might say to the contrary.
The killing of the nawab on the other side of the world almost a hundred years before and his mother’s death on the landing outside became connected in Thomas’s mind. He felt as if there were a purpose behind his discovery of the jewel and the letter. It was as if they had been left there by his mother for him to find. The great blue stone was a test. He saw that now. It was for him to choose what to do with it.
Thomas tried to imagine the scene described by his great-grandfather in his letter. For some reason he thought of the nawab as a handsome young man dressed in a crimson tasseled jacket and white baggy trousers, perhaps because that was what the sultan of Baghdad was wearing in Thomas’s old copy of The Arabian Nights, given to him by his mother for his seventh birthday. The nawab had dark, almost olive skin, and his hair was concealed under the folds of a turban. There was a yellow canary in the palace that sang while the nawab ate Indian delicacies served by girls with long black hair and high breasts. Outside there was a fountain of stone dolphins where foaming silver water splashed down onto the marble paving stones of the nawab’s courtyard.
Into this scene of lazy luxury painted by Thomas’s imagination burst a younger, crueller version of the man who smiled down so benevolently from his portrait in the drawing room downstairs.
Sir Stephen was no knight then. He was plain Stephen Sackville, three years out from England, with a fortune to make and a pair of black revolvers in his pockets to secure it with. This Stephen Sackville was a young man consumed with a lust for jewels. He had listened greedily to all the travelers’ tales until his attention narrowed and became focused on the sultan’s sapphire, the gem that contained all the mystery of the subcontinent within its deep, dark blue interior. Stephen Sackville could not rest until he had made it his own.
Thomas had no idea how he knew all this, but he was nevertheless certain of what had happened on that afternoon, almost a century ago, on the other side of the world. His great-grandfather had had no right to do what he did. There had been no British interest involved. The justification for the action had been manufactured after the event, and the nawab had not been alive to contradict the lies told about him.
Thomas imagined the murder. He thought of it as a hot day with the nawab resting on his divan after lunch while two servants moved the still air with palm-tree fans. Thomas did not know if the yellow canary was singing, and he could not see the servant girls. He did not know if the nawab was asleep or just had his eyes closed in meditation, but he saw him rise up from the divan when he heard the horses’ hooves on the stones in the courtyard and the sound of shots and cries. Perhaps they were the cries of the servant girls. Thomas could only see the nawab running on his silver-slippered feet through the palace until he came face-to-face with his assassin and looked for a final moment into the cold blue eyes of Stephen Sackville of the House of the Four Winds in the county of Suffolk, come upon the King’s commission to kill and steal. Two shots and the Englishman stepped over his victim, just like the killers had stepped over Thomas’s mother as she lay on the landing, bleeding her lifeblood out onto the carpet.
The parallel did not stop there, of course. Sir Stephen had come to steal the sapphire just like the killers of Thomas’s mother had come for the Sackville jewels and had taken them all, all except the sapphire. It had remained in the drawer of the walnut desk, waiting for Thomas to find it so that the Indian’s curse could continue on down through the generations, until there were no Sackvilles left.
Thomas put the sapphire in his pocket and looked out of the high east windows of the bedroom toward the sea. It was a view of the elements — sun and sky and water stretching out to the horizon. Suddenly Thomas knew what he was going to do.
He put the letter and the other documents back in his mother’s desk. He glanced once up at the portrait of his grandmother, thinking of the conflict between her free spirit and the grasping hand of her father. Thomas wondered if she had ridden her horse on the beach below the house where he was headed now. She must have, although his mother had never told him where she met her death.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused, wondering whether to tell Aunt Jane where he was going. He could hear her voice in the kitchen. She was still talking to the policeman, who would insist on accompanying Thomas if he went outside, and Thomas needed to be alone. He grabbed a towel from the downstairs bathroom and set off across the lawn toward the north gate secure in the knowledge that he could not be seen from the kitchen windows.
He turned the key in the lock and stepped out into the lane. There was no one there, but Thomas felt suddenly vulnerable. It was the first time he had been outside the grounds in a week. The sun shone through the trees whose branches overhung the lane, creating a natural canopy, and Thomas found himself walking through dappled dancing shadows as he made his way down to the beach. The crash of the still invisible waves on the shore grew louder, and Thomas remembered how excited Barton would become by the sound, torn between the need to keep his owners in sight and his longing for the wide open spaces awaiting them beyond the final turn in the dirt road. There was no Barton now; he was buried next to little Mattie back behind the north gate, and Thomas was all alone in the world.
The sudden force of the sunlight made Thomas blink almost in pain as he came out onto the beach, and he put his free hand up over his eyes to protect them. His other hand was held deep inside his trouser pocket, clutching the sapphire ring hard in his palm.
It was one of those rare summer days when the omnipresent clouds had been chased away by the hot sun from the wide Suffolk sky, leaving it a pale blue heaven. The only sign of humanity was a high-flying airplane that drew a white pencil line across the blue as it passed overhead.
Thomas thought of his mother. She always became almost childishly excited by days like this and would bully Aunt Jane into accompanying them to the beach, where the old lady would sit on a folding chair with her long black skirt coming down to her ankles. She would make no concession to sand and sun except for a pair of rather terrifying sunglasses that made her look like a member of the Sicilian Mafia. Thomas and his mother would swim out beyond the waves and then come running back over the sand to eat the sandwiches that Aunt Jane had packed in a hamper she kept under her chair so Barton couldn’t get at them. Afterward his mother would lie in the sun and talk to Aunt Jane about the past while Thomas built sandcastles and peopled them with the knights that his mother bought for him at the toy shop in Flyte.
Thomas walked across the deserted beach and put the memories of his childhood out of his mind. Near the water’s edge he stopped and took off all his clothes, leaving them in a pile weighed down by his shoes. He stood for a moment naked under the sun before he plunged into the breaking waves, clasping the sapphire tight in his hand.
The day’s sunshine seemed to have had no effect on the temperature of the North Sea, and Thomas felt the cold water pressing against his chest like shards of ice as he stood on the sandbank just beyond the waves. He opened his palm and looked at the sapphire glowing in the sunlight. Turning it over, he read his family’s name engraved in the gold. It was a beautiful thing, a most precious stone, but it had attached itself to his family like a millstone. There was a price to be paid for what his great-grandfather had done, just as there was a price to be paid by his mother’s murderers, but their fate awaited them in the future. The Sackvilles had atoned for Sir Stephen’s sins with their blood, and now it was time to be rid of this jewel.
Thomas raised his hand in the air and threw the ring out to sea. It was gone in a second, barely disturbing the surface of the water as it was swallowed up. The sea, like the earth, was indifferent. Pebbles and precious stones were all the same. It was human beings who distinguished between them, murdering one another for the sake of small inanimate objects.
Thomas swam back to the shore filled with a sense of release. He felt the rush of a new beginning and ran across the sand forgetful of his nakedness. He thought of his daredevil grandmother galloping her horse across the beach. He felt her blood in his as he kicked up the surf and the sun shone down on his young body.
Dressed again, Thomas climbed the steep cliff path toward the house. His mother had forbidden him to go this way when he was a child as the cliff sand was crumbly and it was easy to fall. But today Thomas felt immune from danger, and he was soon at the top standing by the viewing cairn — a pile of rocks with a smooth gray central stone in the middle, on which a nineteenth-century Sackville had engraved the landmarks visible from this high point.
Behind Thomas across the sloping dunes were the east gate and the house. In front of him the North Sea stretched out as far as the horizon while to his right were the towns of Flyte and Coyne, separated by the River Flyte. Thomas could see the two church spires and between them a tiny fishing boat leaving the harbor and putting out to sea.
On Thomas’s left was the larger town of Carmouth, where the road became wider and the cars and lorries
