It seemed like hours sitting on that bench, with the smell of carbolic and privy in her nose, listening to the clanging of locked doors, the shouts of drunks screaming curses. It would be really dark now and Greta knew her mother and Mr Abrahams would both be worried. She tried to distract herself by recalling every detail over and over. No one called her Maggie in the street, only at school in the playground. Those lads knew her, two boys, one called Mickey – but every other Irish boy had that name. If only it hadn’t been so dark. She remembered the feel of those rough hands on her chest, the knee pressing into her groin. How dare they think her a street girl? She felt such shame.

  Then the cell door opened and the constable with the ginger moustache gave her a look. ‘You’d better come out now.’

  ‘Have you found it? Did you catch them as did it? Did Mr Abrahams tell you he sent me?’

  ‘Just come outside.’ She walked down the passage relieved that the nightmare was over but then she saw her mother wrapped in her plaid shawl looking worried and puzzled.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Greta asked.

  They were both escorted into a wood-panelled office where a tall man in a black frock coat was standing by the fireplace.

  ‘This is the lassie, Mr Blake, the girl that took the watch. Mr Blake has verified that it was given to Mr Abrahams for repair, a valuable gold timepiece belonging to his wife’s grandfather.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Greta croaked shaking. ‘It was all my fault. I took a short cut to save my legs. Mr Abrahams was too sick to go out in the cold.’ She turned to the police officer. ‘Has Mr Abrahams told you the truth?’

  ‘You can sit down there.’ She was given a chair opposite a huge desk. ‘Yes, we went to the house of the jeweller, knocked on his door. There was no reply so the officer went round the back and found the old man asleep in his chair.’ He paused. ‘In the sleep that has no waking. He’s dead, peaceful but quite dead.’

  Greta howled at the thought of him dying alone. ‘I shouldn’t have left him. I told him to fetch the doctor. I should have done it myself. Your watch could have waited, sir.’ She flashed an angry look at the tall man with the whiskers down the sides of his cheeks. He had the decency to nod.

  ‘Your concern does you proud, girl, but it alters nothing. There’s no one to vouch for you.’ The officer was unmoved by her sobbing.

  ‘The girl is distressed. Let her home and I will vouch for her honesty. Take her home,’ Mr Blake said to Greta’s mother. ‘I’m sure the watch will turn up somewhere in the city.’ He spoke with authority.

  ‘Sir, there’s a report to be filled in first and she must come here every day until the matter is sorted one way or another.’

  In the blur of signing papers and stiff lectures, Greta heard nothing. All she could think about was poor Mr Abrahams. They must inform his friend Landesmann and his lawyer friend, Mr Barnett. He should not be left alone all night.

  ‘Who will see to his laying out?’ Sadie Costello asked Mr Blake as she guided her daughter out of the door.

  ‘It will be dealt with, Ma’am, by his own people. Just take your girl home. She’s had enough of a shock tonight,’ the lawyer replied.

  Greta walked home in silence, sick at heart. Her employer, that dear old man, was dead, she had no work and she was in trouble with the police. All her dreams were shattered. It would mean she’d have to go back to skivvying, and all because she’d taken a short cut. There would be no more chances now that the old man was gone. How she would miss her daily trips to his home. She recalled one morning when she’d struggled to knot tightly enough and had had to keep starting over and over again, until she’d thrown down the necklace in frustration.

  ‘My dear Margareta, patience, your mistakes are pearls to be cherished . . .’

  Who would ever call her Margareta again? What pearls of wisdom were there to be learned from taking a short cut through a snicket at dusk? She sighed. How she’d shamed and embarrassed her mother and set a bad example for Kitty and Tom. Sick and weary, she clung onto her mother for dear life as they walked home in silence.

  8

  It was a bright spring morning and Eben Slinger peered out of his Pearl Emporium in Stonegate with a satisfied smile and smoothing of his whiskers. He still couldn’t believe his luck in finding this shop right in the heart of the cobbled Minster streets. Competition was stiff in the city, there were several German clockmakers and many antique dealers, but he specialized in pearls and Whitby jet and he hoped he’d soon get a reputation for being the finest purveyor of these gems.

  His pearl luck had held firm when he arrived in York on that chilly winter’s day searching for modest lodgings. He spent a week meandering through the streets, sizing up just the right place to open his business. From a shop in Low Petergate he was directed to the Emporium of Handel Carswell in Stonegate just as the old man was thinking of selling up to retire. One look at Eben’s prize paragon and the jeweller knew here was a young man who knew quality and might be able to buy him out soon.

  To raise funds Eben scoured the country showrooms, building up a collection of fine pieces, buying mostly from auction houses and private sales. It was not easy working for another man’s business, but after a few months he was able to take on the shop by himself. There were so many desperate debtors who had no idea of the value of their pieces and wanted a quick sale to keep them out of the debtors’ courts.

  As well as the shop, he’d acquired the three-storey town house and the workshop behind the premises. He set about rearranging the showroom to his taste, clearing away the dust and cheaper items out of sight. During his travels round the county, Eben collected some fine parures – sets of pearl necklaces, bracelets and ear drops designed to be worn together – and pretty pearl tiaras and combs. He kept such items on permanent display in the well-lit window to lure in the touring visitors and gentry.

  There was always a reason for pearls; a necklace for a young girl, a brooch for a wife, a ring for a betrothal, a present for an anniversary, a gift to assuage guilt or jet mourning jewels to offset grief when death came calling.

  Arthur, the young apprentice who came with the business, was talented at fashioning popular mourning jewellery, winding horse hair into rings, cameos and brooches. This was much easier to work with than the locks of real hair customers wanted to use as mementoes and tokens of their grief. As long as the hair was dyed correctly, they wouldn’t know the difference. Arthur could also drill pearls to perfection, knowing any mistakes would be docked from his wages.

  No one could ever understand how Eben felt about his own private pearl collection. They were his beauties, kept in a mahogany display case, the drawers, lined with raw silk, tray upon tray in the cabinet assembled to his strict instructions. This was his secret hoard. Each pearl sat on its own little throne. Every night he would take out a chosen one to caress, marvelling at its special lustre. The selected gem slept under his pillow, or in a pocket sewn into his nightshirt, close to his heart.

  He took delight in adding to this catalogue. Each of his beauties was named, weighed, measured and assigned their place in his harem. Although nothing matched his prized possession, the Scottish gem he now called Mary, Queen of Scots, paragon among paragons, there was a beautiful cluster of Abilone pearls from the Californian coast he called his stars of the sea, some Tahitian pearls, dusky as the night, which he called his Black Moons and a pair of pink twin baroques that he named his Blushing Roses.

  Nothing gave him more pleasure than to dine above the shop premises using his cutlery with mother-of-pearl handles. He loved to cradle his tiepins and cufflinks, removing them from their mother-of-pearl trinket box. If Indian princes could adorn themselves with ropes of deep-sea pearls why shouldn’t he do the same in private? He sat in front of the mirror, admiring himself in a silk shirt studded with seed pearls brought in from the Colonies. They shimmered in the candlelight giving him a frisson of delight.

  What his house lacked was a woman’s refined touch. The old housekeeper, Eliza Hunt came with the shop. She was cheap, an average cook, trustworthy, quiet and never found in drink – but was finding the stairs from the kitchen in the basement getting steeper as she was getting slower. He must have spotless premises and he followed her around making sure she cleaned in all the corners. Her eyesight was weak but she would do for now.

  Eben headed out the door to inspect the pavement for dust and rubbish. It was time the boy came out with a bucket to spruce up the entrance and clean the step.

  Let no one say his business wasn’t up there with the more established York jewellers. His aim was to be the Pearl King of Stonegate. Some of his competitors were already asking his advice when certain items came their way and were noting Arthur’s precision work with a covetous eye. He could be a sullen cuss when told to re-do his work. Eben wondered how long they would last together, but he didn’t want Arthur setting up in competition with another jeweller down the street.

  Eben stood out in the morning street to admire the freshly painted sign, sparkling in the sunshine as it hung above the bow-fronted window: The Pearl Emporium. Setting up in York was one of his better decisions, he thought, and today was going to be a good day.

  Later, as the shadows crept across the cobbles and it was time to close the shutters, Eben noticed a furtive-looking boy lingering outside, eyes darting around to see if he was being followed, a look Eben recognized as shifty.

  ‘Sir, I found this,’ said the boy, his cap pulled low over his face. ‘Found it in the back lane a week ago, put a notice in the shop window. Nobody’s come.’

  Oh yes? And my mother is Queen of England, Eben thought. ‘Are you wanting to sell it or take it to the police station?’

  ‘Nah, just wanted to know what it’s worth first . . . for the reward, like.’ The boy was mumbling in a rough guttural accent.

  ‘Come in then,’ Eben ordered. ‘I don’t do business in the street.’ He made sure there was no accomplice lurking across the road.

  The boy put the watch down on the bench. Eben examined it with exaggerated care. ‘It’s got initials engraved, early last century, a fine timepiece in good working order. So are you wanting to sell or just a valuation?’

  The boy looked at him surprised. ‘Might as well sell. What’s it worth?’

  ‘Twenty guineas, may be more.’ Eben made his paltry offer.

  ‘Hang on, it’s worth more than that, chap down the road offered me forty.’ The boy had the sense to point down the street to a well-known clockmaker.

  ‘Whatever I offer, I can’t give you cash now. It’s banked for the night and off the premises. You’ll have to call back in the morning. Thirty-five is my highest offer. What’s your name? I don’t deal with strangers.’

  ‘Bert Ryan, sir.’ He added, ‘It’s a good one. I don’t deal in rubbish. Found it back near Patricks Pool.’

  ‘I see, and no sign of an owner then?’

  ‘Not a soul around and my old man could do with some brass on account of him having no work, like.’ Out came the sob story.

  ‘Will you leave it here or call back tomorrow before I open shop? I will have my sovereigns ready. I might find a buyer but as you see I don’t sell watches. Why did you come to me after you had seen old Muller? There are so many other shops.’ Eben was curious.

  ‘You’re new to the street and I heard old Carswell as was here before, weren’t fussy where some of his stuff came from, see. So tomorrow then?’ He grabbed the watch and thrust it under his jacket. ‘Thanks, mister.’ Herbert Ryan darted out of the door into the street.

  Eben smiled, found his coat and hat, locked up the shop carefully just in case and headed down towards Petergate in the lamplight. This deserved a pie and a pint in his favourite local while he decided how to play this intriguing turn of events.

  Greta Costello hadn’t been able to eat or sleep since the robbery. Then, one morning a fortnight after she’d been arrested, a man in a smart coat and black hat called at their door. She and her mother were elbow deep in suds and steamy washing and Greta felt embarrassed to bring him into their rough living space, cluttered with soggy underclothes.

  ‘Miss Margaret Annie Costello? You were the late employee of Mr Saul Abrahams?’

  ‘That’s me, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘This is for you.’

  ‘It’s the watch, oh thank God, it’s been returned, Mam!’

  ‘I know nothing about a watch, this is from the estate of the late Mr Abrahams. He left a gift for you in gratitude for all your hard work.’ The man was shoving a blue leather box into her hand. ‘My father, Mr Joshua Barnett, was given instructions that should anything happen to his client, this must come to you.’

  Greta wiped her hands on her skirt to open the box. It was lined with pale blue silk and inside was a large single pearl set in a rose-gold claw on a thick chain.’

  ‘But this can’t be for me, it’s beautiful?’ Inside was tucked a small note.

  My dear Margareta,

  My wife, Adah Joel wore this all her life, a gift from her father in better times. I could not wish for a kinder girl to wear it than you. Please never sell it. Pawn if you must and redeem when you can. When the time comes, pass this on with love but not for money and it will bring you joy in life.

  Your friend, Saul Abrahams.

  ‘My goodness!’ said her mother staring at the large pearl. ‘You can’t accept that. What will people think you did to earn it? Not after losing his watch, it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘I can’t accept because I don’t deserve it.’ Greta looked up at the young man. ‘I lost his watch and betrayed his trust.’ She closed the box to hand it back but he refused to take it.

  ‘Not so hasty, miss. Don’t refuse a gift from the dead. It’s bad luck, especially with this being a pearl.’

  ‘Is that so? I suppose the gentleman’s right, Greta. I don’t want you having more bad luck than you’ve got, losing the watch and losing yer job as well as the old man. What a kind gentleman he was taking you on. We must honour his memory then by accepting this. Thank you, sir.’

  Greta’s mother showed the young man out, leaving Greta staring at the single pear-shaped pearl which hung from its golden setting like a pendant or a holy cross. The gold claw was set with tiny diamonds.

  ‘I can’t wear this.’ Greta shook her head weeping. ‘He shouldn’t have done this, and me in disgrace for losing his repair . . .’

  ‘Maybe not now, love, but happen on your wedding day. To think he should be so generous. We’ll put it away safe out of sight in the drawer. What a good bit of fortune, perhaps it will bring us luck, for heaven knows we need some with you out of work now.’

  As if Providence had sprung into action at her pleas, a policeman called, asking them to return to Silver Street Police Station where there was good news. ‘It seems you are in the clear, Miss Costello. We caught a young man red-handed yesterday morning trying to sell a fine gold watch to a jeweller in Stonegate. He came to warn us that someone was trying to palm off an item he believed stolen. We went to his premises and accosted young Bert Ryan with his brother, Michael, who we also caught in the chase that followed. They’re a well-known family of pickpockets. Of course, they claimed they found it close to Patricks Pool, just as you told us. Your witness statement will be important in bringing them to justice. So, all’s well that ends well, young lady. I have informed Erasmus Blake who is a Quaker friend of the Cocoa merchant, Mr Rowntree, and well respected. It will be returned to him forthwith.’

  ‘We must thank the jeweller,’ said Sadie Costello shaking her head with relief. ‘It’s good there’s some honest folk around.’

  ‘It is indeed but the gentleman in question wants to remain anonymous in this matter. He’s new to the district and felt it was his duty to insure that no one thought him an easy target for stolen property. If he remains anonymous he might help us again if the criminal fraternity call.’

  ‘What a relief, lass, to have this burden off our backs. Two bits of good luck in as many days but they say it comes in threes.’ Sadie smiled later as she was hanging out the sheets in the back yard. ‘Perhaps things are looking up.’

  Since Mr Abraham’s death, Greta had been working at the market again, helping round the back at the greengrocer’s stall. How she missed those evenings, sitting at the bench sorting out repairs, playing with Mr Abraham’s little measuring scales, listening to his instructions. Peeling rotten spring greens was a thankless task. It was then that she had the bright idea of going to see Mr Blake in his chambers near to the river to ask if the repair was to his satisfaction. She could also ask if he knew anywhere suitable for her to find employment, even if it was a cleaning job.

  In the morning she dressed with care in her Sunday outfit, a two-piece made from Adah’s woollen dress. She also wore her straw bonnet trimmed with a bright ribbon and round her neck she wore her new necklace for luck. She might be from the bad end of Walmgate but she knew how to present herself.

  ‘Miss Costello to see Mr Blake,’ she announced to the clerk when she arrived at Mr Blake’s imposing offices. When she explained why she was visiting without an appointment a clerk ushered her along a hallway lined with chairs and then through a door into a panelled room with a fine mantlepiece and warm fire in the grate.

  ‘So, Mr Abrahams’s young assistant, I’m glad we meet in better circumstances. How can I help?’ Mr Blake smiled from behind his desk, indicating that she should sit in a leather chair opposite him.

  ‘I came to enquire if the watch was still in a satisfactory condition. I am so relieved it has been recovered. It has been on my mind that it might be damaged.’

  ‘It is fine and in good order and, as I recall, still only a watch. How are you?’

  ‘Doing my best, sir, but I miss working for my late employer.’ She paused, looking down at the floor, courage failing her. ‘I wondered if . . . but perhaps I’d better not . . .’ She rose to leave. ‘I’ve said what I came for. Pardon me for taking up your time.’