The Diamond Hunter Read online

  ‘I know nothing about your family’s doings, Clementine,’ he began, his kind eyes darkening with sorrow. ‘But I do know that a remarkable stone in the rough has been quietly touted for private auction. This occurred in October, so about five weeks back. The gentleman offering this diamond said its origin was the Big Hole in Kimberley and that he’d owned it for nearly twenty years. He stipulated firmly that he did not want his name attached to its provenance. He wanted to remain entirely unconnected with it.’

  Clementine could swear she heard her throat click as if a padlock had been unlocked on a vault of angst.

  ‘But not its proceeds, presumably?’ Will chipped in.

  ‘No. He wanted to know the stone’s worth.’

  Clem sat mute while they spoke. It couldn’t be anyone but Uncle Reggie, could it?

  ‘And its value?’ Will continued.

  ‘He was told that if it lived up to its promise, it would likely be turned into one very large, exquisite stone, and then a series of smaller stones that could either be split up and sold separately or form a necklace with the large one as a centrepiece. The price that would likely be put on it is staggering. I dare not repeat it. It runs into many scores of thousands.’

  ‘Did the gentleman in question have a name for this rough?’ Clem asked.

  Sammy looked back at her, puzzled. ‘No mention of that.’

  Will leaned in. ‘Do we have a description of the seller?’

  ‘No. As far as anyone can tell me, he was simply well-spoken, well-dressed, well-mannered. He was keen to exchange the diamond for money swiftly. This naturally draws suspicion.’

  ‘A name, surely?’

  ‘James Milton is the name he gave.’

  Will nodded and repeated it, as if hoping that by doing so he could bring the man into focus.

  Clem heard a thin voice of doubt in her mind.

  James, your father’s name. Milton, our butler’s name.

  Was she reaching or was the coincidence too obvious? Surely, if it was Uncle Reggie, he would have come up with a less obvious name?

  Pressure can do that, the voice cautioned her.

  ‘So there we are, gentlemen. I think I’ve heard enough,’ she said, overly brightly.

  ‘It could be a false name,’ Will offered, and awaited her rage.

  ‘Yes, it could,’ she said, faking calm. ‘But what you still haven’t grasped, Will, is that only you seem to care.’

  His gaze narrowed in confusion. Creases appeared around the eyes she had hoped to look into for the rest of her life, but she now wanted to run from.

  ‘I don’t need that stone or its proceeds,’ she reiterated.

  ‘Yes, but he does! And he’s always known the day would come when he would sell it for his own profit, you none the wiser and still thinking he’s your knight in shining armour. You know this is Reggie touting your stone. And in your heart you know he stole your father’s diamonds and has been using the proceeds to prop up the family firm, and now he’s desperate, down to his last – the one he probably hoped against hope he’d never have to bring out into the open. But that stone will give him untold wealth.’

  ‘So what?’ she said, her manner so offhanded that Will raised his hands to his head in dismay. ‘I don’t care!’ she said, enunciating the words as if he struggled to understand English. ‘If he did take the diamonds and he did use them to keep our family concern going, then I take my hat off to him. All my father would have done is squandered it. I loved my father with all of my heart but he was a larrikin, Will. He was irresponsible, irrepressible and full of grandiose ideas and dreams that could never be fulfilled. When I was a child he was my hero – but I wonder if my mother felt that way on her deathbed, with him still digging in the river.’ She took an anguished breath. She mustn’t lose control now. ‘My uncle has done nothing but take care of our business and his sister’s child. He’s the hero.’

  She could see that Sammy was feeling awkward. He stood and began pacing near the windows.

  ‘That’s just it, though, Clem. I didn’t want to tell you this . . .’ Will’s expression was a mixture of shame and pity.

  ‘Tell me what, Will? How else do you plan to hurt me?’

  He stared at her, closing his fists as if that gesture could stop her being so cruel. ‘I really do not wish to cause you any pain.’

  ‘Then leave me and my uncle alone. We’re happy. We’re safe – we’re getting on just fine.’

  ‘But you won’t be soon,’ he said in a tone of resignation. ‘The bank is foreclosing on him.’

  She felt like a heavy stone had just dropped into her belly. ‘Did you set that in motion?’

  He half gasped, half laughed. ‘I don’t have that power, Clem. Your uncle is so far behind with the repayments on his loans, the situation is beyond dire.’

  ‘How do you know this? Actually, don’t answer that, I can guess. White’s Club and its loose-tongued gentleman’s network, no doubt.’

  At least he looked ashamed at that. ‘The news came to me. I didn’t inquire. Someone told someone, and probably told someone else they’d seen me stepping out with you.’

  She turned away from him with an angry sigh. ‘Then he can have my money. It belongs to the family, anyway.’

  ‘For his gambling debts too, Clem?’

  ‘What gambling debts?’ She swung back, her fury setting off a low headache.

  ‘He owes a fortune in debts to unsavoury people. That criminal underclass you spoke of earlier? They won’t be polite like the bank. They’ll just as soon break his legs as cast him a smile. They want their money and he’s got none.’

  She’d had enough. ‘What do you want me to say, Will?’

  ‘Enough, Will,’ Sammy ordered, walking over to put his hands around Clem’s shoulders. ‘This is not fair. This is an ambush and none of it is Clementine’s doing.’

  ‘Sammy, she’s wearing blinkers. He’s going to ruin her like he did her father!’

  ‘Oh, you dreadful man. I thought I loved you, Will. I couldn’t hate someone more than I hate you now.’ She launched this at him with all her might, as if she were hurling a spear. It landed true and all the fire of his words blinked out.

  He looked beaten, his gaze flicking between then. His shoulders dropped. ‘I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself by just trying to see clearly. Look at the facts, for pity’s sake . . . no, for your sake. He will take you down with him and I wanted to save you from that. I wanted to make you my wife, give you my name, throw a ring of protection around you so that when Reggie Grant hit the skids as he is poised to do, you would be safe.’

  She shook off Sammy and advanced on Will. ‘What a hero you are, Will Axford. I feel like you offering to marry me would be granting me some sort of great favour. Well, you can take your thought of marriage and you can —’

  Sammy clenched her shoulders again, making a soft tutting sound. ‘Please, my dear, do not upset yourself any further.’

  But Will, it seemed, was not finished. ‘And your father’s death?’

  Her belly churned with nausea. ‘Bring me proof, Will. Prove to me that Uncle Reggie was involved in his death and I will cut him loose.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘It’s an oath. But get it wrong, Will, and you’ve made an enemy out of me.’

  Sammy made a sound of despair and flicked a hand towards Will. ‘Go, Will, now! I want no more harsh words spoken in this room. I will see Miss Grant safely home. Shame on you, boy. Look at her, shaking with upset.’

  Will strode to the door. ‘Clem, I . . . I’m going to get you that proof.’

  She sniffed. ‘I shall not pine for the knock at my door because I don’t believe there is proof to get.’

  He hauled open the door, taking hat and coat from the hook in the landing. He stepped back in, lifting his topper. ‘Good morning,’ he said, throwing a look of apology Sammy’s way. ‘Clementine, I hope you will find it within yourself to understand that I do this out of love and res
pect for you. No other reason. Remember the butterflies, remember the stars. Remember everything, Clem, especially that you were taken away without a chance to see your father buried and ask yourself why.’

  After his footsteps had died away and they’d heard the distant bell of the shop jangle, Clem turned towards Sammy’s embrace and wept.

  ‘Oh, my dear child. The Axfords are not, how shall we say, known for their emotional outpouring. Will is surely deeply in love with you or I suspect he wouldn’t create so much trouble for himself.’

  I know, she admitted, but not out loud.

  26

  WOODINGDENE ESTATE, NORTHUMBERLAND

  November 1894

  ‘My darling girl!’ Reggie said, flinging the newspaper aside as Clementine arrived in the Vase Room at Woodingdene. A blast of air that came in behind her made the fire gutter. ‘Good grief. Why didn’t anyone tell me you were coming in this evening?’

  He was on his feet and gathering her into a tight embrace. His affectionate hug felt familiar and comforting. She smelled the cognac he had been sipping and the fragrance of tobacco from his dinner jacket, mixed with the scent of smouldering pine cones in the fire.

  He saw her notice them. ‘When I miss your presence around here in winter, I turn into a sentimental old fool and do this sort of thing – sit alone and burn pine cones like we have since you were a tot.’ He smiled fondly at her. ‘Welcome home, Clem.’

  ‘Have you already gathered cones for Christmas?’

  ‘Not at all – those are just a couple I picked up today while walking. No, no, that’s a ritual for us,’ he said, feigning shock that she’d even ask. ‘Now you’re home we’ll clamber into galoshes tomorrow and drag back a haul to decorate properly. Gosh, is it really December the first tomorrow? It is. Unbelievable. Oh, and look, darling, I had Milton bring these up from the cellar.’ He pointed towards the end of the room.

  She saw an open chest with all the familiar Christmas decorations they’d gathered over her lifetime in England. Many of them she had made herself, and were especially poignant to Uncle Reg; there were also some exquisite hand-blown glass baubles from Europe – one for each year since she’d arrived.

  ‘Milton was poking about down there looking for something else and I had him bring it all up nice and early for us to sort through. He’s also sourced us a tree. It’s arriving in, well, twelve days. He says it’s enormous, so we might put it in the hall and get a smaller one for us in here. What do you think?’

  She grinned and gave him another hug. ‘Sounds excellent, so long as all the staff are invited to join us in decorating the tree.’

  ‘Good. I might add that your Christmas bauble for 1894 is being blown now,’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks with heartfelt affection.

  ‘And what’s the theme for this year, Uncle Reg?’ she asked. Every year he had a glorious scene made in glass to sit inside the bauble. Each one was named for her and dated. Her collection was glitteringly impressive. She could remember a time when the bauble was huge in her hands and Uncle Reg had needed to cup her hands in his in order to hold the fragile sphere.

  Their history together felt suddenly precious. She had no history with anyone else that stretched back so long or affectionately, which made the business of today feel even more unpleasant.

  ‘Oh, no, you won’t get it out of me, but it is a little special.’

  Her heart thudded dully. ‘It’s Africa, isn’t it?’ Were the fates conspiring?

  He looked instantly crestfallen. ‘Oh, now, don’t ruin it, darling,’ he said, none the wiser of her pain. He rallied fast. ‘You always were too clever by half. Just hold off and act very surprised when you open your box.’

  Her laugh was genuine. She did love him.

  ‘So now come and sit down and get warm. How did you get home?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Evanston were travelling back on the same train – they offered to bring me home in their carriage.’

  ‘That’s kind of them. I don’t ever wish to be clingy but it’s so quiet here without you nagging or prattling on.’ She play-slapped his arm. ‘No, I mean it – I’ve missed you. I know London will always draw you to it but . . .’

  ‘London can enjoy itself without me,’ she said, pulling off her gloves and bonnet. ‘I’m far happier here.’

  ‘You can’t mean that.’

  ‘I do, Uncle. You love London, and you presume that because I’m young and single I must surely adore it just as much. I don’t. I go there because I have to mix with city people from time to time. But no, give me Woodingdene all the days of my life and I’ll be a happy woman.’

  His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She sighed. ‘I might have some supper.’

  He was sensible to leave it at that. ‘Do. And if no one’s in the kitchen, don’t disturb Jane. I’ll go down and rustle something up for you.’

  She grinned. ‘You are so sweet, really.’

  ‘Only for you, mind,’ he said. ‘Now, warm up. Would you like a sherry or something?’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

  ‘I’ve just taken delivery of an unctuous sherry made with Pedro Ximénez grapes from Andalusia. It’s so delicious I want to order a barrel of it!’

  She grinned, took the small crystal sherry glass and sipped. ‘Ooh, that’s rich, isn’t it?’

  ‘Like liquid plum pudding,’ he agreed. ‘Now, let’s get you something to eat.’

  Later, with two table lamps and the fire throwing a glow around the wintry darkness, her belly full of warm soup and bread, Clem sipped her second sherry of the evening. Her uncle had returned to his reading and the gentle crack and spit from the fireplace felt familiar and soothing.

  Just the two of them, as it had been for so many years now. He’d never shown interest in another woman, although several had tried to catch his attention. She did not suspect for a moment that he had a preference for his own sex. No, there was something lacking in Uncle Reggie’s appetite – either that or he was disciplined with it. If he had relations, then he was discreet; he made sure his world revolved around only her. Her heart ached that she was allowing this most precious of relationships to come under threat. She was only just now untangling her thoughts from this morning’s revelations and accusations. Her anger had cooled into despair, like an old grief only her heart remembered: of losing her mother, then her father, and finally being taken from Joseph One-Shoe. She couldn’t really touch that pain, but her unconscious mind was recreating it in the face of what might explode between her and Uncle Reggie.

  Why couldn’t Will grasp that whatever the outcome, there were going to be broken hearts? No one was going to win so long as he pursued this course. As to proof – what was he talking about? Nearly two dozen Christmases had laid their snowy blankets over her father’s memory. Both he and her mother were dust in the African desert. The people they’d lived among were presumably long gone, having scattered to the corners of the earth or become dust themselves. They would hardly have let Uncle Reggie leave Kimberley with her, she reasoned, let alone the Cape, if anyone suspected her father’s death had been anything but an accident. Will’s claim was heinous; she reassured herself she was right in her contempt for it and for his actions.

  She watched her uncle absently twirl his cigar stub. He had an odd habit of making a cigar last all evening. ‘Then I smoke less,’ he often quipped, but she knew it was about discipline. Perhaps his doctor had suggested he stop smoking; could this be her uncle’s form of compromise? Or maybe he can no longer afford to smoke his huge, expensive Cubans from Havana? she heard in Will’s voice.

  No, she reasoned. Uncle Reggie was disciplined about most aspects of life. He followed rituals, traditions, did most regular tasks at the same time each day. He had tried to instil a similarly tidy attitude in her, but Clementine had heard time and again that she’d been given too much rein by her parents – her father, especially – until she’d become untameable.

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nbsp; She thought about her father in his desert grave. Who had buried him? Who had stood and taken their caps off and said a prayer over him? Perhaps Joseph One-Shoe had not even been allowed to take part in the burial; he may have had to watch from afar and cast his Zulu prayers to the heavens. Why hadn’t they stayed longer? Now that she finally thought about it, it was unseemly that Uncle Reggie hadn’t stood at the graveside and paid his respects – and allowed her to weep for her father, buried with her mother.

  It was certainly odd. And it had taken Will’s anger to remind her of this fact; something that had no doubt been pushed too deep for her to think about previously. Uncle Reggie always dismissed talk of her parents – he spoke incredibly fondly of her mother, it was true, but he spoke only of his recollections of Louisa as a child or living here at Woodingdene, never of her life as Clementine’s mother.

  ‘What are you thinking about so quietly over there?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Do share.’

  She smiled, and then it slipped out before she could stop it. ‘I was recalling Africa.’

  His gaze slid over to her but quickly returned to his newspaper, as if he didn’t want to be caught unawares. ‘Oh, yes?’ he replied absently.

  ‘Mmm. I’ve been thinking about some diamonds that my father dug up.’

  ‘Really?’

  Did his voice sound choked?

  He folded his paper in half to look over the top. ‘Something did happen in London, didn’t it?’

  There he was, trying to deflect her as usual. Unfortunately, he’d given her the opening she needed. ‘I met Will.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, I suppose he’s a good match for you, Clem,’ he said.

  ‘Oh – I, er, didn’t mean that.’

  ‘No, but I presume he took you to all the swanky spots, did he, and impressed you? Don’t worry, I’m not going to say no. I think he would be an excellent choice for you. So where did you go?’