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 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—’
‘—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.
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.
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 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 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.