That figure silenced me.
“You would certainly secure your place in the ring by it,” Maggie added, her voice cream smooth. “Or you could leave with Mary.”
Was that what she wanted? Me to leave?
It would please Sarah, no doubt.
Two hundred pounds.
“What do you have in mind?” I asked.
“I’m after a special piece of jewelry. You may have heard of it,” Maggie said. “It’s a family heirloom belonging to the Marquess Hargrave. The family has a full page inDebrett’s.” My ear caught the faint sneer about their listing inPeerage and Baronetage. “A necklace.”
She unfolded a paper and slid it across the table. The paper was thick, of high quality, and shiny, which suggested it had been taken from a bound book or a catalog of some sort. It showed a tinted drawing of a choker-length necklace of gold, cabochon sapphires, and round diamonds, ascending in size as they approached an enormous ruby pendant dangling at the bottom.
I’d seen this, or something very like it, recently. In a shop window, somewhere in Hatton Garden.
The description, in elegant script, was below:Designed by Pierre Couillard of Couillard and Sons, Place Vendôme, Paris, 1820, for the first Marquess Hargrave, given to his wife the marchioness upon the birth of his first son.
My mouth twisted at “his first son.” Did the son not belong to the marchioness as well? But perhaps not, in families such as this.
“How much is it worth?” I asked.
“The marquess would likely say it’s an heirloom beyond price. But the gold is worth about five hundred quid and the sapphires and diamonds around fifteen hundred. The ruby is from India, a cabochon cut, very singular.”
“If this is to scale,” I said dubiously, “that ruby is the size of a guinea.”
“It is,” she said, a smile playing about her mouth. “I told you this would be worth your while.”
Providing it in fact can be stolen, I thought.Otherwise, it’s not worth the paper this picture is printed on.
“It’s been deposited at Simonson’s jewelry shop for cleaning,” Maggie explained.
Simonson’s. My mind flicked through the shops. It was near the south end of Hatton Garden Street.
“They had it on display in the window,” I said. “They’d want to advertise that they had the piece—unless it’s a paste copy.” It was a common practice of late, given the thefts. “Either way, the real one will be locked in the safe every night. But your safecracker can bring it out. What do you need me for?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Do you really need to ask?”
I wanted to hear her answer. What would she admit?
“You’ve worked at Seamus’s—Mr. Ardle’s shop,” she said. “You’ll be able to tell if it’s real jewels as opposed to paste. I don’t want to go through all this just to have some worthless glass.”
Did she think I was a fool? A few days with a jeweler’s loupe and she could show anyone how to tell the difference. My guess was she didn’t wholly trust her cracksman.
I passed the illustration back to her. “So you’d want me to verify it’s real.”
“Yes. That’s all.”
“You’d share the plan beforehand?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Two hundred pounds, I thought. And if I knew the plan beforehand, I could minimize the risks. “I’ll consider it.”
“Good,” she nodded. “Let me know what you think of Simonson’s.”
Knowing the jeweler, I could study the mark more particularly.
