The following evening, Brandon opened the kitchen door of the cottage he shared with his mother and India walked in, looking around with interest.
‘Looks as good as new,’ she said.
‘Yeah, the kitchen was pretty much destroyed by that petrol bomb,’ he said, referring to an incident a few years earlier, ‘but the rest was just smoke damage. Luckily enough no sparks reached the thatch on the roof before the fire brigade got here.’
‘Where’s Agnes?’ asked India, looking around for Brandon’s mother.
‘Staying with friends,’ he said, ‘so we’ve got the place to ourselves.’
India didn’t look up. In different circumstances that statement could have meant so many different things, but this was business. She wiped the thought from her mind.
‘Got the books?’ she asked.
‘I’ll get them from the car,’ he said, ‘you put the kettle on.’ When he returned she was stirring a teapot, the steam rising from the top.
‘You remembered,’ he said.
‘How could I forget?’ she asked. ‘I think you and your mother are the only people in the world who don’t use teabags.’
Brandon smiled and placed the two old hardback books they had retrieved from India’s library on the kitchen table.
‘Anyway, why do we need these?’ asked Brandon. ‘What’s wrong with the internet?’
‘The internet is OK for mainstream research,’ said India, ‘but for the more obscure things you have to revert to good old reading. There is so much crap on the web these days, you have to wade through hours of scam pages to find anything remotely interesting. At least with these we should find what we are looking for.’
Brandon looked down at the titles of the books.
‘Hallmarks of Southern England, 1837–1865,’ he read aloud, ‘and Hallmarks of Southern England, 1866–1901. Sounds riveting.’
‘It isn’t,’ said India, ‘it’s boring.’
‘I was being facetious,’ he said.
‘So was I,’ said India. ‘Anyway, come on, the quicker we get started the quicker we find the link.’
With a deep breath, Brandon sat opposite India and dragged one of the books toward him.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘what am I looking for, and where do I start?’
‘Well,’ said India, ‘it’s quite straightforward. FS1289112 is what we call a vanity hallmark. It bears no resemblance to any of the accepted designs so was probably used by a young jeweller who had not been accepted into the institute of jewellers yet. That sort of thing was frowned on by the establishment but happened quite regularly.’
‘So if it wasn’t recognised, why do it?’ he asked.
‘The thing is,’ said India, ‘just because they didn’t have a fellowship, didn’t mean they weren’t any good. Many jewellers still hallmarked their jewellery to ensure their name was recorded for future reference.’
‘So how does this represent a name?’ asked Brandon.
‘Well, I suspect the first two letters are the jeweller’s initials, while the numbers may be a reference number of sorts.’
‘Right, so all we have to do is find any hallmark in this book that starts with FS, a bit like a telephone directory.’
‘Not quite as simple as that,’ said India. ‘It’s not alphabetically indexed, it’s in date order.’
‘OK, so what date are we looking for then?’
India smiled.
‘Anywhere between 1837,’ she said, sliding the first book over, ‘and 1901.’ She slid the second book over to emphasise her point.
‘Oh,’ said Brandon. ‘But how can you be sure it is in one of these?’
‘I can’t,’ said India, ‘but the style of the crucifix was exquisite, with extreme detail and tiny diamonds, suggesting it was originally made for decorative rather than religious purposes. This change happened mainly in the Victorian era when wearing jewellery suddenly became fashionable and these books record all known jewellery made by anyone of note during that period.’
‘But you said that the maker was probably unknown,’ said Brandon.
‘I did, but just because he was unknown when he made the cross, it doesn’t mean he didn’t go on to be a great jeweller. If that is indeed the case, you can be sure that all of his designs would eventually have been recorded.’
‘OK,’ said Brandon opening the first book, ‘let’s make a start. Am I looking for anything in particular?’
‘Obviously crosses,’ said India, ‘but if you see anything with those initials, home in as it could give us a lead.’ She took the second book and after taking a sip of tea, joined Brandon in his research.
Hours later, Brandon sat back in his chair and stretched his back before looking over at India. After a couple of hours in the kitchen they had descended into Brandon’s office in the basement to continue their research in comfort. He looked up at the brass clock above the fireplace. Four hours had passed since they had started and it was now two thirty in the morning. India was sleeping on the red leather sofa and Brandon’s head ached through concentrating. During all that time, neither had found anyone they could link to the necklace, even remotely. He stood up and thought about waking India to show her to the spare room but instead put a knitted throw over her body to keep her warm. He turned off the light and made his way up to his own bed. They could continue in the morning.
Brandon awoke to the delicious smell of frying bacon wafting up the stairs. He looked at his watch and jumped out of bed, completely refreshed after the six hours’ sleep, and went into the bathroom for a shower. He dressed quickly and went down the tiny stone staircase into the kitchen.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Morning,’ said India. ‘I’ve made us some breakfast. Hope you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all,’ said Brandon. ‘A man could get used to this.’
He watched her moving around the kitchen in a white bathrobe, her hair hanging down her back, still damp from her own shower.
‘I borrowed a robe from the airing cupboard,’ continued India over her shoulder, ‘is that OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Brandon, ‘it looks better on you than me.’
India turned around with two plates of food and sat at the table.
‘I’ll get the diggers,’ said Brandon, standing up.
‘Diggers?’ asked India.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Brandon. ‘Army slang for cutlery.’
‘You and the bloody army,’ mumbled India under her breath, pouring tea into two cups.
Brandon returned to the table.
‘Thanks for this,’ he said, ‘it looks delicious.’
Conversation died for a few minutes as they got stuck in to the hot food.
‘Sleep well?’ asked Brandon eventually, spooning sugar into his tea.
‘Fine,’ said India, ‘been up since six, though.’
‘Really, why didn’t you wake me?’
‘Thought I’d let you get your beauty sleep,’ said India. ‘Let’s face it, you need all the help you can get.’
‘Ha, ha,’ said Brandon sarcastically.
‘Anyway,’ said India, ‘we’ve got a lot to do today, so I thought we should start with a fry-up. Get our brains into action.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ groaned Brandon, ‘my head is still hurting. I’m not looking forward to today at all.’
India stood up and walked to the door leading down to the cellar, licking tomato sauce from her fingers as she went.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Brandon.
‘Back in a moment,’ she said, and disappeared into the cellar stairwell. A few seconds later she returned with one of the books and placed it before him, before taking her seat opposite him once more.
‘Oh, hang on,’ said Brandon, ‘can’t I at least finish breakfast first?’
India took a bite of toast and looked at Brandon with a sparkle in her eyes.
‘What?’ asked Brandon, realising he was missing something.
She swallowed the toast, teasing him a few seconds longer.
‘Open it,’ she said finally. ‘Page 337.’
Brandon flicked to the page and started to read the entries.
‘Three quarters down,’ said India, ‘Fredrick Simpson.’
‘You’ve found him?’ asked Brandon in surprise. ‘But when?’
‘About seven this morning,’ she said. ‘It was a bit bloody obvious really. The first letters on the hallmark are the name of the jeweller, while the next set of numbers are not a reference number but a manufacturing date. December 1889. When I realised that, it was quite easy to find him. He was apprenticed to a jeweller in North London and was seen as having great potential.’
‘Not much about him here,’ said Brandon.
‘No, he developed a gambling problem and had to disappear due to bad debts. He died a few years later in the Boer War.’
‘So, how does this help us?’ asked Brandon.
‘Luckily enough,’ said India, ‘his work became very sought-after, especially as there was very little of it.’
‘And?’
‘Read the last sentence,’ said India.
Brandon read the words aloud.
‘Fredrick Simpson disappeared in 1887, leaving bad debts behind him. However, in his absence the proceeds of his last work, the Gemini Cross, were used to clear his loans.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Brandon. ‘Even back then the army would have had records. They could have found him easily enough.’
‘Unless he used a false name,’ said India.
‘Of course,’ said Brandon. ‘But we will never know, will we?’
‘No, but I checked the records and a soldier of the Manchester regiment called Simpson Fredrick is recorded as missing in action in 1898. Might be a coincidence, I suppose.’
‘Hang on,’ said Brandon, ‘how did you know all this in such a short time?’
‘Internet,’ said India sheepishly. ‘I used your laptop downstairs. Don’t worry, I didn’t check your browsing history.’
‘Very funny,’ he said with a false smile.
‘Anyway,’ continued India, ‘the point is, the Gemini Cross was sold to a wealthy family in 1901 at Sotheby’s.’
‘The auctioneers?’ said Brandon. ‘Were they even around back?’
‘Formed in 1744,’ said India. ‘But the point is, for something that small to be recorded in these books means it must be something very special indeed and the buyers would be on record at the auction house.’
‘But will Sotheby’s give us that information? You know, client confidentiality and all that?’
‘Probably not,’ said India.
‘So all we need to do is break into one of the most famous and securely guarded auction houses in the world, find some records over a hundred years old, trace the buyer who has been dead for heaven knows how long and ask them how their necklace ended up around the neck of a girl who died hundreds of years ago, in a country thousands of miles away.’
‘Something like that,’ said India quietly.
Brandon broke into a smile.
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ he asked. ‘I love a good challenge.’
A couple of hours later, they headed toward Sotheby’s in London. They had parked Brandon’s Land Rover in a public car park and taken a taxi the rest of the way.
‘What we’ll do,’ said Brandon, ‘is act as potential sellers and try to get in to see someone. While we are there, you blind him with some blarney about a painting or something while I get a feel for security. See if you can work the conversation around to archives, and with a bit of luck I might be able to work out a way to see them.’
‘As simple as that?’ said India.
‘I know it’s not great,’ said Brandon, ‘but it’s a start.’
They made small talk for the rest of the journey and finally arrived outside the entrance. Brandon paid the taxi and they made their way to the impressive entrance.
‘Damn,’ said Brandon, ‘there’s a security guard on the door.’
‘There must be an exhibition on,’ said India.
‘Exhibition?’
‘Yes, when there is an auction coming up, they exhibit the items for a week or so before the sale so potential buyers can see the items.’
‘Do you think he’ll let us in?’ asked Brandon.
‘Nobody gets in without an invite,’ said India.
‘So it’s been a wasted journey?’
‘Perhaps not, follow me.’ She led him up the steps and approached the guard.
‘Good morning,’ said the guard, ‘can I help you today?’
‘Hello,’ said India. ‘I hope so, we have an appointment with Mr Stevens.’
‘And your name?’
‘India Summers,’ she said. ‘He is expecting me.’
The immaculately dressed guard checked his clipboard and, finding her name on the list, waved them through.
‘Thank you, Miss Summers,’ he said, ‘please go in. The reception desk is at the end of the hall. If you could sign in there, I am sure Mr Stevens won’t be too long.’
‘Thank you,’ said India, and they stepped into the impressive marble hallway.
‘How did he know who you are?’ asked Brandon, as he walked alongside her across the marbled entrance floor.
‘You’re not the only one with contacts,’ she said. ‘I made the appointment this morning.’
‘Yet you let me blabber on about breaking in all the way here in the taxi. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘Well, you seemed to be happy enough,’ said India with a smile. ‘Why spoil your fantasy?’
Brandon glared at her as she signed the visitors’ book.
‘I feel a right fool,’ he said.
‘Don’t let it get to you,’ India smirked, enjoying the moment.
A woman walked across the hall pushing a trolley laden with books.
‘Jenny,’ shouted India.
The woman turned around and smiled in recognition.
‘Hello, India,’ she said, ‘good to see you again. Were those books any good?’
‘Yes, great,’ said India, ‘just what I needed.’ She undid the clasp on her shoulder bag and pulled out the two jewellery books they had used for research the previous evening.
‘Thanks for these,’ said India, placing them on the trolley. ‘If I can return the favour, just call.’
‘Will do,’ said Jenny. ‘Give me a ring soon, we’ll grab a couple of bottles of wine or something.’
‘Love to,’ said India.
‘Got to go,’ said Jenny, ‘the boss is waiting.’
‘Bye,’ said India, and watched the older woman disappear into a lift.
‘Who is that?’ asked Brandon.
‘That’s Jenny Baker,’ said India, ‘administrative assistant in the on-site reference library.’
‘How come you know each other?’
‘I spent my gap year here, helping to catalogue and value all the exhibits.’
‘You are kidding me,’ said Brandon.
‘No, why, what’s wrong with that?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that,’ said Brandon. ‘Most university students spend their gap year backpacking around Europe, or picking fruit on a kibbutz. Why on earth would you spend all your time in a dusty auctioneers when you could be permanently drunk on an endless eighteen-to-thirty holiday?’
‘It was a wonderful opportunity,’ whispered India as they walked toward the waiting area. ‘An opening came up and I had to commit immediately or lose out to Mandy Withers. She would have snapped it up.’
‘Mandy Withers?’
‘School friend,’ said India. ‘Well, more of an acquaintance really. In school she was a right swot. She came top of the class in everything. English, maths, history. You name it, she nailed it. The boys used to follow her around like lovesick puppies. I couldn’t wait to leave to get away from her, so you can imagine how I felt when I found out she was going to the same university as me. The only good thing was, while I studied ancient history and archaeology, she focused on science and modern history.’
‘She sounds like a right bore,’ said Brandon, taking a seat in one of soft armchairs in the waiting area.
‘You wouldn’t say that if you met her,’ said India. ‘She had long blonde hair, a figure to die for and sang like an angel. She had a lovely personality and the pick of all the men on the campus. God I hated her.’
Brandon stifled a laugh.
‘So where is she now?’ asked Brandon.
‘I don’t know and don’t care. Last I heard she was marrying one of the professors. A millionaire twice her age.’
‘That’s a bit cynical,’ laughed Brandon, ‘perhaps they were in love.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said India sarcastically. ‘Anyway, enough of Mandy bloody Withers, while she did the whole backpacking thing, I spent one of the most productive years of my life here and learnt more about the provenance of artwork and historical artefacts than I ever did in university.’
‘So how did you end up working in a library?’
‘You try getting a job with my degree,’ she said. ‘I was useless with computers, so being a researcher was out, and as I hated the digging about on the archaeology field trips, I didn’t go that way either.’
‘But one of your degrees is in archaeology.’
‘Oh, I loved the theory,’ she said, ‘but couldn’t cope with the mud and creepy crawlies. No, I loved my books too much, so when an opportunity came up to be a librarian in my local town, I jumped at the chance.’
‘And now you’ve been promoted to chief researcher.’
‘I have. Computers don’t scare me so much these days but I still prefer the feel and smell of a good book.’
‘Hence the book loan from Jenny?’
‘Absolutely. Quite a close-knit group, us librarians.’
Brandon stared at her with a wry smile.
‘That is actually quite sad,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said India, ‘but it suits me.’
‘So,’ said Brandon changing the subject, ‘who is this Mr Stevens?’
‘Assistant manager of Sotheby’s London,’ she said. ‘He became my mentor the whole time I was here. What he doesn’t know about the exhibits that came through here isn’t worth knowing.’
‘He probably saw most of them personally,’ said Brandon. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse than spending forty or fifty years around ancient relics. I expect poor Jenny has to brush the cobwebs off him now and again.’
‘Well,’ said India, ‘you’ll soon find out, here he is.’ She stood up and walked past Brandon to greet the approaching Mr Stevens.
Brandon turned, expecting to shake hands with an old man, but was shocked to see a young man in his early thirties. He was immaculately dressed in a handmade suit, undoubtedly handsome and stood four inches over six feet. His physique screamed dedication to working out and the only flaw in his appearance was the hint of a black eye beneath his Prada glasses.
‘Ashleigh,’ said India warmly, ‘how are you?’
‘India,’ he said with genuine affection, and held out his arms to give her a warm and welcoming hug. ‘Great to see you,’ he continued, standing back to look her up and down, ‘you look wonderful.’ His broad American drawl came as a shock to Brandon as he had expected not only an older man but one quintessentially English.
‘Not too shabby yourself,’ said India, standing at arm’s length.
Brandon saw a faint blush on her cheek as their eyes locked for a second longer than was comfortable. He immediately guessed there had been something between them in the past.
‘So,’ said Ashleigh, breaking the moment, ‘I received your message this morning, how can I help?’
India turned to Brandon, who had been waiting patiently for the reunion to end.
‘Ashleigh, this is Brandon Walker. Brandon is an investigator working for the British government.’
‘Nice to meet you, Brandon,’ said Ashleigh. ‘I’m Ashleigh Stevens, head honcho of this joint.’
‘Just been hearing about you, Ashleigh,’ said Brandon. ‘That’s a nice shiner you’ve got there.’
‘Oh this,’ said Ashleigh, touching his eye with his hand. ‘It’s nothing, just a rugby injury.’
‘Typical,’ thought Brandon, ‘not only does he have it all, he is a bloody rugby player as well.’
‘So, you’re the spy,’ said Ashleigh, shaking Brandon’s hand. ‘I’ve got to be honest, it’s quite exciting, all this cloak and dagger stuff.’
Brandon smiled and glanced at India, who was standing behind Ashleigh. Her eyes opened wide and she shrugged her shoulders in silence, as if to apologise.
‘I’m no spy, Ashleigh,’ said Brandon, ‘just an investigator trying to sort out a problem.’
‘Private Dick, eh?’ said Ashleigh. ‘Look, why don’t you come up to my office so we can talk in private.’
‘Great idea,’ said Brandon and followed behind as Ashleigh and India linked arms to walk up the ornate stairway.
‘Well, India,’ he said to himself, ‘now I know exactly how you felt about Mandy bloody Withers.’