The Diamond Hunter Page 30

  This was how well Uncle Reg could change the subject or at least skew a conversation away from its original path. She hadn’t realised until now how adroit he was at this. He must have been doing this all her life.

  ‘Swankiness was not his intention. I met his Aunt Esme.’

  He looked unmoved. ‘Should I know her?’

  ‘No, no,’ she replied, as if it weren’t important. ‘Lovely person. We had tea.’

  ‘And?’ He frowned.

  ‘And nothing. Her husband was a naturalist – in his lifetime he gathered together many species of butterfly in a wonderful tropical greenhouse.’

  Reggie looked at her with a bored expression. ‘I hope this is going somewhere, my darling?’

  She laughed at his sarcasm, more than used to it. ‘I saw an African queen butterfly for the first time since I was seven and it was like the golden key. It unlocked memories.’ It was a fib but one she needed.

  He smiled pityingly. ‘And because of a butterfly you have recalled diamonds?’ he said, with only a hint of condescension. ‘Given you were around the diamond diggers all your early life, I’m not surprised you have a vivid recollection of diamonds when your memory is jogged.’

  ‘I want to remember that time properly.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, why? Is Will Axford putting ideas into your head?’

  ‘Now why would you say that?’

  ‘Oh, even I don’t know why I said that,’ he replied in a bright tone, as if to say, Let’s move on from this conversation, shall we? ‘I don’t want you getting hung up on this business of your childhood.’

  ‘I’m not. The point is, you can remember yours and I want the same opportunity.’

  ‘Oh, darling girl, my memories are worthless to me. It wasn’t a happy childhood.’ He frowned at her. ‘What’s going on, Clem darling? Is everything all right?’

  She shook her head.

  He folded his newspaper properly and tossed it aside. Carefully knocking the ash from his cigar, he left it to smoke itself out and joined her on the sofa.

  ‘Africa was all about sadness for you. You lost your mother at a tender age and put all your love into a father who drank himself towards an early grave and fell to his death in a drunken state. I never talk about it because I really don’t want you to be reminded of it.’

  ‘I’m an adult, though, Uncle Reg. I think it’s important we do talk about it.’

  He sat back and regarded her. ‘What would you like to know?’

  This was it. With surgical precision she cut to the heart of her angst about the uncle she wanted to trust but could no longer believe in unassailably.

  ‘Diamonds were hidden in my ragdoll. There was a collection of the best we’d gathered – just before you arrived, as I recall. They were from a special haul unearthed by Joseph One-Shoe.’

  ‘In your ragdoll?’ He sounded astonished.

  She nodded, watching him carefully. ‘You never knew anything about that?’

  Now he just looked offended. ‘What are you saying to me, Clementine?’

  She was politely direct. ‘I’m asking if you recall anything about diamonds in my ragdoll.’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’

  ‘Only the three of us knew they were in Gillie and I was sworn to secrecy. I never told anyone about them, I’m sure of that. Joseph One-Shoe would have taken that secret to his grave.’

  ‘But hang on, darling.’ His forehead creased into a frown and he looked up towards the row of vases that lined the room. ‘The day I came to meet you both, neither of you were at the hovel you called home. The Zulu was there, and it was my understanding that your father had gone to another town to sell some diamonds.’

  She frowned too, recalling it now. ‘Yes . . . you’re right – and we had ice-cream.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then,’ Reggie said, as if he’d just solved all the problems in the world.

  ‘Except I stood next to my father and he sold just enough diamonds to cover our passage home. The rest must have remained in Gillie. I carried that doll everywhere. My father insisted I never lose sight of it.’

  ‘Clementine, I don’t believe that your father would have entrusted so many diamonds to a seven-year-old child and her toy. I think you’ll find he removed them.’

  ‘But when? I had Gillie all of that day and all of that night and all of the next day, when I learned that my father was dead. I carried Gillie in my arms and did not let him go. Daddy died that same night, so he couldn’t have removed them.’

  ‘The Zulu —’

  ‘Uncle Reggie, Joseph One-Shoe did not want the diamonds. That’s the point. He took some very small ones to convert into cash. The rest, even though they were equal partners, he told my father to keep and take home. We had everything booked for our departure and I was fearing it because it meant leaving Joseph. No, the main haul of diamonds that was going to set up our lives back here in England was in that ragdoll.’

  What she didn’t add was that the only time the doll had left her arms was when her Uncle Reggie made a specific point of holding Gillie for her. Her belly felt like a cauldron, as nauseating memories pointed to Will Axford’s theory being correct.

  ‘Well, Clem, I don’t know what to say to you. It was a long time ago. I have no memory of any diamonds in any of your possessions. This Joseph fellow never mentioned them.’

  ‘And did my father, when you spoke with him?’

  ‘I barely spoke to him. The words exchanged were brief and argumentative. He wanted me gone. He was drunk that night, making no sense.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, where did you meet him that evening? It wasn’t at the hut, because I was there.’

  ‘No, no. I figured he wouldn’t be exactly thrilled to see me, so I met him coming out of the pub. I walked with him for a way. He was hostile, of course, didn’t want me alongside him, but I needed to discuss your life and care, your grandmother dying, your mother’s gravestone – so much I wanted to talk to him about. Most of all, I wanted to extend the hand of friendship and family; I wanted you both to come back and make Woodingdene your permanent home. He wanted nothing to do with me or my proposals. He was verbally abusive, darling, and then he got physical with me, pushing me around.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  He shrugged, bemused. ‘I left, Clem. What else could I do? I thought I’d let him sleep off his liquor and try again in daylight – hopefully when he was sober. I didn’t want him to worry about money or your future – I had it all worked out for the two of you.’

  ‘And then he fell?’

  Reggie moved closer and wrapped an arm around his niece. ‘Yes. Tragic. A ridiculous waste – I’ve always said so.’

  ‘You have, Uncle Reg. Thank you for talking about this with me.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘Clem, I would die for you, darling. I haven’t talked about all this before because it’s upsetting. Look at you – you look sad now, understandably.’ He pulled her close and hugged her. ‘Let’s do something fun tomorrow – just us.’

  She smiled for his benefit and murmured something about how nice that would be, but behind the smile there came a fresh surge of anxiety. He was lying. A fresh memory bloomed of Joseph One-Shoe cautioning her that this man, whom Joseph believed loved her, did not necessarily tell the truth.

  Clem could feel only a quaking fear: loving her uncle as she did only made his alleged betrayal so much worse. She thought of all the warmth in her heart for this man. He was the bedrock of her existence, the landscape over which her life had grown, but all the warmth she felt for her Uncle Reggie was suddenly insulated; to release it again she needed the truth, just as Will had demanded. She needed to hunt down the final pieces to this jigsaw.

  And with that decision came a terrible choice.

  27

  LONDON

  December 1894

  Two days prior, Will had answered the telephone and been genuinely surprised to hear C
lementine Grant’s voice.

  ‘Oh, Will. Er . . .’

  He listened to her clear her throat as he corralled his galloping thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ she said.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No . . . er, not really, no. Sorry. Let me start again. How are you?’

  He blinked in consternation. ‘I’m . . . I’m well, thank you – just leaving from Berkeley Square, actually.’

  ‘Oh, my apologies. This can wait,’ she said, sounding more embarrassed and in a hurry to get off the line.

  ‘No, Clementine. I was preparing to leave for the office but I’m in no particular hurry,’ he lied. ‘It’s good to hear from you,’ he offered, sounding relieved. He hadn’t been convinced he might ever hear her pleasantly raspy tones again. ‘Are you at Woodingdene?’

  ‘No. I’m returned to London.’

  Hurrah! nearly spilled out of his lips in relief. Instead, marshalling his thoughts, he nodded. ‘So soon?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, and it came out as a sigh. ‘I had no intention of coming back into the City for a long while, but I have some important business that cannot wait.’

  ‘I see.’ He couldn’t help the disappointment that escaped into his tone and flew down the telephone line like a bird let free from a cage. Did he really think she would say that she had returned just to see him? To make amends? To repair their damaged friendship? What an idiot, he said to himself.

  Should he tell her what he’d been up to these past days? Should he mention the telegram he was eagerly awaiting? He desperately wanted to share his endeavours, but he didn’t want to suffer her ire again. He played it safe. ‘So, how might I help?’

  ‘I’d rather not discuss this matter over the telephone.’ All the ears eavesdropping at the various telephone exchanges from north to south would have pricked up at that. ‘Could we meet somewhere convenient for you, perhaps?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘Do you mean today?’

  ‘I do . . . I mean, only if you —’

  ‘I can meet you wherever you wish, Clementine. Do you have a chaperone?’

  ‘My neighbour, Mrs Chattoway. She’s a good old stick.’

  He understood this was code for Mrs Chattoway being unlikely to interfere. ‘And where do you propose we meet?’

  ‘How about Twinings?’

  ‘On the Strand? Yes, easy enough.’

  ‘Mrs Chattoway has said she could easily run into some friends there.’

  Maybe there was some hope for them. ‘What time would suit you and your chaperone?’

  ‘Shall we say three o’clock?’

  ‘We shall. Until then.’ He didn’t want to move the receiver from his ear and was glad he didn’t.

  ‘Will?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My behaviour the other day was emotional.’

  He sighed silently with relief. It wasn’t an apology, but it was at least conciliatory. ‘You were angry.’

  ‘I still am.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t wish to argue with you again, Clem. In fact, I feel I need to make amends, yet I am following a similar course to yours.’

  ‘Oh? And what is that?’

  ‘I think one of your most important qualities, Clem, is that you are as straight as a plumb line. No kinks, no bends, no curves around the truth. Straight at it.’

  ‘I like to think I will always be direct and honest, Will.’

  ‘Good. I am the same. And if an apology is due, then it should come from me, for being so determined to get to the truth. That’s all I’m doing – and it’s not just for your benefit. I am safeguarding myself, my reputation, my family’s firm, and my profession.’

  This was received with a thick silence. The pause lengthened. At last, she spoke. ‘I understand your motives and your desire to be honourable but the repercussions cause me pain. Thank you for agreeing to see me. Good morning, Will.’

  Was that it? It was. The line went deader than the void of a moment earlier. He couldn’t have offended her again, surely? Why was she permitted to be so blunt, but he somehow let her down if he was equally direct?

  Will left for work, sulking in the carriage all the way to the trapezoidal building that sat between Cornhill and Threadneedle streets. He alighted from the hackney at the western end and took a moment to glance up at the pediment. Its frieze depicted the figure of Commerce, its Latin inscription declaring that the Royal Exchange had been founded in the time of Queen Elizabeth and was now presided over by her descendant, Queen Victoria, some three hundred years later.

  To protect Lloyd’s from tricksters – particularly those he suspected of fraud – was one of his responsibilities as one of the individual brokers that upheld its name and history. He found the grand walls of stone, which hugged the massive courtyard where the insurance brokers traded, reassuring. This was not just about him. It was about his duty and honour as a man of business.

  He lifted his chin, tugging at his tight starched collar, and forced himself to accept that his course was the right one. If Clementine Grant felt no need to apologise for her behaviour, then nor should he.

  Will helped Clementine and her chaperone down from their carriage. They were near Temple Bar, one of the original gateways into the City of London. Their destination, opposite the imposing Royal Courts of Justice, was a narrow doorway flanked by simple white columns: the famous tea company Twinings had sold its wares here for almost three centuries. Above the door was a statue of a British lion, picked out in gold, sitting between figurines of Chinese merchants: a regal-looking emblem for the company that supplied Her Majesty.

  The bouquet inside was earthy with toasted notes that made one’s mouth water. Clementine noted parcels of tea, coffee and cocoa, all for sale in abundant quantities.

  ‘Did you see the lion?’ Will asked, making conversation as they waited to be shown to their table. Both women nodded. ‘This shop was called the Golden Lion when tea was first sold here. I gather the artist Hogarth was such a frequent shopper here he accumulated a sizeable debt and paid it off with a portrait of Twining.’

  ‘Gosh, you are knowledgeable, Mr Axford!’ Mrs Chattoway beamed, looking around at all the shelves laden with a huge variety of products. The dark wood and soft lantern lighting added to a moody atmosphere that spoke of the exotic places where the tea, coffee and cacao pods grew.

  The senior waitress ensured they were comfortably seated and took their orders.

  ‘First or second flush for the Darjeeling, madam?’

  Elspeth Chattoway giggled. ‘Surprise me, dear. I’m really not that specific, so long as it’s Darjeeling.’

  Clementine smiled at the waitress. ‘First flush, I think, for my companion, and I’ll have a pot of your first Assam, please.’

  ‘Make that two pots of Assam,’ Will chimed in. ‘Ladies, anything to eat? Can I tempt you with a little biscuit, perhaps?’

  Both declined, although Clementine assured the waitress she would be purchasing some Earl Grey and Jasmine tea before she departed.

  ‘Now, young man,’ their elder said, returning the conversation to something more intimate before their tea arrived. ‘Dear Clementine failed to mention that you were William Axford until we were introduced. How is your father?’

  ‘He’s hale, thank you, Mrs Chattoway. Rather grumpy at times —’ he grinned, turning on his charm — ‘but still working, still fully engaged with life.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. I haven’t seen him in years. He used to be quite the gentleman about town.’

  At this Will raised an eyebrow, knowing it would draw the older woman’s laughter.

  ‘Yes, indeed. I am sorry for the loss of your mother – you were so young. They were a dashing couple. But after her passing he became the most eligible Londoner, and he broke the heart of many a widow who decided she and he had plenty in common.’ Mrs Chattoway put a hand to the side of her mouth. ‘To tell the truth, William, forget the w
idows – I happen to know many a beautiful young spinster who had designs upon your father.’

  He shook his head with genuine surprise; it was a novel thought that his father had any romantic drive. ‘He was still in his thirties. I wonder why he never acted upon any of those potential unions? I mean, I was at Rugby – hardly in the way.’

  Their tea arrived and they fell silent as it was served.

  ‘And it seems you survived?’

  He liked the wicked glint in her sharp-eyed stare. ‘I slipped through its halls without too much burden, yes.’

  She nodded. ‘The good-looking, very wealthy ones always do.’

  He didn’t agree but kept his thoughts private, glancing towards Clem. She was studying him in that intense, wide-eyed way of hers, as though she were capable of sifting through his most private thoughts. He fought the inclination to swallow, wishing hard he could make things right between them so he could kiss her again, ask her to come to a church and marry him tomorrow. But he had learned that this free-spirited woman would do exactly as she chose, and right now, marrying the man she held responsible for the anger he could see was still simmering seemed unlikely at best.

  ‘Anyway, Will,’ Mrs Chattoway continued, ‘to answer your query – and I’m surprised you have to wonder – it was because of you that the dashing Jerome Axford never remarried.’

  Will stared at Clem’s chaperone, impolitely holding a large sip of tea in his mouth. He blinked and then finally remembered to swallow. ‘Whatever does that mean?’ he finally said, his shock obvious.

  Mrs Chattoway tinkled a small laugh. ‘Exactly as I say, dear boy. Your father’s life revolved around you and you alone. No other woman was going to be permitted to enter your life and have any influence. With the love of his life gone, he was determined to raise you his way.’ She nodded as if remembering. ‘I recall a conversation your father had with my Henry, bless his soul. He wanted you back in London and in his presence, so that he and his circle would be your influence, as your mother would have wanted you to be brought up. So forward in his thinking.’