Chapter 2
LONDON, PRESENT DAY
Why would someone bury a bucket of precious jewels and gemstones and never return?
It was all Kate could think about as she scrawled her signature on pages of disclaimers and security forms at the research desk of the Museum of London.
‘Dr Kirby, we expect you to wear this lanyard at all times,’ the receptionist informed her with the crisp efficiency of a prison warden. ‘This gives you access to our viewing room—accompanied by security guards, of course—for today only, after which the jewels will be returned to our storage vault. Does that give you enough time?’
‘I hope so. If not, will you let me take them home?’
The receptionist chose to ignore Kate’s lame attempt at a joke. ‘You’ll have to take that up with the director. Take the service stairs down to the basement, please. Professor Wright is waiting for you.’
‘What about the photographer?’ Kate asked.
‘Your colleague will be joining you shortly. We are just trying to find somewhere to put his … gear.’
The young woman tapped her pen on the desk in apparent irritation, but couldn’t completely hide the whisper of a grin. Kate sighed. She knew instantly who the photographer assigned to this story was—she’d seen this look a hundred times.
‘Mr Brown?’ The receptionist waved a security guard over. ‘Please escort Dr Kirby downstairs.’
The guard led Kate downstairs into the basement, each of them tapping their lanyards on locks in the stairwell to gain access to the next level.
The museum stairwell felt more prison than museum, and it took a few minutes for Kate’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. With every step taking her deeper underground, she imagined murky layers of Viking tools and plague pits pressing up against the concrete foundations. Slicing through the middle would be red ash from when the furious Celtic queen Boadicea set the city ablaze. Debris from the Great Fire and the Blitz would be scattered among the top layers of soil.
Now it was all blanketed by the Museum of London, with its tunnels, pipes and cables linking the museum to neighbouring skyscrapers. You had to hand it to London: she was the queen of reinvention. For more than two thousand years, London had picked herself up and raised her fist—like the defiant Boadicea—at anyone who tried to quash her.
London also buried her secrets deep in the layers of damp bog.
Kate needed to uncover at least one of them.
‘Here we are,’ said the guard as he keyed a code into a number pad on a steel door and shoved it open with his shoulder. ‘After you, Dr Kirby.’
Kate stepped through the door into a fluorescent-lit, lowceilinged room that was part laundromat and part middle school science lab. Rows of tables covered in leather and velvet dissected the room and a pair of women in lab coats peered into microscopes or manoeuvred pieces onto felt-backed mounts. Pieces Kate recognised from the articles Jane had sent.
‘Dr Kirby—Kate. At last! Welcome.’ The elegant museum director crossed the room with her arms outstretched. ‘I trust you had no problems signing in.’
‘It’s great to see you, Lucia,’ Kate said, beaming as she stepped into the older woman’s embrace.
Lucia Wright’s dark hair had the faintest silver threads at the temples and her body—toned and lithe from years of marathon running—seemed almost waif-like in her navy Chanel suit. Kate rested her head briefly on her mentor’s shoulder and breathed in her jasmine perfume—a blast of summer in this sterile room.
When they drew apart, Lucia put a maternal hand to Kate’s cheek.
‘You look … well,’ she said softly, a strange alloy of pride and sympathy in her gaze.
Kate broke eye contact and glanced across at the security guard, who seemed a little bewildered by this familiar greeting.
Ten years ago, Professor Lucia Wright had supervised Kate for her PhD in Medieval and Elizabethan history at Oxford and the pair had become friends. It had been Lucia who had recommended the young historian to private collectors in Hong Kong and Dubai, as well as several industry publications, after she graduated. Whenever Lucia was stateside and Kate was home in Boston, they would meet. It had been a little over four years since they’d caught up in person. Neither had had the slightest premonition back on that sunlit morning over espressos and panini that Kate’s life was about to implode …
Turning to face her mentor once more, she said, ‘I’m fine.’ A half-truth. A lump started to form in her throat. She smoothed the curl at her temple back into her ponytail.
‘When Jane called to say she was hoping to commission you to write the exclusive piece I was thrilled. You deserve this …’ Lucia tilted her head to the side. ‘Make no mistake, Kate—you were granted access because your research work is the best. I know you will give these pieces the coverage they deserve.’
Kate swallowed and met her mentor’s eyes with a silent thanks. A shadow on the far wall caught her eye. She glanced across the room, straining to see the fine gold and enamel floral chain a dark-haired woman was stitching very precisely onto a velvet-lined board.
‘We have the handful of pieces you requested laid out for you in the locked room next door. Hard to narrow it down from over four hundred items, isn’t it?’ Lucia gave a sympathetic smile. ‘The photographer is running late, I’m afraid. He came straight from Heathrow. Front desk is just trying to work out what to do with his surfboard.’ She tapped her left foot in frustration as she looked at her watch.
‘The photographer is Marcus Holt, I gather?’ Kate tried to keep her voice even, but Lucia caught her rolling her eyes.
‘You know him?’ Lucia’s eyes met Kate’s and she cocked an eyebrow.
Everyone knew Marcus Holt’s reputation as an energetic photographer who shot cover stories for every prestige publication, from Vogue to National Geographic.
‘Of course! Jane introduced us a couple of years ago at a jewellery fair in Hong Kong. We’ve worked on a few stories …’ Kate shrugged. ‘He’s Australian,’ she added, as if that should explain everything.
Lucia’s eyes met Kate’s.
‘He’s very relaxed …’
‘Clearly!’ Lucia looked at her watch.
‘He doesn’t just get it done, he brings out the beauty—the magic—in his images. Marcus sees things other people miss.’
‘Excellent. Hopefully you’ll discover something new while you are in London.’ Lucia’s brown eyes twinkled with encouragement.
There was no need to mention the sketches tucked neatly into the back of her notebook. Not yet, anyway.
‘Hope he gets here soon. I have to be at a board meeting in thirty minutes, then in the city for the rest of the afternoon trying to convince our major donors to chip in for this new site. You’re coming to the party tonight at The Goldsmiths’ Company, I hope?’
‘Of course,’ Kate replied. ‘Sophie sent me an invitation as soon as I told her I was coming to London.’ She heard a card tap, a security beep and a click as the door unlocked.
‘Professor Wright. So sorry I’m late.’ The tall photographer strode into the room, black camera bag flung over one shoulder. He took Lucia’s slender hand in his and beamed. Uncombed sandy hair just brushed his shoulders and his dark eyes shone. ‘I’m Marcus Holt. Thrilled to be here. Thanks so much—’