“All right, Thomas.” I put down my sewing and sat up a little straighter. I was an expert at confidentiality. I have more secrets than the Sphinx. You don’t get to be the greatest jewel thief in history by blabbing what you know. Correction: the greatest retired jewel thief in history. “Tell me what it is.”
Thomas, one of Scotland Yard’s most distinguished, highly decorated, and revered inspectors, also claims to be retired, but things keep cropping up here and there, assignments, secret calls. All very hush-hush. I don’t care for it.
“The queen has a problem.”
It was my turn to look at him over my reading glasses. “The queen? And she needs my help?”
Thomas nodded. “She does,” he paused. “I do.”
I studied his face. “I think you’ve had too much rum, my darling sweetheart, or else we need to go to the sun for a rest.”
Being married, which I was very new to, is an extremely complicated affair. You make a number of serious promises, and if you want to keep a rich and honest relationship—honesty being something I was new to as well—you can’t just say and do whatever you want, whenever you want. So I bit the inside of my lip to keep from saying no. Absolutely not. Whatever it is, I’m not interested. Find someone else.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Thomas retrieved my mug and took it to the cocktail tray, which he’d set on top of stacks of art and antiquities auction catalogues. “Just let me tell you about it.”
He measured double tots of rum and poured them into our mugs and then dropped a spoonful of clove-scented butter into each. Then he added a small splash of steaming cider from a stainless steel electric pot that simmered away atop a massive volume of Impressionists that no one had looked inside of for years. He replaced the used cinnamon sticks with fresh ones and stirred absent-mindedly. The silence was deafening.
There was a small—I might even say smug—smile on his lips when he brought me my drink. “Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, and then circled the coffee table and sat down opposite me on the matching ottoman. He took a slow sip of the steaming rum, placed his mug deliberately on the table, and then examined his hands as though he were considering whether or not to have a manicure.
“Thomas, if all of this pedantic pondering is some sort of police tactic designed to make suspects crack and spill the beans, as I believe you all call it, it’s extremely impressive, and I thank you for sharing it with me. Now, kindly say whatever it is you have on your mind or pick up your book and read, because you’re coming very close to ruining my perfect day.”
“Sorry.” He grinned and put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and stared deeply into my eyes as though he were searching for something. I suspected, deep down, he was wondering if he could trust me.
“Thomas, I’m going to count to ten.”
“There’s been a robbery,” he finally said. “Some of the queen’s jewels are missing.”
T W O
I’d be lying if I said that my skin and scalp didn’t buzz up a bit at the mention of the word “robbery” in conjunction with the words “the queen’s jewels.” My heart skipped a beat or two. Like any addict, I had to remind myself almost on a daily basis that I was no longer a thief. I was rehabilitated. I was out of the business.
“Oh?” I said with as much disinterest as I could muster.
“The items vanished on the first leg of her world tour.”
I squeezed my lips shut to keep from asking what was missing.
“A number of significant pieces are gone.” Thomas pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and scrutinized it. “Let me see. I’m not sure exactly what these pieces are—you might have heard of them. The Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure …”
“Par-rheur,” I corrected him. I worked to keep my voice steady. The emerald-and-diamond parure was one of the rarest and most beautiful ensembles in the queen’s collection.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s pronounced par-rheur. A parure is a set of five pieces: tiara, necklace, earrings, bracelet and brooch, or in the case of the Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure, a stomacher.” I touched my head, neck, ears, wrist, and bosom as I said each item. “And I seriously doubt the queen would take the entire set out of the country at the same time—they’re far too valuable, and no one’s seen that fantastically tall gingerbread tiara in almost a hundred years.”
“I see. Thank you.” He ignored my patronization and returned to the list. “And something called the Lesser Stars of Africa.”
My mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”
“Completely.”
“Granny’s Chips?”
“Pardon?”
“That’s what King George called them because they’re chips off the Cullinan.”
Thomas was expressionless.
“The largest diamond ever discovered,” I said. “Over three thousand carats. Ringing any bells?”
“Your point being?”
“My point, Thomas,” I said indignantly, “is that it’s the single most valuable piece the queen owns. It’s made of the Cullinans Three and Four. I mean, good heavens. This is outrageous. How on earth did such a thing happen? It must have been a family member or one of her servants.”
“Quite.”
“Who discovered they were missing?”
“If I may proceed.” Thomas was so dogmatic—heaven forbid one should veer off the course of process, but naturally that was what had made him such a gifted detective—I could tell he was becoming irritated with all my questions. “When the queen got to Cape Town on the first stop of her tour, a number of the jewel boxes were stuffed with marbles packed in cotton.”
“And she’s asked you to help?”
“Well …” Thomas couldn’t help but preen. He had an ego the size of the Taj Mahal, which, of course, was one of the reasons I loved him so. His self-confidence was absolutely impenetrable. “There is precedent. I’ve worked covertly in the queen’s service from time to time and I have pulled off some fairly major coups in my career. Besides, she’d rather not have this made public. If she were to call in Scotland Yard, word would inevitably get out.”
“I’m beginning to understand. By major coups, I assume you’re referring to our ‘Millennium Star Affair.’ ” I held up my fingers to emphasize the quotation marks. “For which you received all the credit while I did all the leg work.”
Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t give him a chance.
“Please don’t get me wrong, darling. I’m delighted you received the accolades. You know how crucial anonymity is to me, but I’ve got the picture: she thinks you’re the one who recovered the Millennium Star, and if you could do it once, you could do it again.”
Thomas colored. “She’s based her judgment on that as well as other services I’ve performed exclusively for her in the past. But all that’s beside the point in this particular instance. The point is, I’m now far too visible a personality to take on any sort of clandestine work—everyone knows who I am. …”
“Really, Thomas. That’s one of the things I love about you—you’re so humble and self-effacing.”
He gave me an almost impish smile of acknowledgment and appreciation. “… so I thought perhaps we could work together—something inside the law for a change of pace.”
I caught the twinkle in his eye. “Where do you think they are?”
“I’m not one hundred percent certain where they are but we are fairly confident about who has them. The queen’s personal footman, Bradford Quittle, retired, in good standing I must add, when she left on the tour, and vanished. He has recently been spotted in the company of Constantin.”
“You mean King Constantin?”
“No. I mean the opera singer.”
“Oh. How disappointing. It would be so much more interesting if it were the king of Greece.” There was always such backstabbing and skullduggery going on amongst the royal families over their possessions, most especially their jewel
s, it had practically taken on the characteristics of a sport. And in spite of the fact that I’d retired, I would have loved to get in the middle of one of those notorious royal squabbles.
For instance, much of the queen’s current collection is due to her grandmother, Queen Mary, who could spot an opportunity when she saw it and drive as hard a bargain as the most skillful rug trader. When her cousins, the desperate and beleaguered remainder of the Romanoff family, escaped the revolution and staggered into Sweden without tuppence to their name (but with much of the royal jewelry sewn into their hems and hats) and asked Queen Mary to care for them, give them sanctuary—naturally she agreed. They were, after all, family. But there were conditions, of course, though reasonable ones: they’d have to pay for their room and board with whatever they could muster, which of course turned out to be their best jewelry, which they grudgingly handed over because they had no choice. Today, many of those old Russian jewels comprise some of the most fabulous pieces in the current queen’s collection, a fact that still rankles what’s left of the disenfranchised, disinherited, disenchanted, and discombobulated Romanoffs to this day.
“The two men have been traveling together,” Thomas continued. “My associate, David Perkins—he used to be my top aide at the Yard, retired the same time I did, wonderful, talented man—reports that the footman, who has changed his name to Sebastian Tremaine, has a large briefcase that he keeps with him all the time.”
“And you think the jewels are in the briefcase?”
Thomas nodded with assurance. “Quite certain. What else could it be?”
“Constantin’s music?”
“Kick.”
“I’m sorry, Thomas. This just all seems so far-fetched to me.”
“I know, it sounds crazy, but it’s not. Here’s what I’d like you to consider—you don’t have to say yes or no right this minute. I’d simply like you to give it some thought. Constantin is giving a private charity concert in St. Moritz in a week, and I thought that would be a good place for you to start.”
“St. Moritz, Switzerland? In February? You know I never even go outside when it’s cold.”
“I need you to.”
“Why doesn’t your associate, what’s his name—David—just steal the case?”
“Nobody can get near these men. Constantin has so many bodyguards, it’s like a small army.”
“What makes you think I could get through?”
“If anybody can, Kick, it’s you.”
Well, he was right, of course.
“You’re our only hope.”
“But … Switzerland?” I cringed.
He nodded. “It’s all taken care of.”
“What does that mean, ‘taken care of’? How?”
Thomas had cast his line and now he sank the hook. “There’s a large suite reserved in your name at Badrutt’s Palace Hotel. We’ve also made train reservations for you to St. Moritz via Zurich, very comfortable, a private compartment—I know how much you love the train. As far as expenses go, the sky’s the limit. Spend whatever it takes.” He looked at me. “Will you think about it, Kick?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” He sat down and picked up his book. He was completely relaxed. His message delivered.
I, on the other hand, who had been so relaxed and happy, watching the snow from my cozy little living room, sipping my hot toddy, was now all a-spin.
How could he just sit there and read when the queen’s jewels were missing? I wish I understood more about men.
I put down my sewing, picked up my mug, and headed for the kitchen. “Pick out a wine, will you?”
“I’ll be right there.”
T H R E E
My kitchen in Provence has been the center of my universe since I bought La Petite Pomme twenty-five years ago. I am rooted to the earth in this wonderfully sunny room—as though an invisible magnet holds me in place. It has since the first moment I stepped through the door. Even for all the years I lived in London and could only visit the farm for an occasional week or two throughout the year, just transporting myself mentally to my kitchen brought me serenity and focus.
The walls are yellow, the cabinets white, and the counters are blue-and-white tile. My stainless-steel refrigerator door and the quilted stainless panel behind my six-burner range gleam—thanks to the elbow grease my houseman, Pierre, puts into them—as do the copper pots and pans stacked conveniently on open shelves beneath the counter. We are old friends. Beautiful food and cooking bring me almost as much pleasure as precious gems, which, until I met Thomas, provided the only long-term relationship I’d ever fully committed to in my life.
I have so many things to say about food and its place in our lives, I could probably write a book. Let me simply say, there’s more to life than watching one’s weight. I’m not saying we should all just eat whatever we want whenever we want, that would be dangerous and foolhardy, but I was born with an extra twenty-five pounds. Now, I could lose the weight and spend the rest of my life watching everything I eat, denying myself the pleasure of things I love for the sake of . . . what? Wearing a bathing suit? And where on earth would I do that? I’ve never been in the sun for more than a few minutes at a time, and even then I’m completely covered. No. I choose to accept that I am beautiful enough as I am. I have plenty of beauty to go around. I’m more interested in taking full advantage of all the richness life has to offer because you never know. You might be the next in line to leave the planet—wouldn’t you hate to do that having had just celery, carrot sticks, and a yogurt for lunch?
Much better to have just had a steaming bowl of thick vegetable soup, a crusty baguette with butter to sop it up, and a glass of clear, ruby red burgundy.
Anyhow, many of the most pleasurable things we remember through our lives have happened around the table. You might not remember the rainstorm that drenched you on the way to meet your lover for lunch, but you will remember sitting and staring at him across the table, the tall windows fogged and streaked from the weather. The laughter and the wine and the pleasure of the meal. The excitement of the conversation and the stolen touch of your knees beneath the table and the entwining of your fingers across the top. You might not remember specifically the dense flavor of the herbed butter on the grilled steak, the salty crunch of the pommes frites, the tartness of the braised leeks, and the wonderful dense fruit of the Bordeaux, but you will never forget the mounting anticipation of dessert or the chocolates and Champagne as you loll under the covers in the room upstairs afterward. You will always remember that the entire occasion was centered around the sheer sensuousness and intimacy of that wonderful, unforgettable meal, whatever it was.
A pot of lamb-and-olive ragout simmered on the stove, filling the kitchen with the aromas of fresh rosemary and garlic. I put on a clean white chef’s jacket and checked my lipstick before going to work. I always have to be completely squared away before I can do anything, including cook. My kitchen and my makeup must be in perfect order. I looked wonderful—healthy, calm, relaxed. Except, unfortunately, I saw just the slightest dart about my expression. I didn’t want to look myself in the eye too closely. I was afraid of what I would see. A little too much sparkle, possibly. That little fizz of excitement brought on by the queen’s misfortune? The possibility that I might have the opportunity to touch the Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure and the Lesser Stars of Africa with my own two hands, see them face-to-face? Hide them in my pockets?
No!
I separated three cloves of garlic and crushed them with the side of a knife, separating them from their skins. I dropped the cloves into the mortar and sprinkled them with salt and mushed them around a bit before adding olive oil and pulverizing them completely. I set them aside and then began to assemble the ingredients for a chocolate soufflé.
Soufflés are a staple of my repertoire. When in doubt, or a small hurry, a cheese soufflé, a fresh green salad, and a bottle of burgundy are always the right solution. And when it’s cold and storming outs
ide, there couldn’t be a finer combination than rich lamb stew, an arugula salad, crispy garlic crostini, a big bottle of Syrah, and a mouth-watering chocolate soufflé with Grand Marnier cream.
The Lesser Stars of Africa.
How on earth did he get away with such a robbery? Even if he was her closest aide, the security around the queen and her jewelry is among the tightest on earth.
The queen’s collection was the finest in the world—dozens of magnificent, irreplaceable pieces that I knew by heart. I could name and describe practically every single one of them in intricate detail, as well as the permutations of each: which brooch came apart and became ear clips or the twinkling centerpiece in a tiara. Which ones hooked together to make a stomacher—a grand, complicated cascade of jewels falling from the center of a monarch’s bust to her waist, a creation seldom seen today at public affairs—as opposed to a corsage, an elaborate piece draped from side to side across the corsage of a low-cut or strapless gown. Often, a jeweled corsage could also double as a necklace.
For centuries, the royal family has had a staggering stockpile of jewels, but Queen Mary raised the bar when it came to assembling a massive and breathtaking collection of large, and often priceless, stones. The majority of her efforts—in addition to the Romanoff pieces—comprise the current queen’s favorite jewels.
What a wonderful coincidence that many of the largest diamonds in the world, including the largest diamond ever discovered, the whopping 3,106-carat Cullinan—uncut, it was the size of a large brick—were discovered in English colonies during her husband, King Edward’s, reign. What a terrible waste it would have been if the reigning queen hadn’t cared about the unprecedented, blinding haul that poured through her door, as though Ali Baba’s cave were being delivered to her palace every day. I like to think that the fact that she personally received all 102 cleavings of the Cullinan as a gift from the South African government made her as giddy as she could get. I’m quite sure she dreamed about them and fondled them and loved them more than she loved her children, even more than she loved her dogs.
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