallywag. Your beautiful grandmother was never going to resist him or his charm and ambition.’

  Clem sipped her coffee and savoured its rich, chocolatey roast. ‘My uncle’s version of Henry Grant doesn’t quite match up to yours.’

  Sammy chuckled, almost to himself. ‘It isn’t always helpful to swell a son’s ego. Better to keep him striving for his father’s approval – especially such a wealthy father as his. Meanwhile, to his confidants, he was concerned for Reggie’s waywardness but privately he was impressed with his son’s clever mind.’ Now he tapped his nose as if to say her grandfather was wise.

  She wished Uncle Reggie knew this, but there was nothing she could do to save the soured relationship he’d had with his father. ‘And . . . and your family, Sammy?’

  ‘All well, and expanding. I have eight grandchildren now. They run me ragged but life would be far poorer without them. So, Miss Grant —’

  ‘Fair is fair, Sammy,’ she interjected. ‘I prefer Clementine.’

  He gave a gracious nod. ‘Please do tell me how I can help you.’

  She couldn’t avoid it any longer. Clementine laid out her thoughts methodically. Sammy remained silent throughout, nodding now and then to show he was listening carefully. At last she sat back, feeling somehow grubbily treacherous for having shared her dilemma.

  ‘What you’re asking surely risks damaging your relationship with your uncle. Are you prepared for that?’

  ‘I’ve made my peace with it over a restless night, Sammy. I really cannot tolerate that something that belonged to my father might have been taken from him dishonestly. And if there is nothing to discover, then my uncle will be none the wiser to our conversation.’

  ‘And it wouldn’t be easier on your heart to ignore what is little more than suspicion and let life be? You have both already seen your fair share of sorrow.’

  She opened her palms helplessly. ‘And wonder forevermore if he stole something? I could wish the notion had never been put into my head, but now that it’s there it won’t leave. It has to be addressed.’

  ‘You will need confirmation that the diamonds were in your toy and not left behind; you will have to prove theft, Clementine,’ he said. ‘Do you still have connections in Kimberley?’


  She shook her head. ‘But I know someone who does,’ she replied, presuming Will would be happy to oblige.

  ‘All right, good. Now, be assured, I have no intention of making inquiries about Mr Grant – that is not my place – but I can make inquiries in connection with the diamond you mention.’

  ‘I feel I’m betraying him even by saying this but I know he’s familiar with Amsterdam; I often wondered why he travelled there. His excuse was that it’s a city his mother took him to as a child and he remembers being happy there, but it doesn’t take much of a leap to work out why if we believe he stole the diamonds.’

  Sammy nodded. ‘The smaller ones are less problematic, and if he had the right connections then no questions would be asked and they could be quickly turned into cash. However, if this diamond is as big as you recall, then we’re talking about a fortune here. He could not have rid himself of it as easily, if indeed at all.’

  ‘Sammy, I know I was a child when I last saw it but I am not exaggerating when I say it’s as large as a golf ball.’

  Sammy gave a low whistle. ‘There have been some big ones, especially early on when diamonds were first discovered in the Cape, but they’re rare now and so they tend to cause quite the commotion. He couldn’t have rid himself of it through normal channels, even in Amsterdam – the world of gemstones would have erupted. Nevertheless, let’s say he moved through an underworld in Europe and it’s gone. I can assure you it would have been turned into a dozen or more pieces by now. It would not be recognisable.’

  ‘It hasn’t gone,’ she countered confidently. ‘The person who put this doubt in my mind is a business associate of my uncle’s. I do believe that he may have cause to be anxious about my uncle’s financial security. It’s not in his best interests – business or personal – to turn me against my uncle, or to stir up problems. In fact, the contrary.’

  ‘So he didn’t share his concerns lightly, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly. I think he might hate himself for it, but his conscience wouldn’t permit otherwise.’

  ‘I see. And now neither will yours.’

  ‘Not until I clear Uncle Reggie’s name. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway. I don’t want any shadow hanging over him, especially in the circles my friend moves in.’

  There was a soft knock at the door and Sammy’s assistant stepped in. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Izak, Miss Grant, but a Mrs Chattoway has arrived.’

  They stood and shook hands.

  ‘I shall be in touch, Clementine,’ Sammy said with a gracious bow. ‘Ben will see you out. I have plenty to think on now, and some telephone calls to make immediately.’

  Back downstairs, Clementine set aside the hollow feeling she was experiencing at going behind Uncle Reggie’s back and pasted on a smile for her beaming neighbour.

  ‘Oh, my dear – a private consultation with Mr Izak. How did it go?’

  ‘Excellent, thank you. He’s thinking on some ideas for me.’

  ‘Marvellous. I have a carriage waiting. Off to Bond Street, then?’

  Clementine followed her chaperone to the carriage and let Mrs Chattoway speak on; she was conveying some apparently juicy gossip about the family who lived across the street from them in Holland Park. Clementine didn’t know who these people were so she didn’t feel guilty about even pretending to listen. It was dull, anyway – something about suspicions to do with legitimacy – but it kept Elspeth entertained and allowed Clem to disappear into her own thoughts as her companion gossiped on. ‘And you know I’ve long suspected that the son looked nothing like the father.’

  They were passing through the most populated part of the City. She noted that although ready-to-wear suits were now commonly available from gentlemen’s outfitters, it was obvious that the typical man who walked around these well-mannered streets had his own tailor. Dark suits with frockcoats and increasingly narrow trousers were still the norm. She wondered if Will wore a swallowtail frockcoat for his work; the shape was enjoying a small revival, it seemed.

  They look like a murder of crows, Clem thought, glancing around at the moving shapes in black and charcoal. Top hats and walking canes completed the look of busy birds, some with umbrellas in case this November day should turn wet on them. The word murder popping into her mind gave her a new and terrifying thought.

  Murder? It whispered across her mind and she was horror-struck by its potential.

  Surely not. Clem dismissed the thought but could not unthink it, and so it sat at the edge of her consciousness, staring accusingly her way. She deliberately made herself focus on Elspeth’s conversation.

  ‘. . . of course, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Pardon me? Sorry, my thoughts wandered.’

  ‘I was saying, dear girl, that I was unaware that the beautiful chocolates that Charbonnel et Walker make are numbered. That’s how seriously Mrs Walker takes her chocolate-making.’

  ‘I just love the boxes and the satin ribbons,’ Clementine remarked, deliberately vacuous, and it prompted a fresh outpouring of joy and chatter from her friend that helped pass the journey and distract her thoughts.

  Clementine sat in her favourite spot in the London house, stretched on a day bed next to the ancient window screen originally from Damascus, which allowed her to look down into the hallway from the first-floor room that had always been called the Arabic Chamber. It was a moody nook with a single lamp for reading, providing a comfy, dark corner in which she could hide from the world. She’d always liked that she could watch the movements of the house – its staff, the comings and goings of visitors, her uncle shifting from his study through to the drawing room – and no one would know she was there. But she wasn’t sitting here to follow the ebb and flow of the household. It had only a skeleton staff while she was its only occupant; right now she was eating little and the two staff on duty had realised they should leave her to her quiet.

  She had not yet heard back from Sammy Izak. It had been a week since she’d closed the door on Will Axford and his painful words.

  A day that she could have held up as the happiest she’d had in a decade had somehow spiralled into the worst. It had left her feeling uncharacteristically angry, but mostly she felt let down.

  Like most other women, she dreamed of finding a companion for life with whom she would enjoy making a family and a home, yet she was aware she had a reputation for being contrary and, difficult to get close to. It was deliberate. She and Uncle Reggie often laughed about it – not unkindly, for they were all earnest, well-bred and highly suitable young men who had pursued her, but each was dull in his own stuffy way.

  Will Axford was just as conservative, of course. Everything about his life had been founded on privilege, but she had discovered aspects of Will that she found irresistible. He continued to work hard at impressing the father whose affection he craved. In this he was like Uncle Reggie, but without the bitterness. She saw his vulnerability and understood his desire to embrace modern thinking without snubbing all the factors that had given him such an affluent life. Plus, only a true romantic could dream up a visit to the butterfly house and Primrose Hill. He’d taken a chance and left himself open to ridicule, perhaps, for these were not excursions most spinsters would have thought worthy.

  Perhaps most revealing of all, Will hadn’t tried to impress her with his wealth, his status, his connections, or the power accorded to his family name. Most men who had attempted to romance her had been slightly intimidated by her wealth as well as excited by it. They hadn’t been able to see – as Will had from the outset – that she wanted for nothing material. What she wanted was romance, sincerity, and a future based on love and respect.

  With Will she’d eaten sandwiches on a cold hill and swigged cognac from a hip flask. They’d huddled under an old picnic blanket and named the stars. She couldn’t imagine an eligible partner who could be more in tune with what might delight her than him. And then, the kiss. Kisses, she reminded herself, feeling a fresh tug deep within, which demanded more of those and
only from Will. Previous objects of her affection had been far too needy. It was different with Will – the kisses were shared. It felt like she imagined love should. He kissed her in a way that said he wanted nothing more from her but for this kiss to last a lifetime, and for her faith in him to last beyond that.

  And Clem had fallen. She no longer needed to be wary; this was the man she had hoped would find her one day . . . or she him.

  With Will awaited a grand love of the kind her parents had shared.

  But then . . . such treachery. It hurt more than any pain she could recall.

  He had also enraged her, and the anger transformed the hurt and turned it into regret. Her temper was still simmering. She wanted answers. She needed to look him in the eye, fully composed, and demand his explanation. She had to admire his wisdom for giving her a few days to find that composure and her perspective. Then they could at least speak as calm adults.

  A week, though. That was bordering on snubbing her. Well, she would give him this last day, but if he failed to turn up or impress her with his explanation, she would return to Woodingdene Estate tomorrow and Will Axford would not be welcome on her doorstep again.

  He tested her resolve. For another two hours she read impatiently for distraction before she heard a knock on the front door, almost directly below her. The housekeeper duly arrived, stepping lightly across the tiles, checking a watch she kept hanging from a fob in the pocket of her dark uniform.

  Clementine heard the door click open.

  ‘Good morning, sir?’

  ‘Good morning. Is Miss Grant at home, please?’

  She flinched at his kind, slightly gritty voice. Had he heard her private ultimatum?

  ‘It’s Mr Axford, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Do come in, Mr Axford. I shall inquire. You can wait in the vestibule here. May I take your hat and umbrella?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Clem listened to footsteps and then shuffling beneath her. Will came into view, and she helplessly let her gaze take stock of the man she had just been pondering.