detailed records of any such transaction.
But if the blue diamond was indeed the motive for Eisler’s murder, that would require the killer to have known that the old man had the gem in his possession. So how many people would have been privy to that information? Francillon, obviously, and Hope—if the diamond was truly his. Samuel Perlman? Perhaps. Blair Beresford? Possibly. Matt Tyson? Again, possibly, if Beresford knew.
Only, how had Jacques Collot come to hear of it? And who else might have known?
Sebastian started to head back toward Brook Street. Then he changed his mind and turned his horses toward the Strand and the discreet establishment of the lapidary John Francillon.
The shutters were already up on the windows of Francillon’s small shop on the Strand when Sebastian pushed open the door, the jingle of the brass bell filling the air.
Francillon was behind the counter, his back turned, his head bent as he slid a tray into a tall wooden cabinet. “Sorry, we’re closed,” he said without even bothering to look up. “You can come back in the morning, if you like. We open at ten.”
Sebastian said, “I have a few more questions I need to ask you.”
Francillon spun around, the shop’s single oil lamp throwing his lithe shadow across the counter and up over the rows of paintings and specimens on the far wall. “But I have already told you everything!”
“This isn’t about Eisler’s diamond, exactly.” Sebastian placed his forearms on the polished countertop and leaned into them. “I want you to tell me about the theft of the French Crown Jewels.”
Francillon turned to carefully close the cabinet door behind him. “What makes you think I know more than what I have already told you?”
“Because jewels are your business, and this was probably the greatest jewel theft in history. Because your people came from France, so I would imagine you’ve watched the events unfolding there very carefully. And because I don’t think you’re the kind of man who’s comfortable with the idea of letting someone who’s innocent hang for a murder he didn’t commit.”
Francillon smoothed his hands over his hair, as if to reassure himself of its neatness, although there was not a strand out of place. Then he came to rest one hip on a high stool, his laced fingers resting against his thigh, his gaze far, far away. “Very well. Let me see. . . . You know that the revolutionary government confiscated the Crown Jewels from Louis XVI after he attempted to flee the country with his family in the summer of 1791?”
“Yes.”
“To give you an idea of the amount of treasure involved, an inventory was made at the time. It ran to something like fifty pages.”
“That much?”
Francillon nodded. “The Bourbons had what was probably the largest collection of jewels in Europe. All together, they were valued at more than twenty-four million livres; the French Blue alone was estimated to be worth three million livres.”
“So what did the revolutionary government do with them?”
“The Crown Jewels were declared the property of the people and placed under guard in the Hôtel du Garde-Meuble on the Place Louis XV—what later became the Place de la Révolution.” He paused, a spasm crossing his face. The Place de la Révolution had become famous as the site of the guillotine.
“Go on,” said Sebastian.
“The jewels were then put on display. The thinking was that since they belonged to the people, the people ought to be allowed to see them. So every Monday, the hôtel was opened to the public. The jewels remained on display for over a year, until August of 1792, when a decision was made to close the exhibit due to the growing instability in Paris.”
“But they were still kept in the Garde-Meuble?”
“Oh, yes. In locked cabinets in a chamber located just above the ground-floor entrance. The chief conservator responsible for the treasures complained constantly that he needed more guards, but . . .” Francillon shrugged. “It was September of 1792; the entire nation was falling apart.”
“So at the time of the theft,” said Sebastian, “the exhibition was closed?”
“It was. But before the visits were suspended, a man named Paul Miette had gone to the Garde-Meuble every Monday for weeks, studying the habits of the guards, the various approaches to the treasure room. There is some evidence he also managed to acquire inside information about the habits of the guards, but that was never proven.”
“So what happened?”
Francillon pulled at his earlobe. “On the night of 11 September, Miette and some half a