‘Oh,’ Uncle Eb said, sitting back. ‘Well – I suppose I am. But that doesn’t mean they would see me as one of them. Too much of a rough diamond, me. They’re all very purist – everything by hand. Division of labour – the enemy. Machine-made things – the enemy.’ He mocked with a solemn expression. ‘Filthy lucre. Trouble is, it takes them an age to make anything and hardly anyone can afford it when they do. And I think, well, a man’s got to make a living and why shouldn’t . . . Let’s say the girls working in the pen factory with Annie . . . Those girls are never going to earn much, but why shouldn’t they be able to afford a bit of finery as well? The purists might call it tat, but a bit of gold on a woman never goes amiss, even if it’s nine carat.’

‘So you would be seen as just commercial?’

‘I am commercial. Churning it out, that’s how they’d look at me. You know what they say, “Give a Birmingham maker a guinea and a copper kettle and he’ll make you a hundred pounds of jewellery.” I put my hand up to that. Some of it’s tat. But what we make is a treat to look at as well.’ He grinned. ‘That lot’re just worried that blokes like me’ll put ’em out of business!’

At last she got round to uttering the name that so fascinated her. ‘What about Mr Tallis? He seems to do both.’

‘Oh –’ Uncle Eb got to his feet. ‘Tallis is a purist at heart. But a man has to make a living – and he’s one of the best. But he’s on his own, Tallis. Good for ’im.’ He turned, leaving his bowl on the table. ‘Them lot in the Guilds and that – very queer. Vegetarians and such.’

With these damning words, he set off to work.

The premises of Watts & Son were buzzing with activity. Herr Schmale had requested that he might be able to take his brooch – an expensive item – back to Germany with him. Yesterday there had been furious sessions of design and redesign. He wanted flowers, then he wanted leaves. Then flowers and leaves. Or should he have a fierce sunburst of colour, wrought in enamel instead of jewels? He seemed bedazzled by all the possibilities.

But by the end of the day, the design had been settled on an opulent combination of leaves and berries – emeralds, rubies and diamonds – which would all be cradled into the gold setting by Sid Cole and his helper, another fine and experienced gem setter. Caleb Turner had worked through the night carving out the die. When he brought it into the office, squinting from exhaustion and from working in poor light, Margaret looked at it in wonder. It never ceased to amaze her, the beauty that emerged from the mundane grime and stink of the jewellery quarter.