Page 48 of Guardian
In a heavy disguise, including a flaxen wig that covered my ears so a jeweler wouldn’t be able to detect that my earrings were paste, I retraced my steps to Hatton Garden. Simonson’s shared a roofline with Willingham’s to the north. They occupied one of the taller buildings, with several windows on the two floors above. The two shops had similar brickwork, and the doors were positioned at the far edges, away from each other, the large plate glass windows between them.
I visited Willingham’s first, briefly, to examine the composition of the common wall, just to see if there might be a passage between, giving the possibility of going into one shop to reach the other. The wall was plaster, and a large vertical mirror that hung in the middle could potentially hide a door. The floor was wood planks, bare but nicely polished. I left and went into Simonson’s, adopting a pronounced limp favoring my right leg.
I recalled the shop from my first visit; it had been one of the nicer ones, well lit, with four gas-lit chandeliers and half a dozen sconces on the walls. The cabinets were wood, with glass at the front and top. There were two locks to each, one at each back corner. A thick red Turkey carpet covered the center of the floor, which was made of wide wooden planks, clearly old but polished to a high gleam. The wall shared with Willingham’s had a long horizontal mirror, not a vertical one, behind the case of watches. Still, there could be an overlap of nearly three feet square between them.
Behind one counter was a man of about forty-five with blue eyes, dark hair, and a face that had likely been handsome once but was now heavy, the skin on his neck gone to jowls underneath his beard. The owner, perhaps? His coat was a fine serge, fitted, and his collar and cuffs pure white with no visible frays on the buttonholes. He’d be less agreeable than the young woman who stood between two display cabinets, and I turned toward her, adopting the guise of a wealthy watch-buying wife.
“It’s my husband’s birthday next month,” I explained. “He has two watches already, but they’re both silver. I thought I might buy him a gold one. Do you think he’d like it?”
I felt the man’s gaze alight on me, but I kept my eyes on the young woman, and he left us alone.
She smiled. “I’m sure he would like anything you chose, mum.”
I beamed and went to stand before the case of watches. A careful survey of the plaster wall behind her indicated not a single crack—nothing that suggested an opening, unless it was behind the mirror.
The bottom of the cabinet was lined in a cream-colored silk, with the watches laid out six inches apart. Some were closed, to reveal the elaborate carving of the covers. Others were open, to reveal the delicate hands.
Despite my true purpose, I found myself admiring them. Each showed the same time as the standing clock nearby.
Now I needed to discover if they did repairs in the shop or sent them elsewhere.
“Mum?”
“I was just admiring how perfectly they keep time,” I said. “To the minute. It’s remarkable.”
She dimpled. “We pride ourselves on selling objects of beauty that work properly.”
“But if it doesn’t keep time?” I asked and added apologetically, “My husband is rather particular. He despises lateness in anyone.” My tone suggested that I’d been on the receiving end of his ire, and sympathy flashed across her face.
“If the watch ever fails to keep time, we will fix it at no charge, if you buy it here.”
The back of the shop consisted of three doors. One, set back farther than the others, clearly led to the alley behind; it had two shining dead bolt locks. The short hallway to it was between two other rooms that jutted into this main one, each of which had a closed door with a crystal handle and simple keyhole. One was likely an office and workroom, the other a set of stairs going up.
“Do you do all your work on the premises?” I asked. “You don’t send the watches away, do you?”
She glanced toward the door behind me. “No, it’s all done here by our jewelers.”
“Lovely.” I tapped the glass with a gloved finger. “Could I see this one, please?”
She brought it out. “This is a beautiful Breguet,” she began. “Only a few of these were made ...”
With half my mind, I listened to her describing the watch. With the other half, I took in the rest of the store.
Large gilt-framed mirrors hung on the walls, and two smaller mirrors hung at an angle from the ceiling. I hadn’t seen ceiling mirrors in the other shops, but the value was obvious.
Next, I asked to see a Le Phare repeater, and as she withdrew it, the door to the right opened and a man of about seventy emerged. He stepped forward to converse in a low tone with the younger man, who resembled him enough that I’d guess he was his son, or a nephew, perhaps. The two men disappeared behind the door. The creak of the stairs as they climbed was audible.
“Was that the owner?” I asked. “He reminds me of my grandfather, with the stoop and the spectacles.”
“Yes, that’s Mr. Simonson. He began the shop in Clerkenwell and moved it here two years ago.”
“Does the family live upstairs then?” I asked.
She gave me an odd look.
“I had a friend whose parents own a haberdashery,” I said by way of explanation, “and they lived above it. We used to go upstairs for our tea. I imagine it was convenient, although sometimes I think her parents wished they could’ve lived away from it.”
“I daresay they would,” she murmured. “But the younger son is bedridden and needs help all day. He came back from the Crimea just a boy of sixteen with his leg blown off.”
