She’d fallen behind on the Cheapside essay and the magazine’s deadline was next week.
A cold cup of Earl Grey sat on her desk and chocolate liquorice bullets lay in a small pile by her computer—she’d decided to reward herself with a bullet per paragraph. So far the candy pile was barely diminished.
Taking a moment to procrastinate, she googled Edward Hepplestone 1912 and a small notice from The Times appeared on her screen. As she read, she tugged at a curl and made yet another futile attempt to tuck it behind her ear.
26 NOVEMBER 1912
MAN KILLED BY HORSE TRAP AT PICCADILLY CIRCUS
Mr Edward Hepplestone, son of Mr George and Mrs Audrey Hepplestone of Mayfair, was knocked down and killed by a horse and cart at Piccadilly Circus yesterday evening. Police are looking for witnesses and the family have offered a £1000 reward to any persons who come forward with information.
Two women of small build and dark hair were spotted running from the scene, but as yet have not been identified. The investigation is ongoing and police expect charges to be laid.
Chapter 26
KATE
BOSTON, PRESENT DAY
On her first day back in Boston, Kate met Molly and Emma for a bowl of deconstructed lobster bisque at a new bistro overlooking the Charles River. Rowers glided past in neat pairs, battling the fine misty rain and sharp wind sending ripples across the river.
The sisters first caught up on Molly’s news; she was coming up for partnership in the fall, and she and Jessica had plans for their new kitchen. Jess wanted pale blue, Molly wanted charcoal and stainless steel.
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Kate asked with a chuckle.
As the wine was poured, Kate produced the envelopes of Essie’s—Gertrude’s—sketches. She pulled the sketch of the button to the top and described how similar it was to Bella’s button, then showed her the photos of the buttons at the Museum of London.
‘Well, the button in the sketch looks the same as the ones in the photos, but this evidence is circumstantial at best. It’d never stack up in court. Have you told Bella?’
‘A little. I showed her the images from the museum, of course.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing! But if we had concrete evidence …’
‘You’d suggest she donate it to the museum? I know you. But no-one can identify who the original owners are, Kate. What’s the point?’
‘I’m not sure. But I want to find out.’
Kate was interrupted by a poke to her thigh.
‘I went to a Dora party,’ said Emma.
Molly laughed, ‘It’s a thing!’ She reached for her wineglass. ‘God help us. How are we into themed parties when they can’t even—’
‘Mommy! I’m talking to Aunty Kate.’ Emma turned back to Kate and began to recount in great detail the party she had attended. ‘There was a Dora birthday cake, and a whole backpack full of candy!’
‘I thought candy was only allowed at my house,’ Kate said.
‘Shh,’ Emma said. ‘Mommy doesn’t know …’
Her niece smelled of milk and soap and Kate couldn’t stop stroking her flyaway wisps of blonde hair. The little girl was heaven. It had only been a few weeks, but Emma looked older already. Her cheekbones were a little more defined and her words were clearer.
‘So how many cities did you go to this time, Aunty Kate?’
‘Four.’
Emma counted out four on her fingers and held her hand up for approval. ‘Are you staying here now?’ Emma’s chin jutted out and she wrinkled her nose. Her niece looked a little like the twins in Gertrude’s notebook. Kate leaned over and gave her a hug.
‘Yes. For a bit.’
Molly reached across the white tablecloth and squeezed Kate’s hand. ‘You look different.’
‘It’s the tan. My delicate Irish skin is not used to the rays.’
‘I don’t mean the tan. I mean something’s changed. Your posture, your …’ Her eyes narrowed as she sat back in her chair. ‘Did you get laid?’
‘Mol—’ Kate looked at Emma who was now occupied with The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which Molly had brought along as a distraction.
‘I knew it! It was that spunky Aussie photographer that you were working with on the Cheapside job, wasn’t it? Marcus. I met him when I was your date to the Tiffany thing in New York last year, remember?’
‘Honestly …’
‘What? That’s great. He’s gorgeous.’ She raised her eyebrows as she took a sip of her chablis. ‘So when are you seeing him again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know when you’re seeing him, or if you’re seeing him?’
‘Both, I guess,’ said Kate as the waiter placed bowls piled with steaming lobster and scallions on the table. Emma was given a small bowl of pasta and some fries, so naturally Kate and Molly each stole some.
‘Hey,’ said Emma, trying to swat away their hands. ‘Mine.’
‘Yours!’ the sisters said at the same time, and burst into laughter.
Outside, a sculler was heaving the oars in a steady rhythm. His arms were lean and powerful, and Kate remembered Marcus’s arms tight around her in her Sri Lankan hotel room, then again at the stifling Colombo airport when he’d hugged her goodbye.
‘Did you get that post-doc application in?’ Molly asked.
‘Not yet. I’ve been thinking it’s not for me at the moment. But I did send my divorce papers back to the lawyer.’
‘Cheers to that!’ Molly clinked her glass against Kate’s. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m good.’ And for the first time in years, she actually meant it. Marcus still hadn’t sent the champlevé ring images and she didn’t know when, or if, she would see him again. But she felt steady and strong—as if she’d just stepped outside onto fresh wet grass after a storm had passed overhead.
Her phone beeped and she pulled it out of her pocket to turn it off, but saw Marcus’s name. Was the man a mindreader?
‘Sorry! Text.’
‘No phones at the table,’ said Emma as she waved a fry at her aunt.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Molly exclaimed. ‘Look how red you are!’
‘I’m not …’ Kate tapped on the text to open it.
Madness here. Sorry I keep missing you. Here are the best details of the ring. Take a look at the last one. Miss you. xx
THE CHAMPLEVÉ RING
THE CHEAPE SIDE, LONDON, 1665
Aurelia was startled by the knock at the door.
Mother and daughter were busy in the kitchen, preparing traditional treats for the feast of St Nicholas, but their guests—the neighbours and her lovely Jacob—were not expected until dusk. It was unlikely to be a customer for the shop, since Papa’s clients were aware that he had embarked on his journeyman wanderjahre to Amsterdam and Paris. Occasionally a nobleman or merchant—swathed in silk, gold thread and his own importance—would call by regardless, only to have Aurelia explain that they would have to come back when Papa returned in spring. ‘No, milord, I don’t know where Papa stores his stock,’ she’d reply—though she always crossed her fingers behind her back as she said it.