PRAISE FOR

The Jade Lily

‘Kirsty Manning weaves together little-known threads of World
War II history, family secrets, the past and the present into a page-
turning, beautiful novel. Her talent for researching and writing a
seamless dual-narrative story with characters reflecting tragedy and
trauma lived, and survived, will enthral and educate. Her approach
and style to the multiple cultures and countries reinforces that
humanity will rise above evil. The Jade Lily is a story rich in the
elements of plot, characters, and unselfish love leading to hope:
the last thing to die.’
—Heather Morris, author of the bestselling The Tattooist of Auschwitz

‘A rich and entertaining story, with plenty of drama, thrills, tension

and romance . . . Even when you think you’ve guessed the ending,
The Jade Lily will take all your assumptions and turn them on their
head, sweeping you away in a wash of colour, drama, and the power
of love and friendship that spans generations and continents alike.’
—​The Weekly Times

‘A fascinating, charming novel, deft and moving.’

—​Good Reading

‘A great deal of the pleasure of reading The Jade Lily comes from
the lush sensuality of her descriptions of food, cooking, gardens
and healing herbs. The two Shanghais—​one modern and cosmo-
politan, the other old and filled with fascinating traditions—​are
both brought to vivid and compelling life. Utterly sumptuous.’
—​Kate Forsyth, author of The Beast’s Garden
 PRAISE FOR
The Midsummer Garden
‘Ripe to be plucked for a screen adaptation, this mouth-watering
debut novel—​meticulously researched and crafted—​raises the bar
in contemporary and historical fiction coupling . . . our heroines
are compelling, passionate and admirable.’
—​Australian Women’s Weekly

‘This is a rich, sensual, and evocative novel, fragrant with the smell
of crushed herbs and flowers, and haunted by the high cost that
women must sometimes pay to find both love and their vocation.’
—​Kate Forsyth, author of The Beast’s Garden

‘An evocative, lyrical tale of the search for identity by two unfor-
gettable women, separated by history . . . A fictional Eat Pray Love
that all lovers of food and wine will devour.’
—​Sally Hepworth, author of The Secrets of Midwives

‘Given the passion of Kirsty Manning, the ease at which she slips
into the quintessential lifestyle of the author, and with another novel
in the works, there is no doubt The Midsummer Garden will not
be the last we see of her.’
—Herald Sun

‘I absolutely loved The Midsummer Garden. The dual time frames,

strong female leads, the picturesque locales, the historical grounding
and rich food references sold this reader.’
—Mrs B’s Book Reviews
Kirsty Manning grew up in northern New South Wales.
A country girl with wanderlust, her travels and studies have
taken her through most of Europe, the east and west coasts
of the United States and pockets of Asia. Kirsty’s first novel was
the enchanting The Midsummer Garden, published in 2017. Her
second book, the bestselling  The Jade Lily, was published in
2018. Kirsty is a partner in the award-winning Melbourne wine
bar Bellota, and the Prince Wine Store in Sydney and Melbourne.
She lives with her husband and three children amid an old
chestnut grove in the Macedon Ranges, Victoria.
 LOST
The
JEWELS
KIRST Y
MANNING
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are sometimes
based on historical events, but are used fictitiously.

First published in 2020

Copyright © Osetra Pty Ltd 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com

A catalogue record for this

book is available from the
National Library of Australia


ISBN 978 1 76052 810 2

Set in 11/16.5 pt Minion Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press, part of Ovato

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FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
management of the world’s forests.
 Prologue

LONDON, 1666

The smoke was so thick she had to draw her apron across her mouth.
Her long plaits were singed black from falling firedrops. They’d need
to be chopped off; Mama would be furious. But she had made a
promise to Papa—​she had to see it through, even though the roar
of flames raced through the narrow cobblestone streets.
No-one would be missing her yet. Mama would be passing under
London Bridge in the longboat with the baby, both wrapped in
heavy woollen blankets to protect them from the embers raining
down. The girl had begged, then pushed mother and baby into the
overcrowded boat as barrels of oil and tallow exploded behind her,
promising she would jump in the boat behind.
‘Think of the baby. Papa would—​’
Her words had been whipped away by the searing easterly and
the boat was swallowed by the haze as it left the dock. Onshore
was chaos as families unloaded trunks and leather buckets filled

1
 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

with their most precious goods. Horses snorted with terror and
threw their heads back. Hooves clanged against cobblestones. The
beasts’ ears were pinned back with fear.
The girl was grateful her mama and little Samuel were gone.
Safe.
The flustered captain had braced his leg against the timber wharf
to steady the boat. He’d held out a hand to the girl, but she’d
stepped backwards into the smoke and shower of embers, turned
on her heels and ran.
She’d kept running uphill—​away from the Thames—​until she
could make out the line of St Paul’s steeple, tall and grey against
the orange sky. The cathedral’s stones exploded like gunpowder
as  she fought her way through the panicking crowds streaming
towards the river.
Her steps slowed now as she trod carefully, looking down to avoid
the rivulets of lead and shit flowing over the cobbles. She put a hand
out to feel her way along the walls. Her fingers trailed across rough
timber beams as her boots crunched over broken glass.
The girl had lived and played in these streets and lanes all her
life and she counted them as she passed. Ironmonger, King, Honey,
Milk, Wood, Butter . . . then Foster Lane.
Almost home.
The two buildings flanking hers were engulfed in red flames.
Men with rolled-up sleeves were trying to douse the fire with paltry
buckets of water. The fire hissed and roared up the walls and across
the wooden shingles, as if laughing at the people below.
‘Get away—​’
‘It’s too late—​’

2
 The Lost Jewels

‘—​dray to Blackfriars—​’
‘—​St Paul’s is afire—​’
It was too late to turn back. Not when she was so close to home.
Not when she’d promised Papa . . .
The frenzied chimes of St Mary-le-Bow’s church drew her closer,
and she inched through the thick smoke. When she felt the familiar
wrought-iron number beside her front door, she threw herself against
the door and forced it open.
As horses cantered past and people scrambled to climb onto
carts headed for the docks or beyond the city walls, nobody paid
any attention as the girl slipped inside number thirty-two.
Her chest was burning, as if with each breath she was drawing
the fire deep into her lungs. Tears formed, but she wiped them away
with her filthy sleeve. Now was not the time for self-pity.
Instead, she fell to her knees and crawled over the blue Persian
carpet in the entry hall and into the tiny room beyond—​Papa’s
special workshop.
Quick as a lark, she removed the key tied to a ribbon around her
neck. She kept it tucked under her clothes whenever he was away
on one of his trips, like a talisman to sing him home.
The firestorm surged. Heat poured in through the smashed
windows and the open front door. The thunk of timber beams and
collapsing houses surrounded her. The shingles atop her own roof
started to smoulder and whistle. Time was running out.
The girl unlocked the door and hurried down the narrow stairs.
Stepping into the chilly cellar she felt a moment’s relief; it was
so calm, so quiet, after the tumult of the streets.

3
 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

She squatted to find the tell-tale bump in the dirt. It was their
secret and she had to retrieve it; she knew Papa would understand.
She’d promised him she would look after Mama and little Samuel,
but the coins hastily wrapped in Mama’s shawl wouldn’t last long.
She mumbled a quick prayer, then seized the shovel stowed in the
corner and started to dig.

4
 Chapter 1
DR KATE KIRBY

BOSTON, PRESENT DAY

Luxury magazine editor Jane Rivers had been the one to offer
Kate the trip to London for the Cheapside story.
The call had come when Kate was sitting at her desk in the
library of her unrenovated Boston brownstone, sipping hot
chocolate sprinkled with cinnamon and shivering under a grey
woollen blanket with a heater blasting at her feet. Technically, her
parents still owned the house—​it had been in the family for four
generations—​but no-one wanted to live with the draughts and the
damp, musty smells of yesteryear.
No-one except Kate.
The study was her favourite room—​and the only one she’d
sealed and finished. It was grand, but comfortable, with floor-
to-ceiling bookshelves lining three walls, her great-grandfather’s

5
 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

desk and a peacock-blue sofa that Kate slept on far more often
than she cared to admit.
On the wall opposite her desk was a framed bill of sale for the
first steamer her great-grandparents had bought back in 1914:
the SS Esther Rose, named for her great-grandmother, Essie. On the
desk itself sat a framed photograph of her glorious three-year-old
niece, Emma, squeezing her King Charles Spaniel, Mercutio—​
terrible name for a dog, but Molly had insisted. (Kate’s sister had
very strong feelings about secondary characters in Shakespeare’s
plays.) Beside the photo was a journal Kate had begun four years
before. She didn’t write in the journal anymore; she hadn’t, in
fact, after the first nine months. But she couldn’t bring herself to
throw it away either, or to put it in a box with other keepsakes
from that year.
Now this call. ‘Can you be in London next Monday for a huge
investigative feature? We’d need you there for at least a week,
I think. I realise it’s short notice . . .’ Jane’s voice was all East Coast
vowels and courtesy, but there was a hint of a plea.
‘What’s the job?’
‘It’s the Cheapside jewels.’
Kate’s skin started to tingle. ‘Finally! Who’d you bribe?’
‘I promised the cover and both gatefolds in exchange for the
exclusive. We want to cover this before Time, Vogue or Vanity
Fair get to it. The Museum of London just finished re-cataloguing
and some restoration of the jewels last week. It will be the final
chance to access this collection before the museum relocates to
West Smithfield in a year or so. Advertisers are already bidding.
De Beers, Cartier . . . the lot.’ She paused, delicately it seemed.
‘There’s, ah, a ton of interest and cash this side of the Atlantic—​our

6
 The Lost Jewels

competitors will be livid. The CEO and chairman are tripping

over themselves—​they’re sure this series will bring people back
to the print magazine. Gemstones look so much better in print
than onscreen.’
It was true. A beautifully lit photo printed on good-quality stock
was the next best thing to actually touching the jewels. But the
method of reproduction was only a secondary concern for Kate.
It was the story itself that compelled her; the urge to deep-dive
into history and pluck something original from all the facts that
had been overlooked—​or forgotten.
‘Now, I’m about to go into a meeting, so is it a yes or no?’
pushed Jane. ‘I have a big budget, and I don’t need to tell you how
rare that is these days. But for this series I’ve been authorised to
cover any travel required.’
‘You mean in addition to London?’
‘Well, I take it the jewels didn’t start their life there. So diamond
mines, for a start.’
‘I get it,’ said Kate. ‘I could really cover some ground.’
Jane chuckled. ‘Thought you’d appreciate that.’
‘Thanks. And thank you for thinking of me.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘Well, the suits upstairs were actually pushing for the Smith­
sonian’s Jocelyn Cassidy, but the Museum of London weren’t keen
on that idea . . . and I understand you know the museum’s current
director, Professor Wright, from Oxford?’
‘Of course.’
‘She tells me your research in this area is unparalleled. And
the last piece you did for me—​on Bulgari—​was excellent. It was
an unusual angle, but I liked that. It was quirky.’

7
 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

‘The artistic director would only agree to be interviewed over

lunch. Ridiculously long lunches. It was actually my duty to eat
pasta and drink a carafe of Chianti every day for a week.’
‘Can’t promise food this time, I’m afraid! Just priceless jewels.
So, what do you say? We need to move quickly on this.’
Priceless jewels . . . and the Museum of London, Kate thought
to herself. ‘I have a few things on my plate at the moment,’ she
hedged. ‘Let me take a look at my calendar and call you back.’ They
finished the call, with Jane promising to forward what information
she had on the collection.
Kate leaned back in her chair and gathered her curls into a
ponytail, tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders and
sipped the rest of her cocoa as she compiled a mental list of things
that would have to be done before she left for London. There was
an insurance report due in the next fortnight for her Swiss client.
Scattered across her desk was a series of photos of some archival
pieces Cartier was planning to show in Paris during Fashion Week.
Underneath that was the synopsis for her post-doctoral fellowship
at Harvard, due next month. Right at the bottom was a brown
envelope stamped with a silver fern containing her divorce papers.
She needed to sign the papers for Jonathan’s lawyer then move on.
Everything had been settled—​everything except her heart. Kate
sighed and reached for the envelope then withdrew her hand.
Later, she promised.
Instead, she picked up the synopsis, screwing up her nose at
the number of red annotations, each representing an error she
needed to fix. After a moment, her eyes were drawn to some fine
black-ink sketches she had stored in archival glassine envelopes

8
 The Lost Jewels

to protect from air and dust until she moved them back into her
filing cabinet.
The first was of two little girls with their heads together,
laughing. They wore identical tunics and aprons, and they both
had messy plaits tumbling over their shoulders. The second
sketch was of a cockerel standing proud, and the third was an
exquisite jumble of roses, rings, necklaces, oranges and grapes,
all overlapping so there was hardly any white space on the page.
On the flip side was some kind of herbal recipe written with a
childlike scrawl:

2 spoons honey
pinch of thyme leaves
ground peppercorns
squeeze of lemon (fresh)
(Add to boiling tea, or water)

The last sketch was of a brooch, or perhaps a button, shaped like

a rose. Gemstones were studded at the centre and along the petals.
Kate had no idea what kind of stones they were—without colour
there was no way to tell—​but the design was similar to images of
Elizabethan buttons she’d come across while doing research for
her doctorate. Buttons that were in the Museum of London . . .
She turned over the envelope and admired the lines of sinewy
limbs and loose plaits. Both girls had dimples and dark hair—​like
Essie, Kate and all the Kirby kin. Would Noah have grown up
with these same dimples pressed into chubby cheeks? Her bones
ached for the baby boy who’d never drawn breath. She pressed
away tears with her palms and studied the little girls.

9
 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

Kate had found the drawings among Essie’s private papers in the
filing cabinets she’d inherited with the brownstone. Her parents
had dismissed these sketches as little more than Essie’s private
doodles. After all, they were scratched across neat columns—​as
if hastily written in a bookkeeping ledger; Essie had insisted on
doing the bookkeeping for the fledgling shipping company she had
started with her husband. Her parents had thought they should be
discarded, but Kate couldn’t bear to part with them. She liked to
imagine her youthful great-grandmother doodling in the margins
in a quiet moment, wild curls wrestled behind her ears, cup of
steaming Irish breakfast tea beside her as she looked out across
the busy shipyards.
Hearing the ping of an incoming email, Kate put down the
sketches and clicked her computer screen on. The email was from
Jane and, as promised, there were a number of attachments. Kate
opened them one by one, scrolling through a series of newspaper
clippings from 1914 heralding the launch of a jewellery exhibition
at the newly minted Museum of London.

ANTIQUE JEWELLERY ON DISPLAY AT THE

LONDON MUSEUM
Secret Hoard of Elizabethan or Jacobean Jewels Added to
Priceless Collections

MYSTERIOUS JEWELLERY HOARD

Romance at Every Turn at London’s Museum

SECRET UNEARTHED
London’s Buried Treasures

TREASURE TROVE IN CENTRE OF LONDON

Workmen’s Extraordinary Discovery

10
 The Lost Jewels

She scanned the clippings, noting descriptions of the media

frenzy and the crush of the crowds at the museum. She picked
up her phone and called her editor.
‘Hello, Jane. I’m looking at the articles about the 1914 exhibition
now. Thanks for sending these through.’
‘Good! You can see details about the discovery were vague.’
‘Weren’t the jewels found in 1912? I wonder why it took two
years for the collection to be announced to the public.’
‘Who knows? I’m hoping you can find something new there.’
Kate sat back in her chair and scrolled through the clippings
once again, almost forgetting she was on the phone until she heard
Jane ask, ‘So will you go to London? I need to know now . . .’
‘Oh!’ The chance to research the provenance of the mysterious
Cheapside jewels was certainly tempting, and—​she glanced once
more at her great-grandmother’s sketch of the brooch or button—​
perhaps she might have an opportunity to do a little personal
research on the side. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m in.’
‘Great.’ Jane sounded relieved. ‘Professor Wright will be avail-
able to brief you and the photographer on Monday at nine a.m.
Does that work for you?’
‘Sure, thanks.’ Kate was about to ask who the photographer
was, when Jane cut her off.
‘Monday it is then—​nine o’clock at the Museum of London.
Email me your passport details and I’ll have my assistant book
your flight and a hotel near the museum. Choose a handful of
key pieces. Go tight. I want origins. You have a month to file.’
‘But, Jane, nobody knows the origins of—​’
‘Exactly. I want you to uncover the stories nobody else has.’

11
 Chapter 2

LONDON, PRESENT DAY

Why would someone bury a bucket of precious jewels and gem­

stones 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.’

12
 The Lost Jewels

‘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.

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 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

‘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, low-
ceilinged 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 micro-
scopes 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 recom-
mended the young historian to private collectors in Hong Kong

14
 The Lost Jewels

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.

15
 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

Everyone knew Marcus Holt’s reputation as an energetic photo-

grapher 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—​’

16
 The Lost Jewels

Lucia cut him off briskly as two pink apples appeared on

her cheeks. ‘Happy to have you.’ She gave a little cough to clear her
throat. ‘And you know Dr Kate Kirby, of course.’
‘Of course! Hello, Dr Kirby.’
He turned towards Kate and gave her a quick peck on the
cheek, his unshaven face abrasive against her skin. He smelled of
sweat and salt water.
She eyed his crumpled linen shirt and couldn’t help herself.
‘Did you surf here?’
‘Might as well have. Delays at Heathrow . . .’ He dropped his
smile for a moment, eyes apologetic. ‘Hey, I’m really sorry to keep
you waiting.’ He casually swung the camera bag onto the table and
grabbed a second bag from the security guard. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Lucia was back to business and keen to be on her way.
‘Now let me introduce you to our team.’ She beckoned to
the pair of women who had paused in their work at Marcus’s
arrival. ‘This is Saanvi Singh, conservator of jewellery,’ Lucia said,
introducing the dark-haired woman. ‘And Gayle Woods, curator
of medieval arts.’
Marcus and Kate shook hands with each.
‘I was in Geneva last year—​your paper on medieval brooch
restoration was amazing,’ Kate told the conservator. ‘I’ve been
quoting it ever since.’ She smiled. ‘Hope you don’t mind if I pick
your brains while I’m here. I’ve got a big list of questions to ask.’
Saanvi blushed and nodded.
Lucia beamed at Kate. ‘Sounds like we got just the right person.’
She turned to Marcus. ‘Jane assured me you two make a great team.’
‘We do,’ said Marcus, smiling. ‘As long as I do exactly what
Dr Kirby here instructs.’

17
 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

Not for the first time, Kate was struck by his easy manner
and casual, just-off-the-beach charm. He was comfortable around
couture designers and jewellers, but equally attentive to academics
and journalists.
‘Now, I can’t let either of you touch any of the jewels,’ Lucia
warned. ‘I know you’ve signed the paperwork and all the non-
disclosures, but I just have to make that very clear.’
Kate nodded then looked at the photographer.
He shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he agreed.
Kate’s heart started to race as Lucia keyed in the code to enter
the safe room. Who knew what stories she was about to uncover?
When most people looked at a gemstone or a piece of jewellery
they saw astonishing beauty and exquisite devotion from their
creators. Love and hope. But her job as a historian was to look past
the shimmer and try to work out how each piece was made—​and,
importantly, why. It was up to her to join the dots between the
craftsman and the recipient. Sometimes she found a trail of broken
hearts and betrayal. Even murder. It was a puzzle Kate never tired
of trying to solve.
She took a deep breath to steady her pulse as she stepped into
the vault. Her eyes jumped between three rows of tables covered
with velvet displaying ribbons of enamelled gold necklaces, to
pools of sapphires and turquoise, from a row of gold buttons and
diamond rings to the biggest emerald she’d ever seen, sitting atop
a pedestal. The hairs on her forearms stood on end.
‘Boom!’ said Marcus as he entered the room with his camera
bag. ‘I get how that person felt when they found the first diamond
rough glinting in the light. Gets me in the guts every time.’

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 The Lost Jewels

‘Me too,’ said Kate as she steadied herself against the closest
table with her hand. She didn’t dare admit that sometimes her
first glimpse of a famous jewel she had longed to see could be
disappointing. Like meeting Tom Cruise and discovering he was
much smaller in real life. Or when David Beckham started to
speak with a high-pitched voice. How could reality ever compete
with the retouched glossy images presented to the world?
But there was no disappointment this time.
Saanvi shot Kate a knowing look and ushered her across to the
far table. ‘Hard to believe this collection was buried sometime in
the 1600s.’ She waved at the enamel necklaces. ‘Those are pristine.
They’d never have survived this long if they’d been worn. The
enamel would have rubbed off, and the gold and jewels been sold
or reworked and reset. If we start over here, I’ve laid out some of
the pieces you requested. The rest are in the room we were just in
for checking before they are packed back into storage. Here . . .’
Kate stepped to the edge of the velvet-draped table, angled the
light and leaned down using the eyepiece she pulled from her kit
bag to study a pale cameo—​a Byzantine pendant. The catalogue
image hadn’t prepared her for the soft drape of the robes, the
repentant tilt of a head.
‘White sapphire?’
‘Yes. It’s St Thomas. This taller figure with his hands raised
is Jesus, proving to his apostle that he was nailed to the cross.’
‘Then rose again.’ Kate longed to run a finger across the relief
of St Thomas and the contours of the gold mount. Instead, she
reached for her notebook and pen and started to take notes.
The Incredulity of St Thomas—​most famously painted by
Caravaggio.

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 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

She paused . . .
Here, in the relief of a translucent sapphire, Kate felt witness
to something intimate and tender.
Top of pendant is a single natural pearl—​piety and hope.
Trust and devotion. Unconditional love and hope.
A talisman for someone to wear close to their heart?
She imagined the Byzantine jewellery workshop crammed
between stalls selling squeaky white cheeses, lemon-scented
honey cakes, toasted pistachios and syrupy sweetmeats in front of
the Great Palace in Constantinople. The lapidary craning over the
gemstone in a sliver of light from his open window, whittling away
the grooves with a tiny chisel and hammer to carve the hairline
before polishing it on a stone wheel.
‘Who’s that?’ Marcus pointed at the teardrop pendant from
the far side of the table as he set up his cameras and spotlights.
‘Doubting Thomas,’ said Kate.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he quipped as he screwed a wide lens onto his
camera. He’d angled the lights over the jewellery, and a dark
shadow obscured his face. There were stress lines at his eyes and
across his brow.
Kate turned back to her work and scribbled Doubting Thomas
in her notebook, and circled it.
Doubt was never far from her shoulder. Each day she asked,
‘What if?’ in essays and articles. Her life was consumed with
questions of the past. Her ex, Jonathan, had said as much the
day he’d left her for New Zealand two years ago. He’d decided to
take a different path to healing—apparently Kate was no match
for pristine mountains and endless fly-fishing.

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 The Lost Jewels

‘Katie,’ he’d said with his typical surgeon’s plainspeak, ‘you

spend all this time travelling around the world chasing other
people’s stories. When you’re home, you’re hiding in that library
wallowing in the past, looking at other people’s treasures. When
are you going to look up?’
But Jonathan could never understand what a joy it was to spend
hours deep in books and archives, studying precious jewels that
whispered secrets from long ago.
At the opposite table was a trio of cameos made to be worn
at the neck: a Florentine portrait; Queen Elizabeth in Spanish
Armada-style; and an intricate carving of Aesop’s fable ‘The Dog
and the Shadow’. These spoke of seventeenth-century London.
Home to immigrants and travelling artisans and craftsmen who
crisscrossed the oceans and travelled silk routes, laden with
wooden chests and saddlebags filled with spices, seeds and gold.
‘Kate?’ Marcus had finished setting up.
He stood in front of a cluster of emerald pieces gathered
together, glinting and drawing the eye like a line of showgirls.
An emerald watch, a salamander brooch and a parrot cameo.
Saanvi picked up the salamander in her gloved hand and held it up
under one of the spotlights. The creature had been picked out in
circles of emeralds soldered together with gold links. Kate wanted
to poke her fingers into the tiny mouth dotted with black enamel
because she was certain she would feel teeth. The brooch was
turned over to reveal twin curved pins to secure the salamander
to a hat, and more flecks of black enamel on a white belly that
looked like the finest strands of hair.
‘The mystical creature who rose from the fire, the salamander,’
said Saanvi.

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 K i r s t y M a n n i ng

Kate tilted her head. It was one of the collection’s most iconic
pieces, five hundred years old, and yet she didn’t know what to
make of it. It was trying to tell her something . . . but what?
Marcus pointed at the hexagonal emerald watch as big as a
baby’s fist. ‘I’ll shoot this first. I’ve never seen an emerald so big.
Is it Colombian?’ he asked.
Saanvi nodded. ‘Muzo. I can’t believe this stone didn’t splinter
when they carved out the inside for the watch. We think the watch
parts could have been made and assembled in Geneva.’
Kate sucked in her breath. It was the most spectacular and
audacious pairing of craftsmanship and imagination she was likely
to see in her lifetime. If anybody ever asked her again why she
worked as a jewellery historian, she’d simply point them to this
exquisite emerald-cased watch. She copied the precise dimensions
from Saanvi’s catalogue and then jotted down some questions.
Was emerald cut in London? What cities would it have passed
through?
Royalty or wealthy aristocrat?
The next display was a series of bejewelled enamel buttons,
together with some enamel necklaces with flowers: roses, bluebells
and pansies.
Kate leaned over the last four buttons, gathered in a separate
velvet box, and checked to see that Saanvi and Marcus were busy
setting up the shot for the emerald watch. While the photographer
moved to his bag to grab a different lens, she slipped the clear
envelope with Essie’s sketches from the back of her notebook and
held it beside the buttons.
‘Where’d you get that picture?’ asked Marcus as he came up
behind Kate’s shoulder. ‘It’s the same button, isn’t it?’

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 The Lost Jewels

Kate flinched and put her index finger to her lips as his eyes
widened in recognition. She’d spent years trying to access these
buttons at the museum, and the picture did appear to be similar
to the jewels in front of her.
Essie—​or whoever had drawn Essie’s pictures—​had captured
the likeness. The spirit. Kate imagined a line of these beauties
down the back of a prim Elizabethan gown, or used to tether a
gentleman’s cape as it flew behind him atop a galloping horse. Her
great-grandmother could have seen a button like this anywhere.
There was no proof that Essie’s sketch was of a Cheapside button.
Marcus’s eyes flicked across to where Saanvi was setting up a
shot in the lightbox, then to Kate as he sucked in his breath. He
mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ and raised an eyebrow.
Kate shrugged and slipped the image back into her notebook,
hoping he would get the hint.
As Marcus left her standing beside the buttons, she realised that
matching this picture to them didn’t prove a thing. The buttons
were similar, that was all.
She glanced at the emerald watch and thought of Essie. Her
great-grandmother had had the Irish gift of the gab and would
sing Kate to sleep in her nursery with wild tales of leprechauns
and faerie queens. She spoon-fed her folklore and history with
every mouthful of colcannon.
But Kate’s favourite was the tale of a mysterious man who
bewitched Essie with his emerald eyes in Cheapside.

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