The Necklace Page 11

  “How are you getting home? Need me to rustle up a car?” he asked, taking the tiny crystal thimble of syrupy liquor out of her hand. She’d definitely feel ill in the morning.

  “Not going,” she said, swaying a bit. “Am staying. Dear May said I could stay upstairs.” She laughed. “Look at your face, you old thing. Not in the dormitory. Jeez, where’s your mind? Still off in the Orient with harems or something? In a guest room, silly. I sent the chauffeur home to Mommy. Aren’t you staying?”

  No wonder her parents were sending her to a Swiss finishing school. Though he realized May’s invitation to stay probably saved her parents the scandal of dealing with a tipsy daughter.

  “Yes, I’m staying,” Ambrose said.

  “Then maybe you should tuck me in.” Even through the worn lipstick and the liquor on her breath, she had a beautiful smile.

  “What’s required for tucking you in?”

  “A nice big old teddy bear, that’s for sure.”

  Ambrose smiled. “I’ll see if May has one of those lying around.”

  She came forward then and grasped his lapels. “I think she outgrew hers.” Arabella leaned in farther, so that their lips were almost touching. As much as things had changed, and a visibly drunken woman grabbing his jacket and leaning into his face was certainly new, she stopped a few inches from him. She waited for him to come forward and actually kiss her.

  And something about her, a hint of May really, made him duck his head to hers.

  Through the faint waxy-rose traces of her lipstick and the softness of her mouth he could hear the guests around them chatting, and then he heard May. Her low, distinct voice saying good night to someone made him pull back abruptly, leaving Arabella’s mouth open.

  Arabella smiled and actually winked at him and then headed for the staircase, where one of the maids was waiting on the top-floor landing to show her to her room.

  THE MOON OF NIZAM

  On her father’s advice, Nell calls the museum the morning after the wake, closing herself in Loulou’s aqua-and-black-tiled bathroom and trying to keep her voice down. Even though her last name is Merrihew, she tells the receptionist on the phone “Nell Quincy,” feeling like a fraud. As a girl, Nell had secretly wished the more recognizable Quincy had been her last name—a name with the stardust of Roosevelt or Rockefeller or Kennedy. Not that she’s alone. Loulou had hers changed back the moment she had the social cover of her divorce, and Baldwin used Quincy when making dinner reservations to ensure a good table. Her mother had given it to Nell as a middle name. Cornelia Quincy Merrihew was a mouthful, though dignified, and it looked good on the nameplate outside her office door. But it is with sheepish feelings of pretense that she uses Quincy with the museum.

  The curator of Asian art returns her call in minutes.

  “Could you email me a picture?” the curator asks. Nell’s briefly stymied by this suggestion, by the sudden thought of the necklace going out in the world. At her silence the curator rushes on, covering. “It’s a bit of a formality. In this case, I’m sure I’d be interested in the piece. Why don’t we choose a day for me to come look at it?”

  Nell’s certain she doesn’t want a museum curator coming to the farm, doesn’t want Baldwin or Pansy to start asking questions.

  “I can bring it in,” Nell says quickly.

  “It’s best for me to come to it,” the curator says. “I’d hate for something to happen to it while traveling. And really, it shouldn’t be disturbed from where it’s resting without a fine art packer handling it.”

  Where it’s resting is around her neck. Where it was resting was stuffed in an old liquor sack and crammed in a dressing table. This woman is probably picturing some sort of buried treasure scenario, a dusty attic, or at least a proper jewelry box. Nell can imagine the woman’s white gloves, her pocket loupe, and an LED penlight.

  “No, really. I’d prefer to bring it in,” Nell says with what she hopes sounds like finality.

  There’s a long pause and then a sigh. “Of course, Mrs. Quincy.” The name makes Nell wince. “If you insist.”

  The Quincy name must have some magic left in it because an appointment is made for the very next day.

  In the same clothes from the wake, the only decent things she’s brought, Nell walks through the glass and marble atrium of the Cleveland Museum of Art. She hears efficient click-clack footsteps behind her before she turns.

  Reema Patel is wearing a dove gray flannel shift dress, the cut severe, toned arms on display. Though the color would make your average woman look like a corpse, it makes her skin glow and enhances the dark circles under her eyes, adding gravitas in counter to her beauty. Her hair is a glory—black, enviously shiny, and cut in a thick hem at a professionally appropriate two inches past her collarbone. On her feet are a pair of burgundy suede heels low enough to run in.

  Nell’s relieved there’s no one from the development office joining them as she follows Patel to her office. Nell sits in the modern and uncomfortable chair across from the tidy desk. There’s a framed diploma from Oxford on the wall, which explains why Patel’s accent sounds more English than Indian. Nell notices a diploma from Yale as well before turning her attention back. She doesn’t want to appear the snob judging schooling.

  They exchange the usual pleasantries, with Patel offering condolences on Loulou’s death and an obligatory comment on her longevity, and Nell commenting on the new Pompeii exhibition downstairs.

  And then Reema Patel sits back, waiting for Nell to start.

  She wonders how many times Patel’s been subjected to “treasures” from Granny’s attic—reproduction tourist trinkets presented by an eager, slightly haughty face. Nell’s suddenly embarrassed, rethinking her visit. Surely if this necklace were real, it’d have been kept downtown in the safe-deposit box that housed all the “good” jewelry, the specific bequest notwithstanding. Nell’s pulled family strings that she doesn’t feel entitled to use to get this meeting. Patel would probably prefer Nell announce some legacy from Loulou, specifically bequeathed to the Asian collections.

  But there is no way around her visit now, and Patel looks like she’ll quash dreams with sensitivity. Nell pulls the whiskey sack from her handbag, wishing she’d thought to put it in something cleaner.

  Patel leans over, as if a delicate relic has been placed on her desk. Nell’s gratified by this show of deference, and it’s effective in conveying Patel’s seriousness. As Patel gingerly opens the bag, Nell notices that Patel’s nails are short with jagged cuticles, a pleasing juxtaposition with her posh clothes.

  When Patel removes the necklace from the sack, a little gasp whooshes between her lips. She places the jewel reverently on the dusty velvet, her head nodding faintly as she tucks her hair behind one ear. She bows closer until her nose is almost touching the sapphire, and it looks, incongruously, as if she’s smelling it. Then she raises her head quickly, sneezes violently, and scrambles for a tissue. She turns to her computer, typing quickly on the keyboard with one hand as she blows her nose with the other.

  Nell remains silent, though a barrage of questions runs through her mind.

  After looking back and forth between the screen and the necklace, Patel swings the computer monitor toward Nell. Nell counsels herself not to beam, not to look greedy, but she can’t help smiling; on the screen is a black-and-white picture of the necklace.

  “I’m not a gemologist,” Patel starts. “But this,” she says pointing to the screen, “is the Moon of Nizam, also called the Sapphire of Baroda. It belonged to the maharaja of Baroda. It’s been missing since the 1920s.”

  All that registers is that this is one of those gems that actually has a name, and that it’s missing.

  “Missing?”

  Patel nods. “Maharajas would sell their jewels to the British. They’d never admit it, of course, and once the jewels were out of the country . . .” She leans back, rummaging in her desk drawer. “Also looting during Partition. Sometimes they made gifts.” She reaches up to
make air quotes and then goes back to searching.

  Nell hazily remembers glancing on the case of the Koh-i-Noor, the largest diamond in the British crown jewels, during an international law seminar back in law school. India wants it back, claims it was looted as war booty by the British East India Company and then given to Queen Victoria for her crown. Britain claims it was a legitimate gift, though the twelve-year-old maharaja who bestowed it had just had his territories conquered and occupied by the British army. Pakistan has requested return, claiming original ownership. The Taliban has even claimed rights. Each time there’s some summit in London or the Olympics come to the UK, Nell sees the Koh-i-Noor pop up again in the news. She mentions this to Patel.

  “India keeps getting shot down on that one,” Patel says. “There’s little hope there. But they have successfully repatriated some of the jewels of lesser maharajas when they come up for sale or . . .” She pauses here. “. . . things. Tell me about this,” she says.

  Nell recounts the story of finding the necklace. Patel is nodding and ransacking her desk. Nell considers mentioning the will and that the necklace is hers, but that seems private, still unreal, and oddly boastful.

  “A gemologist will need to look at it. There are always fakes floating around, usually cobbled together from old pieces so the whole thing feels authentic. Ah!” Patel finally finds what she’s looking for and pulls out a pair of tweezers. She picks up one end of the necklace’s gold tassels. “This could be a crude repair here, or it could be a clue that this is an attempt to pass off a fake.” She’s pointing to the rewoven spot in the cording that her expert eye had spotted instantly. There is no accusation in her voice, just matter-of-fact professionalism. “A condition report, a gemological grading report . . .” She’s dragging the necklace into better light, not looking at Nell while she keeps talking. “Provenance issues for sure, since it’s all so mysterious. Do you have any idea how your family got this?”

  “Inherited.”

  “I mean before.”

  “Ambrose Quincy did one of those grand tours in the twenties. Brought back stuff for everyone,” Nell says, thinking of her father’s comments, thinking of the blackbuck head in the front hall.

  “So it could have been stolen, or sold, or stolen and then sold. You wouldn’t have the bill of sale, would you? A customs declaration form?”

  Nell’s blood rises with defensiveness. Is there a family in history that could find such slips of paper? Have them on hand for immediate inspection a hundred years after the fact? She supposes a clan of robotic bureaucrats could. “My family’s had it for coming up on a century,” Nell starts to explain, but at Patel’s patiently inquiring face, Nell amends, “No.”

  “Perhaps you should look for one,” Patel says distractedly as she flips over the necklace and examines the enameled back. “Exquisite meenakari,” she says, gesturing with the tweezers. “Has me leaning toward authentic. It looks well intact, perhaps suspiciously so, which cuts both ways. Sometimes, in older pieces, the enamel chips. The meenakari was never documented, I’m guessing, since it’s been missing so long, which is a pity because then we could cross-reference and know for sure.” She turns the monitor back toward her, clicking the keyboard, presumably looking for a picture of the back to verify.

  Patel using “we” makes Nell feel reassured. “You just said things went missing,” Nell says, still mulling over provenance issues.

  “Yes,” she says looking up, “but not things like the Moon of Nizam. It’s said the Moon was the favorite jewel of Shah Jahan.” She opens her desk drawer again, rooting through pencils and Post-it pads. “Why can’t I find anything today? That’s craftsmanship. That’s five hundred years. Here it is.” She brings out a mini black camera.

  The words Shah Jahan echo around in Nell’s brain like diamond dust. “So Ambrose could have bought it from someone who stole it.”

  “Mrs. Quincy,” Patel says, looking up from taking a picture of the necklace. She has not asked for permission, but she might be one of those better-to-ask-forgiveness-than-permission types.

  “It’s Ms., and please call me Nell.”

  “Nell,” she says, her voice softening and her eyes twinkling in a deft smile, meant to reassure. “I don’t mean to be impugning your ancestors.” She says this with a slight singsong on the gerund, losing that clipped Britishness. “But if this is the Moon of Nizam, and I’m not saying it is . . .” She clicks off a few more pictures. “It’s highly doubtful that it was procured through legitimate means.”

  “It was sitting in my great-aunt’s house in a whiskey sack.” Nell laughs, trying to get Patel to join, but she only smiles slightly.

  Nell’s sure now she’s made the wrong choice in bringing it here. She should have asked Emerson to get Vlad to look at it, or taken it to Christie’s for an appraisal. Even Antiques Roadshow would have been better.

  “Yes, well, you have some options,” Patel says, back to very British now. “The first one, and I would encourage this, is that you allow the piece to come into the museum on consideration.”

  Nell nods, trying to keep a bland face.

  “This object is potentially an artifact of significant cultural history, and as such deserves to be thoroughly researched by an institution like ours. And if you’d allow it to come here, I’d have the registrar insure it, then we’d sign a conservation service order to examine it to determine the materials. We’d run tests.”

  At Nell’s face, she says, “Noninvasive, of course. I’d do the research personally, and I’m sure I don’t need to emphasize the significant international contacts and resources I have at my disposal based on my connection with the museum. It would probably make sense to interview a few members of your family as well.”

  “What?” Nell asks. “Why?” she says before she can stop herself.

  Patel slows, aware she’s tripped some wire. “That’s a fairly typical procedure in a case like this. It can help with provenance, but also with historical placement of the piece, dating, all sorts of things.”

  At Nell’s pause, she continues. “In the absence of bringing it to the museum under consideration, I hate to suggest it, but you should probably hire counsel.”

  “Bringing it to the museum?” Nell asks.

  Patel turns back to the jewel, examining it again. “On loan, of course, but ultimately, if this is what I think it is, for acquisition.”

  It’s barely Nell’s and now the museum wants it. Is she supposed to hand it over? Will they buy it? Is it even real? Patel is cool and calm, but Nell’s started to sweat. Nell half expects Patel to sweep the thing up and lock it in her desk drawer.

  “This is all my opinion and an educated guess, Nell. You’re free to get another one,” Patel says in the tone of someone absolutely certain of her facts. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that there might be some thorny legal issues.” She turns and points down at the necklace. “If it comes up for auction, the Indian government could try to enjoin you from selling it and pursue a right of replevin. Then again, they might do nothing. These things are never clear-cut. And then there’s the Mahj.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Patel clicks around on the keyboard again and then turns the monitor back toward Nell to show her photos of a handsome and clearly inebriated young Indian man appearing to stumble out of a London nightclub, arm in arm with Prince Harry.

  “I take it you don’t read People magazine. The twelfth maharaja of Baroda is young, bit of a playboy, and runs in Prince Harry’s circle. Called the Mahj. His family would be the family that it went missing from.”

  “Would he have a claim?”

  “Who knows?” Patel says in a quick way that sounds like she knows. “But sapphire jewelry of the time frame is rare. Indians, especially the Mughals, considered sapphires bad luck. My grandmother was appalled by this.” She wafts her engagement ring, a petite duo of Kate Middleton’s. “She was adamant that I sleep with it under my pillow for two nights and if nothing bad happened and
there were no bad dreams, then I was okay.” They both smile. “Of course I was keeping it no matter what, but that didn’t stop me from doing what she said.” Nell nods. “Luckily, no bad dreams. But maybe that’s why they put the Moon in the Navaratna setting.”

  Nell digs out her phone and opens the notes application. “The nine-stone setting,” Patel leans forward, toward Nell’s phone as if she’s dictating. “It’s supposed to symbolize the moon, the planets, the sun, things like that, supposed to bring good luck.” She gestures toward the inlaid stones with her tweezers. “Maybe they thought it would counteract the sapphire.”

  “Like it’s cursed?” Nell’s thinking of Baldwin’s comment, trying to remember if it’s the Hope Diamond that’s cursed.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Patel turns back to her monitor and is clicking through pictures again. “India’s interest in it might hinge on publicity. If a potential sale became notorious, they might feel compelled to act. If the maharaja were involved, say. But you’ll also have customs issues; I’m not a lawyer, but I’m sure the legal issues would spin out into a huge web.”

  This sounds like a threat, and Nell’s wondering if Patel can get the government involved if she wants to. If the necklace is the Moon, if it is stolen, does Nell have some kind of legal duty? Does Patel have some kind of reporting duty? Nell’s racking her memory of her sole law school ethics class.

  She decides it’s time to leave, time to retreat, to research as all lawyers do when cornered, and to plan. She rises and scoops the necklace into the little bag and then into her purse.

  “Thanks for your time,” Nell says quickly.

  Patel rises. “Really, we’re equipped to keep it safe,” she says, shooting a hand forward, and for a moment Nell thinks Patel is going to wrestle her for it. But she’s only offering a handshake, a faux-friendly formality.

  Nell shakes her hand quickly and is out the door. As she turns into the hallway, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Patel sit and reach for the phone.