Harry Stafford stood from his bench and greeted me with a gracious handshake. “Miss Sommerset, it’s unfortunate that we meet under these circumstances.”
I nodded. This was an unpleasant business. “Thank you for making the time for me.”
“Thank you Mrs. Marston,” he told stick-up-her-ass.
I waited for Martha to leave before pulling the large, flat jewelry box from my purse. With House of Stafford embossed in gold on navy blue leather, the box screamed expensive. If Smithers had thought it was the real thing, security would have accompanied me here.
He accepted the case with both hands. “Your company called ahead, asking for an authentication. I understand you have some doubts.”
I nodded. “We do.” I’d been told the necklace in the case I’d been given this morning had been determined by our in-house gemologist, Grinley, to be full of fake stones.
He opened the case and gently lifted out the diamond-and-ruby necklace.
I hadn’t chanced a look at it before arriving. Even if it was a fake, the stunning necklace took my breath away.
“One of our finer efforts.” He started his examination at one end and shook his head multiple times as he progressed through the length of it. He examined the major stone suspended from the center. “What a pity. Miss Sommerset, as you suspected, this is an imitation.” He shifted his jeweler’s loupe to the next stone of the necklace. “The entire piece, not merely the gems.”
My stomach churned. “Are you sure?” I asked without considering my words. Our in-house specialist was of the opinion that only the stones had been replaced by good-quality imitations. Selling off gems and replacing them in the original settings was a well-known method of raising money for the idle rich who found themselves in need of cash.
He turned to me and scowled. “Why do you Americans insist upon being rude? Are you questioning my judgment, or merely my integrity? My great-grandfather created this piece for the duchess.” He huffed. “Not this one, but the original.”
I nodded. I deserved that. The House of Stafford was the premier jeweler in all of Britain, and their customers included the royal family. As the fifth Stafford to run the business, Harry was the go-to man in London for the best that sparkled.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stafford, what I meant to ask is have the stones alone been changed or is the entire thing a forgery?”
He handed me a 30X loupe. “Check the clasp for yourself. What engraving do you see?”
It appeared I was going to get a lesson rather than an answer.
I leaned over and adjusted the light, checking both sides of the silver clasp. “What should I be looking for?”
“What do you see?”
I kept at it another ten seconds. This was a test, and I was failing. Turning over the clasp again, I rechecked the reverse side. “Nothing. It looks to be in excellent condition.” It didn’t appear to have the wear a piece this old should show.
“Exactly, Miss Sommerset.” He reached over and pulled another piece from a black velvet mat. “Now check the clasp on this.” He handed me a necklace with a simple stone and light gold chain.
In the magnification of the loupe, the initials came immediately into view. “H-S,” I said.
He opened the folder to his left. “The duchess’s necklace had such a mark, and it was verified…” He checked for a date on his paper. “We received it for its most recent cleaning two weeks ago.” He slid over a small, close-up photo of the clasp with HS clearly visible.
I shook my head. “Could the clasp have been replaced?”
He slid over another photo. “Miss Sommerset, this house has been dealing with such issues for generations. This marking was verified on the fourteenth link of the chain when it was brought in to be cleaned.” The photo also showed an HS. “Go ahead check the fourteenth link for yourself. I insist.”
Clearly I’d pushed the boundaries with the man. I slowly counted links and checked the fourteenth, and then the one on either side in case I’d miscounted. “So the whole thing was replicated?”
He returned the photographs to the folder and closed it. “The entire piece, I’m afraid. The duchess must be beside herself.”
“I’m sure she is,” I assured him.
Ten minutes later, the door to The House of Stafford closed behind me. On the noisy street, his words echoed in my head. “The duchess must be beside herself.” But the duchess would be twenty-million-pounds richer when we cut the check for the necklace’s insured value, and my bosses would be beside themselves.
How had someone managed to recreate the entire piece in such detail that our inspection had only detected the fake stones, and substitute it for the real necklace in the last two weeks?
Three blocks from the tube station I stopped briefly outside the small Indian restaurant. My feet had swollen from the long flight and were killing me. I should have put the heels in my carry-on and worn something more comfortable aboard the plane. The menu on the wall was just as I remembered from the last time Ethan had taken me here. I’d ordered the lamb madras—spicy and delicious. Swatting the distracting memory away, I continued on.
Everything about this morning was off. Since when did I rate being met at Heathrow by Mr. Smithers, the head of investigations? Short answer: since never.
He’d handed me the package I had in my purse with a three-sentence explanation and an address. “Top priority,” he’d said. “Call me as soon as you finish.” A minute later, he’d disappeared with my bags in tow. At least I didn’t have to schlep my luggage through the underground.
Top priority?
A vision from my past stopped me in my tracks. I rubbed my tired eyes to get a better look.
Ethan Blakewell?
It couldn’t be.
It better not be.
The man glanced my way.
A truck came to a halt on the street between us, and he disappeared from view.
Had I imagined a hint of recognition on his face? It had been too fleeting to be sure of anything from this distance.
I hadn’t seen him in five years, almost six now, and still not enough time had passed for the sight of him to not jolt me. After straightening my shoulders, I walked on. I wouldn’t allow him to intimidate me. I’d moved on. We both had.
The truck resumed its journey down the street.
I glanced over.
He was gone.
I clamped my eyes shut to clear the cobwebs induced by the long flight before opening them again and scanning the block. He wasn’t there. Had I conjured him out of thin air? Had he been a mirage triggered by lack of sleep and walking past the restaurant?
That had to be it.
I glanced across the street one more time. No Ethan Blakewell.
Maybe I should have tried to sleep on the plane. I stopped to pull out my phone and dialed Smithers.
“Is it as bad as Grinley thought?” he asked immediately.
“No. It’s worse.”
“Take the results straight to the managing director. I’ll talk to you after,” he said before hanging up. Somebody was in a bad mood.
Report straight to the managing director? I’d never even been introduced to Joseph Cornwall, much less been to his office. Things on this side of the pond were much more formal than our San Francisco and New York offices. Here, someone in my position didn’t get invited up to the top floor.