It took her twenty minutes from their home in the less fashionable part of Notting Hill she shared with her husband, the boys and a dachshund called Tilly (who was recovering from slipped disc surgery), towards where she would take her life in her hands, and cycle around a section of Marble Arch rather than use the underpass. From there she would whizz down the Constitution Hill cycle path towards the entrance — and sanctuary — of Buckingham Palace, or a short distance on to her office in St James’s Palace.
It was funny, she was thinking today, how you could both love and hate your job at the same time. She loved that she got to work with so many stunning paintings, the Vermeer and the Canalettos being among her favourites, as well as so many truly extraordinary objets d’art, many gifted to the Royal Family over countless generations — wedding presents, state visit cultural gifts, and in the past, noblemen seeking favours.
But she hated that the renovations, which had started seven years ago and were part of a ten-year programme — albeit under the very able control of the highly respected, and fun, Master of the Royal Household — had made a nightmare of her inventory.
When she had first joined, she could have stated with confidence, if she’d been required to, exactly where every single one of those million-plus items were. Now it had become a logistical nightmare, with stuff being moved all over the place — sometimes by the craftsmen in the Palace — and frequently without her authorizing it. And, in addition to that, wherever renovations were taking place, the ever-present risk of fire increased, especially in such an old building as the Palace. And she was the one who had to make the decisions about which items should be saved first in — God forbid — the event of such a calamity. All of these had to be listed and labelled with a Salvage sticker. Memories of the fire at Windsor Castle in 1992, which destroyed one hundred rooms and countless treasured items, still haunted the Royal Collection team.
On Monday she’d at least been able to respond competently to Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey, when he had called her to say that The King was wondering where his beloved Landseer, which normally hung in the breakfast room at Clarence House, had gone. She was able to inform him that the painting had been taken down — as it was routinely — to be checked for condition, to ensure it wasn’t suffering any damage from light or humidity in its current location.
But she had been on a lot shakier ground when, on Wednesday, The Queen had called her to ask why the Vermeer that was normally in the Picture Gallery had been replaced with a Fragonard. Not only was she unable to tell Her Majesty why the painting had been taken down, but in her subsequent enquiries, Lorraine was unable to even locate it.
It would turn up, she knew, as would several other high-value items that had gone on the missing list recently — dismissing the fleeting thought that Jason Finch could possibly have had anything to do with that. She just hoped that Tommy didn’t suddenly go on the warpath, and come to her demanding to know where they were. Hopefully he had enough on his plate right now in the aftermath of Monday’s nightmare events.
But she would make it her very first task today to locate the missing Vermeer from the Picture Gallery and get that Landseer back on the wall in Clarence House as an absolute priority.
47
Friday 24 November 2023
‘Oh yes,’ the diamond cutter muttered and nodded, peering through his monocular loupe at the magnificent oval diamond on the small velvet pad.
He laid down the loupe and put his glasses back on. They were tiny, round and black, reminding her of the kind that might have been worn by a 1930s university professor.
The cutter was in his early seventies, slight and bald, dapperly dressed in a grey suit and knitted tie, and very self-assured. A force of nature, crackling with energy despite his years, just like the diamond, way older than both of them combined, which sparkled so intensely it looked almost alive and moving. He was lord of his small but rich domain, the narrow office with long viewing shelves — diamonds did not need a big office, he always said. It felt an oasis of calm here, two floors above London’s Hatton Garden, the epicentre of the UK gem trade in the heart of busy, lunchtime-traffic-snarled Holborn.
‘Oh yes,’ he muttered again. And then a third time, nodding increasingly enthusiastically. His name was Gary van Damm, scion of a diamond trading and cutting dynasty. He only knew her as Mrs Smith. He didn’t know her real name, never had and never asked, despite the fact they had been doing business for over a year — extremely good business!
Secrecy and trust, two of the platforms on which the global diamond trade was founded. All their communications were via the dark web and all his payments to her were in Bitcoin. Payments in the tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands and very occasionally even higher. As today would be.
‘So nice to see one of these again,’ he said. ‘Granny’s Chips! Or rather, to be strictly accurate, one of Granny’s Personal Chips! Do you know the story?’
‘I don’t think I know the full story, no,’ she replied.
‘You are familiar with the legendary Cullinan diamond — the largest rough diamond ever found?’
‘Of course. It was cut up and the two largest stones — known as Cullinan I and Cullinan II — are part of the Crown Jewels.’
‘Correct. In 1905 the diamond came out of a mine in Cullinan, South Africa — it weighed 3,106 carats. And its colour was perfect. In today’s money it would have been worth about thirty-seven million pounds.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘At that time the most famous diamond cutter in the world was a Dutchman called Joseph Asscher — actually a rival to my great-grandfather. His cutting process produced nine major stones from the Cullinan diamond, as well as ninety-six smaller ones, most of which are now part of the British Crown Jewels — such as that big stone you’ll have seen in the Sceptre. But...’ He raised a finger, giving a knowing smile. ‘Some of the stones, of a very nice size indeed — this being one — fell between the cracks.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘No one is quite sure. The late Queen Elizabeth loved diamonds, as did her mother, and it’s quite possible either of them — or indeed Queen Mary before them — held them back for personal use. And why not!’
‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it!’
‘But save the receipts!’ he retorted with a grin.
In response to her puzzled frown, he explained, ‘It’s a Yiddish expression.’
‘Ah!’ She smiled. ‘The two biggest remaining stones, Cullinan III and Cullinan IV, were made into a brooch by Queen Mary, and then handed down to her granddaughter Elizabeth — our late Queen.’
‘Correct,’ van Damm said. ‘Hence the jokey moniker “Granny’s Chips”. Its value today is around sixty-five million pounds, if not more. The last time I saw it was in 1981. The late Queen, God bless her, wanted to wear it at the marriage of Prince Charles to Diana, but it had some slight damage — I was asked to polish the damage out. Which of course I did. But there’s something that not many people know.’ He smiled, raised a finger, and winked conspiratorially.
He looked down at the diamond and nodded again. ‘This is truly something. To see this — Number 7 of Granny’s Personal Chips — I can’t even put a value on it yet.’
She smiled. ‘So we will make a lot of money out of it?’
‘Oh yes. A very nice amount indeed. On current prices, one carat today varies from two to twelve thousand pounds depending on the colour of the stone. And this is perfect. And it is close to three hundred and fifty carats!’ He seemed in an uncharacteristically elated mood. ‘You know the origin of the word “carat”?’