that they were ushered in a slow-moving figure eight past the various displays – weaponry, coinage, ceremonial objects and daily life – before being funnelled into a temporary Merovingian Treasures gift shop, selling replicas of all the above, along with the usual key rings and ‘I Love the British Museum’ T-shirts.
Jeff and Rebecca mingled with the visitors, moving from room to room. Tracy left them to it, limiting her support for Jeff to an encouraging wave as she returned from the ladies’ room to the front desk.
‘Tracy, thank goodness. We’re almost out of brochures!’ Agnes Fotherington grabbed her arm in a panic. ‘I had a hundred copies here but they’ve gone in about six minutes.’
‘I can go and grab some more from the gift shop if you like,’ Tracy offered.
‘Would you?’ The old woman was visibly relieved. ‘You’re an angel.’
Weaving her way through the exhibition, already packed with people, Tracy hurried toward the shop. As she moved through the coin room she noticed the man who’d caught her attention earlier in the lobby. He was leaning over the display case housing the rare Frankish coins, looking at them with a controlled intensity that made her distinctly uneasy.
I must mention him to Jeff.
At the gift shop, Tracy had just collected a stack of brochures and asked Maurice Bentley, the volunteer in charge, to call down to the stock room for more when it happened. An earsplitting alarm rang out, a combination of sirens and bells and a grating, electronic vibration that made the cheap Merovingian coins rattle and jump in their plastic display cases.
‘What on earth…?’ Maurice Bentley covered his ears.
‘What is that?’ Tracy shouted through the din at a passing staff member. ‘Has something been stolen?’
‘No. It’s the fire alarm. Probably just kids messing about.’
Or not.
Tracy’s heart rate began to quicken.
‘DON’T LOOK SO PANICKED,’ REBECCA SHOUTED in Jeff’s ear. ‘It’s probably just kids messing about.’
Jeff wasn’t listening. He was in Amsterdam, at the diamond-cutting factory. The lights went out and an alarm sounded, just like this one. An alarm that he and Tracy had triggered. In Amsterdam, steel shutters had slammed down over doors and windows, sealing the exits. But Jeff and Tracy had still made off with the Lucullan Diamond.
Tracy had posed as a pregnant tourist for that job, Jeff as a technician. Wasn’t there a pregnant woman in the crowd outside today?
Jeff’s mind raced. What would be the easiest thing to steal?
He sprinted into the coin room.
Everything seemed in order. The priceless sixth-century gold coin, the centrepiece of the exhibition, was still in its locked glass case. Nothing appeared to have been moved, or broken or disturbed. Visitors covered their ears and filed toward the exit, but there was no panic, no screaming or drama. It was all terribly British and reserved. A man in a suit was the last to leave, and he stopped and held the door politely for Jeff.
‘False alarm, I expect.’ He gave Jeff a patient smile.
‘I expect so.’
ABOUT HALF AN HOUR LATER JEFF found Tracy, outside. The whole museum had been evacuated onto Great Russell Street, but no one seemed especially put out. People were chatting and laughing about the unexpected drama as they waited to be readmitted.
‘Everything all right?’ Tracy asked Jeff.
‘I think so. Some idiot left a lit cigarette in the bathroom.’
‘Nothing was taken, then?’
Jeff shook his head. ‘I thought the same thing, but Rebecca and I went through everything three times. It’s all there. None of the other departments have reported any problems.’
‘Good.’ Tracy hugged him. She felt hugely relieved.
‘We’re getting too cynical in our old age, you and I,’ said Jeff, only half joking. ‘We’re gonna have to work on that before Jeff Junior arrives.’
FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, TRACY saw very little of Jeff. There were no further dramas at the museum, and Merovingian Treasures proved to be a huge hit as an exhibition, taking up all of Jeff’s time.
Professor Trenchard called him.
‘Everybody’s raving about you in Bloomsbury. I can’t tell you how much kudos I’m getting for having brought you in.’
‘I couldn’t be happier,’ said Jeff. ‘I really don’t know how to thank you, Nick.’
‘Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m quite happy enough to bask in your reflected glory.’
THE NIGHT THE EXHIBITION CLOSED, JEFF came home disconsolate.
‘I can’t believe it’s all over.’
‘Poor baby.’
Tracy wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her tiny baby bump against the small of his back. She’d been feeling exhausted recently, a side effect of the pregnancy according to Alan – Dr McBride – but so far had avoided morning sickness and the smell of food didn’t bother her. Tonight she’d prepared Jeff a special dinner of spaghetti carbonara. A delicious scent of bacon, cheese and cream wafted through from the kitchen.
‘I’ve got something for you. To cheer you up.’
She led Jeff into the drawing room, a beautifully proportioned Georgian living room with high ceilings, wide oak floorboards and original sash windows overlooking the richly planted ‘Queen Anne,’ British slang for a front garden.
‘You already cheered me up,’ said Jeff, sinking into the sofa. ‘How are you feeling today, beautiful?’
‘I’m fine.’ Tracy handed him a gin and tonic with ice and lemon. ‘But this is gonna cheer you up more. At least I hope it will.’
She pulled a small, black leather box out of her pocket and handed it to him, a little nervously. She knew there was a chance Jeff might take the gift the wrong way, and she desperately wanted to please him, to bring a touch of their old life back with all its fun and excitement.
‘Let’s just say I went to a lot of trouble to get hold of it.’
Jeff opened the box. Tracy watched, delighted, as his eyes widened.
‘Where did you get this?’
She grinned. ‘Where do you think?’
‘My God,’ Jeff gasped. ‘It’s the real thing, isn’t it? I thought for a second it might be a really good copy.’
‘A copy? Please.’ Tracy sounded offended. ‘Copies are for the hoi polloi, darling. Only the best for you.’
Jeff
