City of Glory (49 page)

Papa, however, was not here, and for the moment neither was the Widow Tremont. Manon went into the shop and raised the blind that Papa had lowered over the front window to signal that the shop was closed. Plenty of passersby on the street outside, but no sign of Joyful. There was no reason to expect him. At this hour, if he were not detained by urgent business, he would be looking for her at the market.

What if he had managed to get to the market Monday and Tuesday and again today, and not found her come to meet him even once? Would he think that she had tired of waiting for his fortunes to change and planned to accept Monsieur DeFane’s nephew? Joyful might be at the market this very minute. Dare she go and try and find him? Impossible. The Widow Tremont had the eyes of an eagle, and another quarrel with Papa might bring still more harrowing results. He would send her away, perhaps. There was said to be a great aunt in Providence…She could not slip out once Adele Tremont returned. She had here a golden opportunity and she was wasting it.

The boy who worked at Devrey’s Pharmacy! Joyful had said she could trust him with messages at any time. It was not far to Hanover Square; she could be there and back in ten minutes. And if the boy wasn’t there? Well, she’d be no worse off than she was right now.

Manon ran behind Papa’s counter and found the little stub of pencil he had been guarding for weeks now—imported from England, pencils, like so many other things, were in short supply since the war and the blockade—and one of the scraps of paper on which he recorded customer orders. She would write the note on the way.

Chapter Nineteen

New York City,
Mill Street, 1
P.M.

J
OYFUL HAD NO
real reason to try the dovecote. Manon had said,
This week I will be at the Fly Market every day at noon. Come when you can.
But he’d gone to the Fly every day since and there was no sign of her. He’d managed to speak to Elsie Gruning today, and according to her some other woman was shopping for the Vionne household. Had she gone off with that widower from Virginia? Impossible. Even if the man had managed to get here, even if Manon accepted him, nothing would be arranged so quickly. Perhaps he’d somehow misunderstood, or Manon had somehow misremembered. The dovecote was the second most likely rendezvous.

It was going on one o’clock; he’d been here half an hour and still no sign of her. Joyful was about to leave when he saw three men coming up the hill from Peck’s Slip. They were sufficiently deep in conversation not yet to have spied him, but he recognized the man in the center as Maurice Vionne.

There was one narrow house between the garden with the dovecote and the entrance to the Jews’ synagogue. He ducked into its shadowy doorway and waited. The three men walked right by him without turning their heads, close enough so he caught a snatch of conversation: “…circumstances, it seemed this was the safest place.” He knew the man speaking. Samson Simson, the lawyer. And the third? He couldn’t be sure, but he’d wager it was Mordecai Frank, the Hebrew goldsmith. So—the trio Manon described as meeting in her father’s shop and poring over the book that described the Great Mogul diamond.

The men had paused just outside the entrance to the synagogue a few feet from where Joyful had hidden. “I will wait out here,” he heard Vionne say. “You two go.”

Frank and Simson climbed the steps and disappeared inside. Vionne looked up and down the street. Once or twice he took out his watch and examined it. He walked to the corner and peered down the hill toward the waterfront. He did not, thank God, look in any doorways.

Joyful thought of approaching him.
I love your daughter. I want to marry her. What have you done with her? Is she well?
And what would Vionne say? Well, for a start he might ask how Joyful intended to support a wife.

Mordecai Frank came out of the synagogue and rejoined Vionne five minutes later.

“You have it?”

“Right here.” Frank passed over what appeared to be a sheaf of documents.

“And the other set?”

“Inside, in a place no one would think to look. You can rely on that.”

“I’m sure.” Vionne did not examine the papers, only tucked them in the inside pocket of his cutaway. Then: “Mr. Frank, you’re sure we’re doing the right thing?”

“I’m…Yes, Mr. Vionne, I’m sure.”

The hesitation made it sound doubtful, but Vionne accepted the statement. “Very well. I am also sure.”

Frank put his hand on Vionne’s arm. “You are rising to the challenge, sir. Magnificently.”

“I pray God that is so.” Another glance at his watch. “We must go. We are to meet Blakeman at half two.”

The men set off together. Joyful watched until they turned the corner and were out of sight. Easy enough to follow them, but what point? He knew they were to meet with Gornt Blakeman. He knew that they were bringing him an authentification of the diamond: the statement of two highly respected New York jewelers that the gem was indeed the legendary Great Mogul and that it would be a remarkable addition to the crown jewels of the Holy Roman emperor, Francis II, king of Bohemia and Hungary, emperor of Austria. The role of Manon’s father and the other smith in Blakeman’s scheme was one reason he’d been so anxious to see her today. At least he could relieve her mind of the worry that the two men meant to try cutting the stone.

The question then was whether following Maurice Vionne and Mordecai Frank would take him to Manon. Unlikely in the extreme. As far as Vionne knew, his daughter had no part in this business. For Joyful, Maurice Vionne and Mordecai Frank were known quantities. So was Blakeman, for that matter. The person whose role in all this was not clear was Samson Simson.

Joyful waited until the pair of goldsmiths were out of sight, then he left the doorway and headed for the synagogue. Halfway up the steps he started to remove his hat, then remembered and kept it on.

“This is a house of worship, sir. If you wish to speak to me on a matter of law, I suggest—”

“I assure you, I mean no disrespect to your beliefs or your synagogue.” Joyful had found Simson in the sanctuary, sitting on a red velvet bench beside a pair of tall white wooden doors above which a lantern flickered. Sun poured through windows made of yellow glass, the diamond-shaped panes separated by delicate leading. The whole room was flushed gold. “Mr. Simson, you do not know me, but I am—”

“Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Turner.”

“Very well. Then you know I am one-quarter Jew, along with whatever else.”

“We do not claim you, sir.” Simson rose.

He sounded tired, Joyful thought. “My grandfather—”

“The notorious Solomon DaSilva,” Simson interrupted. “Yes, I know. But according to
halacha,
our law, you are a Jew only if your mother was. Now please, we must step outside.”

He led the way past a raised central platform draped in red damask with silver fringe, surrounded by a burnished mahogany railing with exquisitely turned spindles painted gleaming white. The dais was flanked by unlit candles in tall brass candlesticks.

Simson paused with his hand on the door to the vestibule and looked back as if admiring the setting, as if he’d never seen the place before. “That tablet above the
hehal.
” The lawyer nodded toward the pair of doors.

“Hehal?”

“The Ark of the Covenant, Doctor. It contains our holy scrolls. The tablet above it was carved in 1730.”

“And it says?”

“Words much older. The ten commandments. You see the brass urns either side? Beautiful, aren’t they?”

They were placed too high for Joyful to appreciate more than their shape. “Very graceful.”

“Yes, I think so too. They were made in the thirteenth century. Taken from Iberia by our people when, after over a thousand years, the Inquisition turned them first out of Spain, then Portugal. Your ancestors among them, no doubt, Dr. Turner. Mine, on the other hand, came from Frankfurt and from Holland. But no matter, we Jews have been wandering almost since the Holy One put us on this earth.”

“Do you wander still, Mr. Simson? Do you not feel rooted here, in New York, in these United States? This synagogue seems to me to be unmolested. ‘Congress shall make no law concerning religion—”

“—or prohibit the free exercise of it.’ I assure you I applaud the sentiments of the Constitution, doctor. But we were talking about the urns. Pity you can’t see the etching from here. Almond blossoms. The Book of Numbers says, ‘The rod of Aaron for the house of Levi was budded, and put forth buds, and bloomed blossoms and bore ripe almonds.’ Hence the learned rabbis tell us only a freshly budded almond branch might be placed beside the
hehal.
Not something easy to come by in New York. So the urns are empty. As you see them.”

“Beautiful and unmolested,” Joyful repeated. “Here in the United States.”

“For now. Thanks be to the Holy One.”

Simson opened the door and Joyful followed him out of the sanctuary. “Mr. Simson,” he began.

“Yes, Dr. Turner?”

“I was told that something that belonged to my father”—he hesitated—“something he’d hidden for me to find…” No way to say it except directly. “I was told the Jews had it.”

“I see. May I ask by whom?”

“You may ask, Mr. Simson, but I may not answer. Anyway, it has no bearing on the issue.”

The lawyer shrugged. “Perhaps not. People say all kinds of things about us, after all. Look around, Dr. Turner. Do you see whatever it is that belonged to your father? Or any little Christian children for that matter? So we may ritually slaughter them and drink their blood.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know you didn’t.”

“I thought you might have heard the story, and could shed some light on the mystery.”

“I’m afraid I know nothing of your father, Dr. Turner, other than that he was a great patriot. Like yourself.”

“And you, Mr. Simson? Are you also a patriot?”

“I hope so, Doctor. In my fashion.”

Hanover Street,
Gornt Blakeman’s Premises, 2:30
P.M.

He had expected one goldsmith, not two, but Blakeman received them both in the small office to the rear of the countinghouse. “A matter of such weight,” Vionne murmured. “I felt I must have another opinion.”

“Perfectly understandable. Please, gentlemen, sit down. It’s a warm afternoon; a glass of ale might be welcome.”

Blakeman lifted the pitcher, realized there were only two glasses on the table, and served his guests. He rang a small handbell that summoned Vinegar Clifford and sent him for a third. As far as Vionne could see, the three of them plus the whipper were the only people in the place.

“I sent the clerks home early. So much discontent on the street, all this talk of invasion…Naturally, they were concerned for their families.”

“Very kind of you,” Vionne said. “Very thoughtful.”

“Besides, our business is no one’s affair but our own, gentlemen. At least not yet.”

The whipper delivered the extra glass. Blakeman filled and lifted it. “A toast, gentlemen.” He looked from one to the other. “I give you the jewel of the ages.”

Vionne’s hand trembled when he lifted his glass. This was an entirely different man from the one he’d met on two previous occasions.

“Now”—Blakeman refilled their glasses as he spoke, emptying the pitcher and ringing his bell to summon another—“you have something for me.”

Vionne waited until the whipper had come and gone, carrying away the pitcher to be refilled, then withdrew the sheaf of papers from the pocket inside his cutaway and passed them over. Blakeman took them eagerly. His hand was trembling as well, Vionne noted. “Unsealed, as you requested,” he murmured.

“Exactly. I will affix a seal before…” Blakeman was running his eye down the page as he spoke. Most of what was written was highly specialized. Just so. You go to experts and invariably they spoke in gibberish only other experts understood.
The stone is 189.62 metric carats and measures 47.6 mm in height, 31.75 mm in width, and 34.92 mm in length…outstanding clarity…a slight bluish-green tint…half a pigeon’s egg…concentrated rows of triangular facets…corresponding four-sided facets on the lower surface. A slight indentation one side.
He turned the last page. “Gentlemen, unless I am mistaken, there is no mention of the diamond’s name.”