‘I cannae find much.’ She was rooting in a wooden box. ‘Just these wee things in the baccy tin.’ They were the usual modest seed pearls he’d seen all season.

  ‘Hmm,’ he sighed, disappointed. ‘I’ve got my fair share of these. I was looking for something bigger. Perhaps there’s others down at the bottom?’ He watched her pulling out smaller bags.

  ‘I’ve not been in this kist since my poor husband passed away. You should ask Jemmy but he works in the forest at the logging. I don’t like to pry but you can see . . .’

  ‘What’s in there?’ Eben’s eyes latched onto a smooth leather pouch with a drawstring. ‘Can you just have a peep in there?’

  The widow opened the leather pouch and spilled out what looked like a white marble. Eben felt his heart racing at what he was seeing. His mouth went dry with excitement but he forced himself to stay calm.

  ‘I think this is quite a nice one, Mistress Baillie. It would make a fine drop for a necklace. Can I hold it?’

  He lifted it with tenderness and pulled out his tiny weighing scales. Almost the size of a paragon, a gem above all others, it weighed over 80 grams by the look of it, perfect in its roundness and shape, no surface blemishes. The lustre of it flickered in the firelight.

  ‘I can offer you twenty guineas for this specimen,’ he whispered, knowing such a sum was a year’s wage for some in this district. He smiled. ‘It’s brightened my day to see such beauty. Where did your husband fish it out?’

  ‘I dinnae ken, sir, pearls are no my concern but Jemmy will know it fine.’

  ‘Unfortunately my train leaves this afternoon, mistress. I could stretch to twenty-five, if that would help things along.’ He could see her hovering over the enormity of his offer, temptation fighting with caution. He rose to leave.

  ‘Oh there you go.’ She placed the pearl into his sweating palm. ‘There’ll be plenty more where that came from.’ She sighed. ‘A bird in the hand is worth more . . . Goodness knows we need the siller enough.’

  ‘Precisely.’ He smiled, holding his breath as he counted out twenty-five gold sovereigns from his inside pocket, placing each one into her hand. ‘You’ll have a fine Hogmanay with this,’ he said with relief. There was nothing like the feel of gold in the palm to close a sale.

  ‘Och, no, this is to give Jem his education like my Sam would want. He will be mighty pleased I found this.’

  Eben swallowed the guilt, knowing what value this superb specimen might reach on the open market. ‘That’s very noble, Mistress Baillie. I wish you good day and the season’s felicitations . . .’

  She nodded, waving him from the door, no doubt bursting until her son returned home to tell him her good news. Eben walked away quickly through the village to the station halt clutching his prize close to his heart. This was the answer to all his prayers, with such a precious find his future would be secure. How close he’d come to missing such a bargain but his persistence had paid off. Now he must get south of the border and decide what to do next.

  ‘You did what!’ Jem screamed at his mother’s news. ‘You let a stranger into our house and sold him Pa’s pearl? How could you be such a fool? How much did he give you for it?’ Jem was shaking with fury, wiping the pleasure off his mother’s face as she showed him the coins.

  ‘I did it for you for your learning, so you could go to teaching college. It’s what yer pa would want.’ She threw the sovereigns on the table. ‘I’ve bitten into them all. Twenty-five of these is better than yon bead in a bag,’ she argued. ‘I never knew it was there afore now. How was I tae know it was a good one when no one tells me?’

  ‘A good one, a bead . . .’ Jem spluttered, his face red with despair. ‘Do you realize you sold some dealer the best thing that ever came out of this river; a queen among pearls, the very last thing my Pa fished out. He’d dreamt about it and you gave it away!’

  Jem was beside himself, knowing it was worth much more than twenty-five guineas, at least a fifty, a hundred maybe. Why oh why had he not taken it into the jeweller in Perth for a valuation? He cursed his idleness and guilt at not warning his mother of its true value. He would have to chase after the dealer and demand it back. He could go to the law and claim she was duped. ‘What was his name, this pearl buyer?’

  ‘I dinnae catch it, son. He showed me his card. He was a Sassenach from London, he said. He showed me a letter from a laird but without my spectacles . . . I’m sorry. You should have told me, son, not kept it all a secret.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Jem was determined to glean every detail.

  ‘Tall, thin, sandy haired with gingery whiskers, older than you. Not flashy and spoke like the laird. He looked like a gamekeeper but he’s off hame now for Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, Ma what have you done? There’ll never be another Queenie,’ he cried, pacing the floor with frustration.

  ‘I’m sorry. How was I tae know if nobody told me?’

  Jem softened his voice. ‘It’s not right to be cheated like this. I have to find out who he is. It was Pa’s gift to me, my inheritance, and I was saving it for . . .’ He paused. How could he tell her it was his future travels? ‘And you gave it away for nothing, like Esau in the Bible story.’

  ‘We have this siller, be thankful. It’ll help you get trained. That’ll do for me.’

  ‘But not for me, can’t you see? I don’t want to be a teacher or a forester all my life. I have to find that wily scoundrel and get Queenie back. She belongs here by the river.’

  ‘Now you talk nonsense. It’s just a bead, a pretty bead, not a thing with a name.’

  ‘No, no, you’re wrong. Queenie was a living thing to Pa, a gift of nature to us. She was born out of a humble mussel, nurtured for years to get to that size and shape. There are some things money can’t buy.’

  ‘Oh, aye, and how do we feed and clothe ourselves? With thin air? Don’t think I don’t fancy a new bonnet or a new pair of boots, warm blankets of a night and plenty of food for our suppers. You can get mighty sick of oats and porridge, kale soup and scraps of mutton. We may not have much but I have my pride. If you go asking questions folk’ll want to know our business. If you go blethering about how I sold too cheap, I’ll be the talk of the district and how will I hold my head up in the kirk?’

  ‘Is that all you think about?’ Jem argued, sick at heart. ‘What others think of us? No wonder Pa wanted to keep the pearl to ourselves for just the same reason. If people think you’ve come into luck, they would never be away from the door. I’ll have to find that English man if it’s the last thing I do. He’s not to get away with this. On my pa’s grave, I want my due.’

  ‘Oh, son, don’t go getting into trouble. It’s only a pearl and it’s not worth us having a row over it. Sit down and eat yer broth.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he snapped, suddenly bone weary with disappointment. He sat down at the table, but in his heart he meant every word about finding the man who’d taken the pearl. Someday he would find Queenie and make things right, wherever it might lead him. Justice must be done. No man was going to steal his birthright.

  Eben fought against the storm to catch the Perth Connector to Newport for the Dundee train to Edinburgh. He could hardly stand upright on the platform, huddled against the wind as the rain rippled along the track and the lanterns swayed. It was a slow creaking journey across the Tay Bridge, too dark to see much outside. It felt as if the very railway bridge beneath him was swaying and groaning. He thought of the raging torrent below and clutched his coat and his pearls to his chest. It was such a relief when the train reached the other side. It was almost New Year’s Eve so he must do his business quickly in the city and move on south.

  He sold most of his collection for a good sum but the big pearl, he couldn’t part with. In London it would fetch a handsome price, enough to set himself up in premises. He didn’t show it to anyone but kept it close to his heart in a pouch around his neck.

  As he travelled through the Borders he began to wonder if it would be wiser to make his debut somewhere in the north country, in a prosperous industrial city perhaps. Leeds, Manchester or Liverpool were all well served by the jewellery trade.

  But as the train drew close to the city of York, he noticed the Minster towers in the distance, those solid, grey stone bastions. It felt as if they were beckoning him. York, a historic city, it’s cobbled streets steeped in Roman history. Surely this was as good a place as any to set himself up?

  He would rent premises. He’d visited once and knew that the streets near the Minster were cluttered with fine shops; the walls of the inner city enclosed gracious buildings.

  No one knew him there. He still had some stock in store. He could do repairs, buy and sell silverware, but with his pearl of pearls he had collateral to take out a loan to acquire more precious gems. Suddenly a whole new future was opening out before him. He would follow his hunch as he had done in Perth. There would be rich pickings in this fertile city. He smiled, gathering his belongings and his great coat he let himself out onto the platform joining the bustle of passengers, hearing the newsvendors shouting in the station hall. ‘Tay Bridge disaster! Read all about it, hundreds dead as train falls into the river . . .’

  Eben grabbed a newspaper, his heart thumping as he read. On Sunday 28 December, the evening mail train was derailed when the iron bridge collapsed in the storm. He shivered with the thought that he was on that very bridge just before it collapsed into the River Tay. How close had he been to certain death? How lucky he was to have left when he did. Eben pulled his muffler firmly across his neck to protect him from the chill easterly wind. His hand touched the pearl tucked close to his heart, just to be sure. Was this beauty already changing his fortune by coming into his possession? Could it be true that some pearls brought good luck? Had it brought him to York to make his fortune?

  7

  York, 1880

  As the weeks turned into months Greta learned how to work alongside the old jeweller. The threat of having to live there had receded. Kitty refused to leave home but promised to work harder at school. Mother got used to the idea of her daughter spending time alone in Mr Abrahams’s house, repaying his lessons with chores. Sometimes Mrs Costello called in to see how Greta was getting on, bringing the old man some elderberry cordial. ‘I don’t like the look of you, Mr Abrahams. You should see a doctor,’ she’d always say, noticing his face was grey and pinched, his lips mauve. Mr Abrahams shrugged his discomfort away. ‘I’m fine, Mrs Costello, but busy, busy.’

  Greta knew he was not, although he did have some important repairs to do for private customers and the workbench was cluttered with watches to be reset and cleaned. One afternoon when the snow was frosting the pavements, Mr Abrahams stood up and, struggling to put on his coat, prepared to head out into the freezing streets to make a delivery to a customer. Greta could see he was in no state to go out into the cold.

  ‘I’ll take it for you. Tell me where to go,’ she offered. Thanks to Mrs Abrabams’s wardrobe, she had a thick dress, a warm long coat, a bonnet and good gloves.

  ‘It’s for a gentleman lawyer with offices in Lendal. Mr Blake’s been a loyal customer of mine and this is overdue. I would hate him to think . . .’ He sat back exhausted. ‘This won’t do. I would be grateful for your assistance.’ He placed the gold watch he had mended in a chamois leather pouch. ‘Do take care of it, my dear, put it in your apron pocket and don’t linger, it’s almost dark.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think you ought to be going so far.’

  ‘I know where it is,’ she replied, eager to please.

  ‘Go round the back, of course, to the tradesman entrance and give my apologies. Hurry, Margareta. Please be careful for yourself’

  ‘I will, sir, I promise. It’ll only take two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I know all the back ways.’

  ‘No! stay under the gas lamps. I really should go myself but this wretched chest is so tight.’ He paused, looking out of the window. ‘Perhaps it can wait until after the Sabbath.’

  ‘Never put off what you can do today.’ Greta smiled. ‘You told me that, sir. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. You rest by the fire and promise me you will call on your doctor, or my mother will be round again with her awful mustard poultice for your chest.’

  It was one of those frosty March days when lamps were lit mid-afternoon, shadows flickered on the busy street. Greta felt proud to be trusted with this errand. Working for Mr Abrahams had put good boots on her feet and brought them all winter clothes. She no longer felt like a street urchin. Each day she was learning more about stringing beads, how to tie a good knot and how to check for damage on any pearls.

  She hesitated at the corner of Aldwark and, checking the lamps were lit, decided to take the familiar short cut that ran out onto the marketplace. She was halfway along the narrow lane when a shoulder jostled her, knocking her sideways. ‘Mind where you’re going!’ she snapped.

  ‘Hark at her, Maggie Costello. Been to see your fancy man then?’

  A boy she didn’t recognize pushed her. ‘Jumped up little tart!’

  ‘Let me pass,’ she yelled, hoping someone would hear but she knew there were no passersby in the alleyway.

  ‘A pretty lass like you should be selling your wares. Give us a bit of a taste then . . .’

  ‘Gerrof me!’ she yelled, kicking out. ‘I know who you are,’ she tried to bluff. ‘Wait till my brother finds out, you’re dead meat.’

  ‘You and whose army? Got a tongue on her this one, Mickey. Let’s have a feel . . .’

  Greta was pinned against the wall roughly as the boy pulled her coat open to feel her breasts. She struggled as he pulled her skirt over her knees. Then his hand felt over her apron and he pulled out the pouch.

  ‘So what have we here then?’ He pulled out the gold watch with a laugh.

  ‘Now here’s turn up. This tart’s no better than the rest of us, lifting stuff from that old Jew!’ He was fingering the case. ‘And gold too, takes one to know one, Mick.’

  ‘Please give it back. It’s not what you think. I am taking it back to the owner. Please, I’ll be in so much trouble. It’s not mine,’ she cried.

  They were too busy assessing the value of the timepiece to listen to Greta’s pleas. ‘We can say we found it in the street. Get a reward. Ta very much, slut . . .’

  Suddenly her assailants vanished into the darkness leaving Greta frozen with horror at what had happened. Tears of fear and shame ran down her cheeks. She’d taken a short cut against instructions and now this, all for saving a bit of time. She’d been robbed. How could she face Mr Abrahams with such dreadful news? She had to do something. She made her tearful way to Silver Street to the police station to report the theft. She must explain what had happened. How could she repay her employer for this loss?

  Greta was still shaking with fear as she mounted the steps of the station and pushed open the door. ‘Please, I have to report a theft,’ she cried, babbling about taking a short cut and being set upon by two boys. ‘They stole my watch, not my watch but one belonging to Mr Abrahams . . . It belongs to Mr Blake of Lendal. I were just going to deliver it for him and then these lads —’

  ‘Slow down, lass. Just whose watch is taken?’

  She told them again about the repair and being sent to the lawyer’s office.

  ‘Aye, we know the lawyer Blake, and you say old Abrahams gave it to you? Sent you out on a dark night?’

  ‘He’s badly with his chest. He asked me.’

  ‘Are you his maid?’

  ‘No, I work for him, he’s teaching me.’

  ‘His apprentice, a slip of a girl like you?’ The desk sergeant laughed. ‘There’s a good story.’

  ‘Not exactly . . . I do his cleaning and he’s teaching me to string pearls.’

  ‘So he sends you out with a gold watch at this time of night and now it’s gone?’

  Greta nodded. ‘There were two of them, same age as me. They knew who I was, one of them called me Maggie Costello but I’m called Greta but Mr Abrahams calls me Margareta,’ she tried to explain.

  ‘Never mind your name, who was it who stole from you?’

  ‘I don’t know but one of them called the other Mickey. They pinned me against the wall and tried to do things,’ she cried, blushing. ‘He found the watch in my apron pocket. Mr Abrahams told me to keep it safe there and now it’s gone.’ She was crying so loud that other policeman gathered round.

  ‘How do we know you aren’t all in this together? That this isn’t just a fall out among thieves, a pickpockets’ spat over the spoils?’ said another policeman.

  Greta looked up at him in horror. ‘But it wasn’t like that. Mr Abrahams will tell you who I am. I live down Walmgate with my mother. I have never stealed in my life.’

  ‘There’s plenty down that end of town who have,’ the tall policeman quipped. ‘I shall have to make a report of all this and you can wait here until we get the truth of the matter. We’ll speak to the Jew. Fancy sending a girl on such an errand, he ought to have had more sense.’

  How could they be saying such things about her employer? ‘But he’s bad with his chest. What am I going to tell him? Mr Blake is one of his best customers.’

  ‘You tell a good tale, lass, I grant you that but you’ll go nowhere until this is sorted.’

  ‘But the thieves, they will be still on the street. I could recognize them for you.’

  ‘So you say, so you say, girl. Let’s wait and see. Meanwhile, you will come and sit quietly in a cell, private and away from more trouble.’

  Greta found herself sitting alone and shivering in a bare cubicle with tiled walls. ‘My mother will be worried if I’m late. Sir, I don’t tell fibs. I go to the Mission Hall. The pastor will speak for me. I’m a good girl and I can read and write. I have a job to go to, why would I steal from a kind man like Saul Abrahams?’ She burst into more floods of tears, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to fear from the truth, have you, lass?’ said the policeman without sympathy before shutting the door and walking away.