Cost Price (32 page)

Now safes are not built in a day – or even a month, and Christmas was drawing near when I had a note from John Ferrers, to say that the gems were in place. So it came about that, one brave December morning, almost six months to a day since Mansel and I had left for Austria, Jenny and I were taken down to the vaults. And there, in a brand new strongroom, all to themselves, cleverly lighted by hidden electric lamps, the gems which had cost us so dear were lying on fawn coloured velvet, beneath a sheet of plate glass.

Though we knew little of gems, we, both of us, gasped. To say that they filled the eye conveys nothing at all. The brain itself was staggered by such a majestic sight. Had there been half a dozen, we must have been deeply impressed, for no one, however benighted, could ever have failed to remark the size and splendour of the stones and the almost incredible cunning with which they had been carved. And here were not six, but one hundred and twenty-seven flawless stones…the vast majority bigger than any that I had seen…and every one carved by a master, a sculptor in miniature… And when I say ‘master’, I mean it. The men that carved those jewels knew more than their mystery. Humanity herself looked out of those precious stones. Humanity grave and learned, Humanity wanton and gross, Humanity bold and brutal, Humanity gentle and sweet. Laughter and tears and horror, pride and wisdom and hate, courage and love and remorse – half the emotions we know were there portrayed. I beg that you will not ask me how it was done, for no man, I think, could answer a question like that. How did the men of the East produce their ivory balls ‘laborious orient ivory, sphere in sphere’? But there the wonder was lying, before our eyes.

The deputy curator was speaking.

“I have, I may say, a lifelong acquaintance with gems, but never had I imagined such glorious workmanship. The carving of precious stones is extremely rare. In all my life I have only seen four examples. And they in no way compared with the least of these. My theory is that Pope Alexander the Sixth just swept the board. By hook or by crook he garnered what sculptured gems there were. And here is his collection, as gorgeous today as it was when he amassed it.” He shook his head. “I am glad I have lived to see it, and that’s the truth.

“It was in a bad way when it came. The gems had been drenched with water, the cotton wool about them was full of sand. Whoever handled them can have had no idea of what they were worth.”

“They – they weren’t damaged?” said Jenny.

“Mercifully, no. The elements cannot damage such things as these. Violence alone can do that. Cleaned and polished, they might have come straight from the bench.”

“Did you do that?” said Jenny.

Our friend inclined his head.

“I shared the honour, madam.”

“They do you the greatest credit. May we look round?”

“Of course. Mr Chandos is one of the three who have that privilege.”

Side by side, very slowly, we passed about the case, feasting our eyes upon perfection – upon stones of incredible splendour, wrought by the kiss of the chisel into yet more incredible works of art.

Beneath each gem was a label…

Medusa, looking out of a ruby – and out of an emerald, too: Cupid and Psyche, smiling upon each other – from two enormous sapphires, set side by side: Hera and Dionysus – the latter’s eyebrows were raised and he looked excessively bored: pious Aeneas and Ovid, with a wicked look on his face: Ariadne and gross Silenus, a little more than ‘just nicely’ – the work of some superman: Nero in emerald, cheek by jowl with a ruby from which Euripides was lifting a plaintive face: Paris and Menelaus, with, peering between them ‘the face that launched a thousand ships’: Pallas Athene, disdainful, and Aphrodite, demure – this was especially lovely, and I can see it now: Alexander the Great and Aristophanes: Cleopatra and Horace – the latter smiling upon some reminiscence: Hephaestus, his eyes looking sideways, and Homer, blind: Odysseus, with drooping eyelids: Andromache, in sapphire, stony with grief: a Yawning Boy and Cicero, very precise: the Minotaur and Vespasian: Pontius Pilate and Sappho and Numa Pompilius: Pan, consumed with laughter, in emerald green, and Proserpine in sapphire, wearing a listless air: Jeremiah and Circe, her pupils up to her eyelids – a brilliant interpretation of Homer’s sorceress: Cyclops, in ruby, staring, and Cyclops in sapphire, blind: Juvenal – and Judas, in ruby, the picture of haggard guilt: and, greatest wonder of all, a most magnificent diamond, cut into the head of Hermes, wearing his winged hat.

I whispered in Jenny’s ear.

“You see that one called
Bacchante
, third row and two from the left?”

“Yes, I’ve got it, William.”

“That’s the only one that I’ve ever seen before. We were packing them into the Rolls, and Jonathan unwrapped it and put it into my hand.”

The curator was watching us closely.

“One of these interests you?”

“All of them interest me. I was drawing my wife’s attention to the
Bacchante
. The one cut out of a ruby. I – think it’s wonderful.”

“Forgive me if I’m mistaken. I thought I heard you say that you’d seen it before.”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

The curator stared.

“Where did you see it, Mr Chandos?”

“In the greenwood,” I said. “A man put it into my hand.”

The curator smiled.

“A vision, perhaps.”

“Let’s say – an incarnation.”

The curator raised his eyebrows.

“You may be right, Mr Chandos. If you are, it was some time ago. These gems have been off the map for over four hundred years.”

“Then I must be mistaken,” I said. I peered very close. “The lighting is very good, but daylight would be better still, Of course, I saw mine in the daylight. My
Bacchante
had a dimple, the most bewitching feature you ever saw.”

The curator stared at me, and the colour drained out of his face.

“How – how did you know?” he breathed. “I’ve tried for hours to place it so that the dimple showed.”

“What a shame,” said Jenny. “Mr Curator, my husband is pulling your leg. As you said just now, the gems were off the map. But he is one of the men who put them on it again.”

We became
personae gratae
. The curator asked no questions and so was told no lies. But for more than an hour he made us free of the lore which he had mastered, and magnified for us both the lovely miracle.

“No expert on earth,” he said, “could ever appraise this collection: as well appraise Westminster Abbey…’Rockbottom’, ‘sale room’, ‘cost price’ – such expressions lose their meaning within these walls. Who can appraise virtue? And virtue went out of their authors into these documents. Who can appraise history? And history, tradition, romance are shown forth by these matchless gems. That emerald Medusa belonged to Beatrice d’Este: those heads of Helen and Hector, to Lorenzo the Magnificent: that glorious diamond Hermes, to a Doge of Venice: that head of Pliny to one of the Dukes of Milan: Odysseus was brought to Michelangelo, who took it straight to the Pope: Caesare Borgia gave that Fawn to his father in 1501: and so on… In my time I have seen many treasures – of jewels, of painting, of sculpture, of silver and gold: but never in all my dreams have I imagined a splendour such as this case presents.”

(He was right, of course. But for me the expression ‘cost price’ will never lose its meaning, so far as those gems are concerned: for the cost price of their removal – and nothing else – was four men’s lives, and, very nearly, five.)

At the last, he opened the case, took out the glowing
Bacchante
and laid it in Jenny’s palm.

“Now you can see the dimple your husband saw. Think of the fearless hand that held the chisel that dug it; think of the eye that saw it before it was dug; and think of the heart behind them. Hand and eye and heart have been dust for centuries; but the dimple will always remember that brilliant partnership. Myself, I cannot conceive a fairer monument.”

With that most moving tribute, I think I may fairly close this true account. Could they but speak, those fabulous gems could tell a thousand tales, and every one more signal than that I have just set down; but for me they will always remember a wisp of a path in the mountains towards the break of day, and a man and a maid, heavy laden, the one, herself near spent, supporting the other’s efforts and guiding his failing steps.

(in order of first publication)

These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

(in order of first publication)

These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

(in order of first publication)

These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

(in order of first publication)

Published by House of Stratus

Adèle & Co This is the first full-length novel featuring Yates’ finest comic creation, Bertram ‘Berry’ Pleydell. The popular character of Adéle is based on the author’s first wife, Bettine, a highly gregarious American dancer and actress. Written in response to massive public demand for the Berry stories, this is regarded as one of Yates’ best books. Amongst the madcap escapades of the Pleydell clan as they career about the French countryside you will find ‘crime, criminals, and some of the funniest writing in the English language’.

And Berry Came Too Eight stories in which we encounter ‘the hair-raising adventures and idiotic situations of the Pleydell family’ ( Punch ). Along with John Buchan and ‘Sapper’, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter-war years, and Berry is regarded as one of British comic writing’s finest creations, including Tom Sharpe amongst his fans. Read these and weep (with laughter).

As Berry & I Were Saying Reprinted four times in three months, this semi-autobiographical novel is a humorous account of the author’s hazardous experiences in France, at the end of the World War II. Darker and less frivolous than some of Yates’ earlier books, he describes it as ‘really my own memoir put into the mouths of Berry and Boy’, and at the time of publication it already had a nostalgic feel. A great hit with the public and a ‘scrapbook of the Edwardian age as it was seen by the upper-middle classes’.

B-Berry & I Look Back This is Yates’ final book, a semi-autobiographical novel spanning a lifetime of events from the sinking of the Titanic to the notorious Tichborne murder case. It opens with Berry, one of British comic writing’s finest creations, at his funniest, and is a companion volume to As Berry and I Were Saying . Pure, vintageYates.

Berry & Co This collection of short stories featuring ‘Berry’ Pleydell and his chaotic entourage established Dornford Yates’ reputation as one of the best comic writers in a generation, and made him hugely popular. The German caricatures in the book carried such a sting that when France was invaded in 1939 Yates, who was living near the Pyrenées, was put on the wanted list and had to flee.

The Berry Scene These stories, written by huge popular demand, give us classic Berry Pleydell – Yates’ finest comic character – at the top of his form. The first story sees Berry capturing a German spy at a village cricket match in 1914, and things get more bizarre from then on. A self-consciously nostalgic work harking back to more decorous days, here are tense plotting and high farce of the best kind.

Blind Corner This is Yates’ first thriller: a tautly plotted page-turner featuring the crime-busting adventures of suave Richard Chandos. Chandos is thrown out of Oxford for ‘beating up some Communists’, and on return from vacation in Biarritz he witnesses a murder. Teaming up at his London club with friend Jonathan Mansel, a stratagem is devised to catch the killer. The novel has compelling sequels: Blood Royal , An Eye For a Tooth, Fire Below and Perishable Goods .

Blood Royal At his chivalrous, rakish best in a story of mistaken identity, kidnapping, and old-world romance, Richard Chandos takes us on a romp through Europe in the company of a host of unforgettable characters. This fine thriller can be read alone or as part of a series with Blind Corner , An Eye For a Tooth , Fire Below and Perishable Goods .

Brother of Daphne Daphne is ‘well-born, elegant, beautiful, and not especially bright’. In this, Yates’ earliest collection of stories, we meet the Pleydell clan and encounter their high-spirited comic adventures. It is a world of Edwardian gentility and accomplished farce that brought the author instant fame when the stories appeared in Windsor Magazine .

Cost Price A story from Dornford Yates’ later career, of stolen treasure, set against a backdrop of World War II: adventure, a travelling circus and much more besides. Lots of favourite Yates characters are here, as well as some new ones, like the Portuguese mule in trousers, and a few striking villains. This is the legendary Chandos’ final fictional appearance. A tense, assured plot and vintage comedy from a master of the genre.