by Tobias Hill
‘Nothing but the time.’ He closed the out-case.
Fox clicked his outstretched fingers. Daniel unhooked the watch chain and handed it across. The jeweller cocked his head.
‘Well. This is our work.’ He grunted. ‘Not bad. Not one I did myself, mind. A little beyond your station this, Daniel. Tempus metitur omnia sed metior ipsum. Read that, can you?’
‘I have no Latin.’
‘No. How is yours, Mister Bridge? Tempus metitur omnia sed metior ipsum?’
‘Time measures all,’ said the Young Oil, distracted, a handkerchief clenched in his hand. ‘But I measure it.’
‘So we do.’ Fox spooled the watch chain into Daniel’s palm. ‘Ten after ten. No one knows time like the jewellers who sell it. Time is, thou hast, employ the portion small Time past is gone, thou canst not it recall. Time future is not, and may never be. Time present is the only time for thee.’
They fell quiet, four salesmen in a room without customers. From beyond the door came the echo of footsteps, an old man coughing, the shudder of ancient pipes and cisterns.
‘High times we had here, in George’s time.’ The Young Oil smiled faintly. ‘William’s also. Scunging business from half of Europe and the Indies. Still, you will find Victoria is already a fine monarch.’
‘A Whig,’ said Fox, ‘this one.’
‘She’s young. Give her a few years, George. As a queen she is already excellent, although all trades must be learned, of course, and nowadays the trade of a sovereign is a very difficult one – Ladies!’ He rose, already bowing as the door opened. ‘Miss Rice, Miss Hastings.’
‘Gentlemen.’ A hiss of silks. A warm voice. Two faces, one pretty, the other sexless as a child’s. ‘Mister Bridge, you were speaking of our queen.’
‘Of the crown we bring her, Miss Hastings.’
‘And what jewels do you bring us, sir?’
‘For you, ladies, I offer these young men at a cut-down price.’
‘Young men make fine jewels.’ Flowers in their hair. The smell of rosebuds and jasmine. Daniel wondered how that could be possible. ‘And how are they cut, Mister Bridge?’
‘I am afraid to say that Mister Bennett and Mister Levy are poor steps. They pale beside your brilliant facets.’
Laughter. ‘So. Her Majesty and my own mistress the Duchess are eager to see your proposal, gentlemen. We must hurry back to them, if you please.’
The smell of sewers followed them. From the state chambers, the maids of honour led them through a room defined by staircases, a hall cluttered with empty pedestals, a passage where wardens hurried past and the windows were dark with grime. The palace is hollow as a ruin, thought Daniel. A great stone block full of throne rooms and servants’ back-ways. Palaces inside palaces.
They emerged into a space of white and gilt Tuscan columns, the chandeliers quarter-lit. A room that seemed identical to the palace antechamber, although Daniel felt as if he had walked a great distance. He paused, dizzied, trying to find some distinguishing feature by which to reorient himself. The natural light gave no direction, and the paintings were the same unidentifiable, smoke-darkened oils.
He looked down. On the red carpet was a mess of small footprints, as if a child had walked into Buckingham Palace with street mud on its feet. They began by the fireplace and dwindled across the floor. In the dimness they looked bare. It was hard to follow their smudged succession.
He turned, reaching to adjust his spectacles, but the others were already ahead of him. For the second time, he was in danger of being left behind. He caught up with the salesmen as they reached a pair of high, damp-stained doors, a footman with white skin and a port-wine mouth already admitting them, the crowd absorbing them into its distracted noise.
A morning room, still candlelit at half past ten and needing it. The smell of dogs, cigars and scented violets. In one corner an old man sat bolting down a plate of bacon. At a marble table the cigar-smoker looked over dispatch boxes with slow distaste. There were animals under the furniture, Daniel saw. A black spaniel in red clothes better than those Daniel wore. The serpentine curl of a greyhound.
Above them all, the curtains were moving by themselves. In the shadows of the ceiling Daniel thought he could make out a figure, something alive but shrunken. It was clambering from one drape to the next. At the window stood a tall man with benign eyes and beside him, a child in a woman’s dress. The man was smiling. The child was calling out a name. Their voices distant and dreamlike.
Well, and now you must coax him down.
Sindbad. Oh Sindbad! He will not come.
The room was full of women dressed as queens. There were queens playing whist, playing an Italian duet, drinking chocolate. Queens bent over embroideries, needles poised. The candlelight reflected from their raised eyes. Daniel looked back at them and felt his own shabbiness. He tried to recall Victoria’s face, and found he remembered nothing.
‘Bow, man!’
A voice, Fox’s, hissing beside him. He bent, the salesman in him quicker than thought. When he peered up again the room had shifted around him, as if its natural rules had changed. He realised that he had been standing alone. That the creature roosting on the curtains was a monkey, like those in the market of Khadimain. That the child was a queen.
The music stopped as she moved through the crowd. The tall man came with her. Head down, Daniel saw nothing except their feet and those of the attendant crowd. A girl’s voice reached him, sweet and petulant.
‘Who is this?’
‘This gentleman is your jeweller, Majesty. John Bridge of Rundell and Bridge’s.’
The Young Oil coughed nearby. ‘Your Highness, and may I humbly present Messieurs Fox, Bennett and Levy, also Goldsmiths to Your Person. These gentlemen and myself–’
‘Where is our crown?’
Her voice was beautiful, thought Daniel. Years later, he would remember it when all other details of Victoria Guelph had faded. The voice of a queen, like that of a singer about to sing. He felt Fox and Bridge rise and stood with them.
‘Of course, Your Majesty. I have brought it here in this box.’
‘Then you must take it out.’
A murmur of laughter. The sound of the cigar-smoker still writing, caught in a sudden hush. Light played across the floor at Daniel’s feet, red, white and blue, and he looked up.
George and William had lifted out the crown and set it on the card table. Even modelled in glass and tin it was overpoweringly precious. Gross as a wad of banknotes. The candles caught its thirty thousand facets. Outside, it had begun, at last, to snow.
‘The Imperial State Crown, Your Majesty.’
Her small hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. Her mouth was slightly open. As if, thought Daniel, she might eat the crown and spit out the stones. She walked around the table as John Bridge began to talk. His patter easy, addressing the Queen but working the crowd, unctuous as a masseur. ‘Jewels, Your Highness, are marvellous things. They are the majesty of the earth, and the mark of all true earthly power. This model is a simulacrum, a confection of glass. However, I believe that jewels wait in every mind’s eye, and so I hope I may appeal to Your Majesty’s imagination. Here, then, above the ermine, is the rim. Clusters of sapphires and emeralds are enclosed in shells of diamonds. These clusters, like fruit among vine leaves, are separated with trefoil diamond designs, and set above and below with pearls.’
Motion in the audience. A shiver of something vicarious.
‘If I may then draw Your Majesty’s attention upwards, to the eight fleur-de-lys, which hold pigeons’-blood rubies, and the eight crosses-pattées, of which seven hold emeralds, and the frontmost the ancient Black Prince’s ruby, with the Stuart Sapphire in its company. Now the rear of the crown, and at Your Majesty’s express wish, we have allocated here a considerable new table-cut sapphire. Continuing upwards, from the crosses-pattées rise eight arches, set with new diamonds in oak-leaf designs, with drop pearls as acorns …’
From the crowd a collect
ive sigh, a sound to accompany fireworks.
‘Aha, thank you, ladies – and here, where the silver arches meet at last, depend four great new pearls. Rising above these pendants is the mound and the great crosse-pattée, sheathed entirely in brilliants, and at the nearest point to heaven is set the sapphire of Your Majesty’s ancestor, our nineteenth king, Saint Edward the Confessor.’
The Young Oil’s voice warming to its business. ‘On the day of Your Majesty’s coronation, when the light falls on your brow, it will be captured in this prism of three thousand one hundred and three jewels. The sun itself shall put on the colours of the British flag. This crown, Your Highness, will be the most valuable, and we may safely add the most beautiful, in the world. Worthy of a sovereign on whose Dominions the sun never sets.’
A waiting silence. Victoria’s eyes moved from the crown to take in John Bridge, as if she had noticed him for the first time. ‘Where is the Keeper of the Regalia?’
‘Here, Majesty.’ The old man stepped forward, still swallowing with anxiety. A sheen of grease on the innards of his beard.
Victoria pulled the model towards her. There was something wrong with her lips, Daniel realised. A twist that was almost a deformity. Snow tumbled against the glass beyond her. ‘How do you like the crown, Mister Swifte?’
‘Like?’ For a moment, as if in fascinated imitation of the Queen, Edmund Swifte’s own mouth gaped open. ‘Oh, it is matchless, Majesty. Matchless.’
‘Lord Melbourne?’
‘Fair work.’ The tall man nodded. ‘Certainly.’
‘Baron?’
At the marble table, the cigar-smoker raised his head and glanced in the direction of the crown. ‘I am out of words for it, Your Highness.’
John Bridge stood half-bowed, still waiting in the posture of his last words. Now Victoria leant towards him and smiled. ‘It is most beautiful, sir. Most impressive.’
The applause began, languidly, as if it had not been waiting for this exact moment. A foot in front of him, Daniel saw John Bridge’s arse visibly relax. The voices echoed in his ears, like a chant: Majesty, Your Majesty, Majesty – as if the word were a necessary protection against her. At the card table, Victoria was still fingering the false diamonds and sapphires. When she spoke again her voice was indiscernible, and her face creased into a frown as she repeated herself. ‘Where are the Jews?’
Melbourne bent beside her. ‘Your Majesty, I’m not aware–’
‘Ah!’ The Young Oil straightened. ‘Forgive me, Lord Melbourne, I must explain. This new sapphire, as my colleague Mister Rundell has informed the Queen, was brought to England by a pair of Mesopotamian Jews. I believe Mister Rundell promised the Queen that one of these brothers would be presented to Her Majesty. And so he is. This man is Daniel Levy, one of two Mesopotamians in our employ. They call themselves Babylonian Jews–’
‘Where is the other?’
‘Hard at work on the refitting of your crown, Majesty.’ Bridge smoothing the facts out. At home in the room as the spaniel in its buckled coat, the women with their needles and flowers. ‘Now, as they tell it, the brothers were given an ancient jar. At any rate, the vessel came into their possession. When it was opened, it proved to contain a fortune in jewels.’
‘A jar of jewels!’ The child’s eyes lit up with a new animation. There was a rash of acne on her forehead. The sense of disorientation rose up in Daniel again. He wondered if this was a game at his expense, the Queen of England hidden in the crowd, watching.
‘So the story goes. With the jewels they had wealth enough to reach England. Here Your Majesty sees the older of the pair. A fine salesman we’ve made of him too, eh, Daniel?’
He felt the court’s eyes on him. This is what I have become, he thought, after all these years. A fairground exhibit. A strong man, a Saracen, a living skeleton.
‘Ah. He is speechless with honour, Your Highness.’
‘Why, this jar is like some Aladdin’s Lamp.’ She smiled widely. Daniel realised he could see her gums. ‘Where is his brother? We wish to speak with them together.’
‘Alas, the younger of the two–’
‘Together. We asked to see those who will work on the crown. You will arrange it.’
‘Yes.’ The Young Oil caught off guard. ‘Your Highness, of course. The Lord Chamberlain and I will fix a day. Excellent. Well. In the meantime there is other business to discuss, with which Mister Levy and Mister Bennett need not concern themselves. If they may–’
She waved them away. Bored of them all, already, of the glass crown and the story of the Jews’ jar. As he reached the doors, unable to stop himself, Daniel looked round.
The card game had begun again. The cigar-smoker sat at his table. Nothing had been significantly interrupted. Only the animals seemed changed, the greyhound uncoiled and crouched avidly over a dish of greens, the spaniel vanished, the monkey caught. The Keeper of Jewels held it on a fine neck-chain, and beside him the Queen was smiling down at it, its own teeth smiling back.
The doors closed them in. Daniel turned back into the underlit hallway. Beside him, William stood bent forward, hands on thighs, breathing badly.
‘William?’ Daniel put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The tailcoat was warm with sweat. ‘Give me your arm.’
‘No, I can manage myself. Oh God.’
There was a muted sound of retching. The footman stepped towards them, his white face relaxing into dourness.
‘Allus the same. Here. Wipe yourself.’ He pressed a handkerchief into William’s hands. Stood over him while the shopman cleaned his mouth and the floor between his feet. Waiting on him as if he were not quite staff, not quite state, Daniel thought. Jewels place us somewhere in between.
He took out a shilling, a day’s wages. Passed it over William’s head. ‘I’m sorry for the trouble.’
‘Aye. Allus the same, the men. Halfway to relieving themselves with relief.’
A woman’s voice cut across them, cool and sardonic. ‘There is no need to apologise, Mister Levy. William Bennett isn’t the first gentleman to be overcome by the Queen.’
He looked round. Outside the morning-room door stood one of the maids of honour. A plain face made pretty by intelligence. He bowed, trying to recall her name.
‘Miss Rice, Mister Levy.’
‘The brilliant.’
‘The step.’ She smiled tightly. They waited as William straightened up, balled the stained cloth and stuffed it inside his best coat. He took a deep breath and smiled weakly. ‘Miss Rice. An honour to meet you again.’
‘Mister Bennett. I have been sent to lead you out. The sooner the better for you, I think.’
‘Kind of you, madam. Very.’
She walked ahead of them, not looking back. Outside the sky had snowed itself out. A faint natural light fell into the halls and passageways, the nearest London in December could come to sun.
‘All done, then,’ said William. He talked fast, for the sake of it. Relieving himself, thought Daniel. ‘The whole business is done and dusted. How was I?’
‘Very fine. All gentleman.’
‘I remember almost nothing of it. To tell the truth, I was a little scared of her.’ He smiled, shy and ashamed of it. Daniel caught the pungency of vomit on his breath. ‘She approved of our crown?’
He thought of Victoria, her hands clutching and unclutching. ‘Aye. She likes all jewels, I think.’
‘Good luck to her. There are days when I cannot stand them myself. I need a drink. An oyster lunch to celebrate, eh? I’ll wine and dine you.’
“They wait for me at Ludgate Hill.’
‘Let them wait. If we hurry, we can make Haymarket while the sun still shines.’
‘I–’
‘I know a Jewess there, if you like your own. If not, there is no end to the choice–’
He broke off as they caught up with Miss Rice. She stood watching them, amused, not impatient. Beyond her stretched a marble colonnade littered with boxes. The windows had been boarded up from
the inside.
‘Well, now.’ William went forward into the gloom. Daniel watched him look around intently. Between them stood a dark hulk, tall as either shopman and wider than both. It was a bell, Daniel saw. His eyes adjusted. There was writing on the massive flanks, an inexplicable script composed in vertical lines. William raised one hand, then the second, feeling its substance.
‘This is cast silver.’ He sounded sharper now, in his element. A young echo of the Young Vinegar. ‘I’d put money on it. Where have you brought us to, Miss Rice, the Jewel House of the Celestial Empire?’
‘This is Buckingham Palace, Mister Bennett. I am quite hurt you would forget us so soon.’ She began to walk again. ‘All you see here are gifts to Her Majesty. They are becoming something of a problem.’
Daniel followed her voice. Paths ran between half-opened crates of exotica. A throne set on elephant’s feet. An Ottoman clock, its glass dome cracked open. Somewhere here, he thought, there will be offerings from Iraq. Rotting cauldrons of halqün. Gold robbed from the old cities.
‘The dignitaries bring presents from every corner of the globe. There is no longer space to house them, nor even time for the Queen to enjoy what she is given.’
Rice’s shadow moved, William’s a step behind it. In the slight light they left behind Daniel could make out marks on the floor. He stooped down. They were old, scuffed in with others. Only their outline suggested bare footprints.
‘It is the price of royalty. Its punishment.’ Rice’s voice was hushed with distance. ‘A very small punishment in a very lovely Greek Hell.’
‘And she is, after all, a very small queen.’
‘You would not say that in her presence.’
‘But not so very lovely as you, I think.’
‘Oh.’
Daniel laid his hand on the floor. The nearest print measured from his wrist to the curved line of his middle knuckles. Half a foot. He touched the impression with one finger. Raised its black spot to his face. From its grain came the unmistakable sweet odour of coal.
‘William, see here.’
