The Diamond Hunter Page 32

  He banged a fist on the iron railing and heard it complain across the bridge’s expanse.

  ‘I’m sorry, Louisa,’ he whispered, not sure whether he was asking her forgiveness for stealing her husband’s life, his diamonds, or their child. It was all wrapped up in one terrible act, the greed for Clementine and the freedom she could bring to him. He had expected to love her but not as he did. She had become his child, his reason for waking each morning and looking forward to life and its tribulations.

  Now he had one more lie of which to rid himself. Selling the diamonds – including the large one – would dispose of the evidence. There would be nothing tying him to Africa once they were gone.

  Finding the right dealer had taken much research. He needed someone who would not ask too many questions, who would share a similar greed and yet have the ability to transport the big diamond out of the country, perhaps to Amsterdam for cutting and polishing, or beyond. He’d seen the glitter in the Jew’s eye when they had met privately two months prior and the man had finally been able to hold the rough, the size of an egg. At this stage Reggie had simply been enjoying the awe it elicited.

  ‘This is hundreds of carats,’ the diamond dealer murmured, incredulous at the massive stone winking in his hand. Even unpolished, the octahedral – that reminded him of two pyramids pressed together at their base – was mesmerising.

  ‘I’m no expert,’ Reggie said, inhaling his cigar with a helpless grin. ‘I’m interested to know its worth.’

  The workshop behind the salon was closed for the evening. The back door had been opened to Reggie and he’d been ushered in by the man and his son. They’d both looked stunned and, he thought, just a bit fearful at what he was offering. ‘This is a private negotiation,’ he insisted. ‘All of these diamonds,’ he said, casting an upturned palm over the display of rough stones gleaming on a velvet mat in the light of a small table lamp, ‘are mine. They came into my possession in the Cape more than twenty years ago when I dabbled in a small claim I bought from a beggared digger. They are of sentimental value – I’d hoped never to part with them, to be honest. I had wished to turn them into a magnificent piece as a gift to my niece upon my death.’

  This was no lie. He had dreamed for years of leaving behind a stunning item for Clementine so that her diamonds would be returned to her without him suffering any recriminations.

  ‘You no longer wish for that?’ the old dealer said, surprised.

  He shook his head, noting that the son looked unsure – he had said nothing but a formal greeting since Reggie had arrived. It seemed he did not want to be a party to this deal. Reggie didn’t care. All that mattered was the price. If he ever needed to shift the big stone quickly, having a pathway for it seemed not only wise but clever.

  ‘I’ve never seen such a big rough diamond. I have nothing to compare it to . . . I have to be honest, Mr Grant. I’m at a loss.’

  ‘I understand. But I’m sure you’ll agree that we are talking about a first-class stone.’

  ‘No doubt,’ the man muttered, shaking his head with awe. ‘A first-water stone, I would hazard.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ Reggie said, trying not to sneer. ‘And your estimation?’

  ‘Mr Grant, I suspect this would need a syndicate or one incredibly rich capitalist – none of whom, I can assure you, lives in England. The stone could never see the light of day in Hatton Garden – it would cause a sensation. It would have to go abroad, perhaps to America; it could certainly go into Europe. Royalty wouldn’t touch it without the right provenance – there are diamond laws in Africa – and while I accept this is your stone, it has no papers, I’m guessing?’

  Reggie nodded. ‘Back in 1872 after several deaths in my family, with me stuck in Africa’s Karoo Desert like the wild, wild West, with madmen taking all sorts of risks, I could not let anyone know about this diamond. I was actually scared and a little out of my mind with sorrow, so I wasn’t thinking clearly. I brought it home on my person.’ The lie had sounded plausible as he’d fashioned it. This dealer, unless he’d been to Africa, couldn’t know otherwise.

  ‘This is not something I could handle. Twelve carats in a stone of this quality would be —’ he shook his head again — ‘what, er . . . fifteen thousand pounds.’

  Reggie could only just rein in his glee, permitting only the smallest smile. ‘Yes, well, you would know more than I would. So, if it is up to a few hundred carats?’

  ‘An unthinkable sum, although to be honest, if they know you’re in a hurry, then the price would likely halve, maybe even come to one third.’

  Reggie shrugged, amazed at his self-control. He smiled like a dozing cat. ‘I’m in no hurry. Well, think on it, Mr Reuben. Contact whomever you wish. I may choose to sell it sooner rather than later,’ he said, keeping his options open. He knew he was confusing the dealer. ‘The smaller ones are for sale, and if not through you, then I shall journey to Antwerp or Amsterdam —’

  ‘No, no, I’m not saying it cannot be organised, but —’

  ‘Father . . .?’

  ‘Hush, Benjamin. Mr Grant, I believe I know a syndicate that might be interested. Let me put out some discreet feelers.’

  ‘Good. Discretion is everything for these stones. I do not wish my name to be attached to them. These diamonds were acquired at a time of tremendous sorrow and are a reminder of that traumatic chapter. My niece, however,’ he said, before the man could leap in and ask the question, ‘has little memory of that sorrow. She could have worn these as jewellery with pride and pleasure.’

  ‘So why sell, Mr Grant?’ the son asked pointedly.

  Reggie was ready with a well-crafted lie. ‘I believe my niece is to be married soon. And I am dying.’

  Both men gasped but he maintained his smile.

  ‘A slow death, nothing immediate, but my condition is incurable. I have come to the conclusion in recent weeks that these diamonds have brought bad luck to our family. On the day I found the stones my mother married a man I despised and my beloved stepmother died,’ he lied. Reggie shook his head. ‘And the night of the find, Clementine’s father suffered a terrible accident, falling into the Kimberley mine. He also died, and I was left with a child to raise as my own. The day I took the stones out from where they’d been stored for two decades, I received the news from my physician of my terminal illness. Now, I don’t believe in the other world, Mr Reuben, but I cannot escape the notion that these diamonds – as magnificent as they are – are harbingers of doom to our family. I think we’d best be rid of them, and I certainly don’t want them draped around my Clementine’s neck. She’s beautiful enough anyway.’ He chortled. ‘Let’s be done with them. Do what you can. Find me a buyer.’

  Apparently, Mr Reuben had done just that, and so Reggie now found himself alighting from a hackney in Hatton Garden. He felt a trace of excitement pass through him; it was like watching the lamplighter touch his taper to a gaslight and seeing it erupt into a steadily burning flame. Inside he was burning with a mix of fear and anticipation, laced with an incredible thrill at the thought of such money, the likes of which his father had never known, even in his heyday. It was potentially more money than most of Britain’s wealthiest could lay their hands on. Even at one-third of the big stone’s value, the proceeds would leave him well set up for life, and Clementine would never have to consider her future again. It would be secure. And her fortune, which she was managing with care and modesty – and far too much philanthropy for his liking – would also be safe.

  He was better than his father. Better than all of them, because he would leave a legacy of riches, not debt. Maybe he would have to put his name to that stone. If it couldn’t be avoided, then he would source counterfeit patent papers or a licence for a claim. He knew people who could organise such things. But it wouldn’t come to that. He didn’t seek the glory of the stone any longer. He wanted it gone, out of the country, turned to liquid cash that could release him from his debt. Perhaps he could move to Paris for a while . . . Clem
entine might even agree to accompany him on a grand tour of Europe.

  Reuben had sent him a telegram: We have a buyer. Expect extraordinary sum. London, this Friday.

  He could hug himself. It was perfect timing. As much as he detested Sir Jeremy putting the squeeze on him, it was serendipitous that the bank’s decision had arisen at a time when he could do something about it. He was already enjoying the thought of sitting down at Sir Jeremy’s club and smiling at him, knowing the debt had been cleared – drinking a toast to himself on the old bastard’s account.

  He had taken the precaution of having the driver drop him off at the top end of Hatton Garden, and now he was weaving his way deeper down its narrow lanes with no concern that the man could tell anyone, if he was ever asked, where his passenger had been going. There was a lightness to his step as he thought about the future. The idea of a trip through the grand capital cities of Europe sounded more and more appealing.

  ‘He’s just moments away now,’ Sammy whispered in the workroom, which had become more crowded in the past few minutes.

  Clementine looked around at the men gathered there. ‘Is he really necessary?’ she murmured to Will, glancing towards the detective.

  ‘It was not my idea to involve the police. I think it was Saul’s son who contacted Bow Street.’

  She made a sound that was a cross between a sigh and a hiss, glaring at the bulky man with his large feet and a heavy coat he hadn’t removed. She could smell the rain emanating from the thick wool.

  Will leaned in again. ‘Clem, I wanted to tell you this earlier. But now I really do need to say something important – actually, there are two things I must say.’

  ‘All right.’ She sighed. ‘Go ahead.’

  She watched him lick his bottom lip nervously before he rubbed his chin, as if searching for the right words.

  ‘Just say it, Will. I can’t imagine anything could make this situation any worse than it is right now.’

  He blew out a breath of resignation and the words spilled out. ‘Bad news first. No one else knows of this, but your uncle may have a case to answer for the death of your father.’

  The words were like a foreign language. She took half a minute to decipher what he’d said and what the accusation actually entailed.

  Will looked pale around the lips, and his lovely eyes had a haunted quality. ‘It wasn’t murder,’ he began.

  ‘I should think not,’ she said, shocked.

  ‘But it could be what they call manslaughter, Clem.’

  She was certain Will could tell it was taking all of her self-control not to unleash a shout of rage. Good manners simply wouldn’t permit such a display. Maybe that was why he’d left this explosive fact until now, and in the presence of a detective?

  ‘Will, my father died as a result of his fall,’ she said, as if explaining it to a child. ‘Nothing is going to change that.’ She pulled angrily away as he reached out to placate her.

  ‘Were you there?’ He forced her to make eye contact with him.

  She blinked with suppressed fury. ‘You know I was not.’

  ‘Well, someone else was!’

  Before she could ask or he could explain, Sammy hissed for silence.

  ‘He’s here.’

  They never did share the good news.

  30

  Reginald Grant had taken a circuitous path to the premises of Saul Reuben, diamond merchant. He’d enjoyed the narrow lanes, dodging urchins, street sellers, couples staring into the small windowpanes of jewellery stores. He watched an old piano wobbling on a cart being dragged by two men, and stepped off the pavement and onto the cobblestones to avoid it. He navigated around a small crowd gathering around a chestnut brazier. Flower girls carried baskets and well-suited men moved with long, urgent strides around it all – those, he suspected, were the diamond carriers. He felt only pride at Clem’s clever idea to offer insurance to the merchants and jewellers who used these messengers.

  It was quieter than nearby Covent Garden, with far fewer costermongers yelling and jostling to sell their goods, but it was busy enough that he could move with ease and not be noticed. He passed a large sign offering to buy old gold and coins for cash before he disappeared into an alley.

  This twitten would lead him to his future. Within the hour he planned to become one of the richest men in Britain. He hoped his detractors were turning in their graves and dipping their respects his way.

  Rot, the lot of you! he thought, but kept an inward smile for Louisa, whose love and pride in him would now be justified.

  His destination was a salubrious space behind an unassuming green door, halfway down the tiniest of laneways between Hatton Garden proper and Ely Place. Passing Ye Olde Mitre tavern, he made a note to have celebratory drink within when the deal was done. He moved down the darkened alley, the sound of a corner organ grinder disappearing behind him.

  It was Benjamin Reuben, the son, who answered the door.

  ‘Ben Reuben,’ he said with a wink as he lifted his hat. ‘Good day to you. I believe your father is expecting me.’

  ‘He is, sir. Come in.’

  ‘Brr! I’m glad you have a merry fire burning, young Reuben. It’s certainly a chill afternoon.’

  The son, ever watchful, politely helped him off with his overcoat.

  Offering to take his hat and brolly, Reggie grinned and removed a package that had been secured in the lid of his top hat. It needed no explanation as he handed the topper and umbrella to Reuben.

  ‘Let me fetch my father for you, Mr Grant. Can I offer you some coffee?’

  ‘That would be welcome, thank you, but only if your father will join me. No need to warm a pot just for me.’ Reggie rubbed his hands together before the fire; he couldn’t swear whether it was from the cold or out of gleeful anticipation.

  Ben went into the back part of the premises and Reggie let his gaze roam the room. It was part salon but mostly a place to do business. He could see all the paraphernalia of the diamond trader: a counter, good lighting, magnifying tools, the usual range of tweezers and packets. Reggie unravelled the linen-wrapped parcel, in which the large diamond and its companions had travelled since he’d left the north. He wouldn’t be sorry to see it go, he realised. It had been a burden in his life, growing heavier each year. The other diamonds he’d stolen he felt nothing for – merely a means to an end; they had kept his finances secure over the years. How fortunate he had been that his troubles had coincided with James Knight’s diamond strike. Clem’s father would have squandered the proceeds, he was sure: more hare-brained ideas, more failed projects, more alcohol. At least he’d put Knight’s diamonds to their best use – and look at Clementine: she was about to come into her full inheritance and wouldn’t need anyone’s support much longer. Soon she would have a husband, a new life, and he could sigh with relief that he’d got her to this point. Louisa’s legacy was safe. She could rest easy in her grave now that her brother had taken care of her most precious possession. Knight’s death was a blessing, it really was, and once he divested himself of these remaining diamonds, he could wash himself clean of Africa, and no longer feel its fingertips reaching out towards him.

  He regarded the dark timbers surrounding him and the parchment-coloured paint on the walls. He looked down at the extravagant Persian rug he stood upon. He rather liked it; it wouldn’t look out of place at either Grant house. Perhaps he and Clem could go to Persia and commission a rug that somehow had their story – or at least their familial love – woven into it. It wouldn’t be cheap, but then again, he was about to become one of the wealthiest men in Britain, albeit secretly so. He could buy one for each room and hardly feel the cost. The men of Hatton Garden were secretive and far wealthier than they perhaps owned up to being, he decided, testing the thick pile of the rug. He thought about how much Saul Reuben would skim off the sale price for himself. Did it matter? There was so much money involved it was going to be a problem just to stash the money. A Swiss bank account was required, and he’d already ma
de the necessary enquiries – he planned to journey to Zurich immediately after the sale had been completed.

  He took a slow, deep breath, swallowing the gloating smile that kept trying to erupt, and maintained his calm expression even despite the rising excitement. It was all going to work out.

  What Reggie Grant didn’t see was the long slit of a peephole in the side wall. Cunningly achieved, it sat just above a dresser and was easily missed.

  Behind it was the workroom. The narrow window, concealed below a distracting mirror, allowed Reuben and his son to see a customer arriving while they were working out the back. It was from this vantage that Reggie was being gloomily observed by the assembled group. Sammy Izak glanced at Reuben and his Hatton Garden colleague moved towards Clementine.

  ‘I’m very sorry this is happening, Miss Grant,’ Mr Reuben murmured as he stepped past her to leave the workroom and greet his client.

  She nodded. It was hardly Mr Reuben’s fault. This had been, after all, her idea. Whatever happened next was no one’s fault but her uncle’s, and indeed her own. Clem knew the man on the other side of this wall better than anyone here and she could feel the buoyancy of his mood. He looked so cheerful and pleased at the world – did any of this really matter? She felt only regret and asked herself how his entrapment would change any of their lives for the better. The fact was, it wouldn’t. It was about to cause pain for everyone involved. The silence as they watched Saul Reuben enter the room felt funereal. They were about to end Reggie’s life as he knew it.

  ‘Reuben, good afternoon,’ Reggie said, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. ‘I was delighted to receive your telegram.’