by Sandra Byrd
“We will save his belongings, and I can show them to you after there is a cause of death assigned,” the officer said.
I agreed and with a shaking hand wrote down my name and address so he could be in touch with me.
The cat rubbed against the bedroom door.
“I’ll take her.” She tried to flee, but I threw my cloak over her and then wrapped her in it to keep her from scratching me. I waited while the officer propped the broken door and instructed the neighbors not to enter, that he would soon return.
He saw me to the carriage, and when I walked into the house with the cat, Orchie looked at me questioningly.
“Mr. Clarkson is dead.” My voice cracked a little with incredulity and sorrow over his difficult beginning and lonely end. “This was his cat, and we’ll care for it henceforth.”
The mid-February sky churned with winter’s continued demands, and my stomach churned, still, with the news of Clarkson’s death. Mrs. Denholm had noted the weather and kindly offered to pick me up for our prison visits and return me to my home afterward. I gathered that she understood the firm was in somewhat-uncomfortable straits, though it was not a topic she would ever raise. Perhaps she simply wanted companionship on the journey. I did too, and it was a pleasant time together for both of us.
The February day opened with unexpected sunshine, and that brightened both our moods as we began the short journey to the prison.
“How is your uncle feeling?” she asked. I did not know who might have told her that he was doing poorly, but I could not lose the opportunity to bring up professional concerns with someone who might be of help.
“He’s coming along well. He’s retained an extensive memory of all the items he has valued over the course of decades, which is of great value to Sheffield Brothers.”
She smiled politely, but the topic did not seem to interest her. I asked after her husband and children, and she told me of their happy times at Christmas.
“Did that nice Mr. Clarkson join your family for Christmas dinner?” she asked. “I know he has told Mr. Denholm that he dined en famille with you on Saturday evenings.”
She did not know.
I leaned across the carriage aisle, close enough to be friendly but not overly personal. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that Mr. Clarkson has recently passed away.”
“Oh, dear me, no! Whatever happened to him? Consumption, I’ll suppose. That dreadful cough of his . . . ? Mr. Denholm had arranged for our apothecary to continue to provide paregoric for the poor man, to help calm what could be calmed. In the end, perhaps it was not enough.”
I nodded slowly. I had known, of course, that Mr. Denholm owned one or more chemist shops in addition to his other business endeavors, and I had also known that Mr. Clarkson had been sourcing art for him of late. I had not understood that they had grown to be friends to the degree that health concerns would have been discussed.
“Will your firm continue?” she asked.
“I believe so. Perhaps, if Mr. Denholm desires to add to his collection, you might suggest—” I was about to say me but changed my mind—“my uncle.”
She smiled and took my hand in her own. “I don’t know that Mr. Denholm listens much to me, my dear, nor anyone. But I can certainly raise your uncle’s name.”
We pulled up in front of the prison. Jeanette and Little Nancy waited for me in the area in which we gathered; the others had caught a dreadful chill in the dank prison, and one had died.
“The meat was rotted,” Jeanette said. “I had terrible flux afterward but made it anyways. She di’ not.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said. The woman in question was perhaps thirty years old and had two children for whom I had purchased Christmas gifts. Her smiling face and constant prayers for me flashed through my mind, and I bit my lip so that I would not cry at her loss.
“I, too,” Jeanette said.
Despite the somber news, I did want to bring some cheer into their day.
“Your hair looks beautiful,” I said to Nancy. “Bouncy.”
Her eyes shone. “It’s them magazine pages, miss. They work real good when I get them a little wet-like.”
“Her young man from the outside has been by to visit,” Jeanette said.
“I’m only in here for a year for stealin’ a bit o’ bacon,” Nancy said. “He told me he’d wait. Then, perhaps I will train to be a lady’s maid or some sort with my new hair skills.”
We all laughed. “I think you would do very well indeed. Then you can earn your bacon rather than stealing it.”
I shared with them about my time in the countryside, and the dances and the foods and that I had a new cat, though I did not share the difficult means by which the kitty had come to live with us. At the end of our hour, Jeanette asked, “Will we see you again next month? March?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“They’re ’ere.” Orchie’s voice squeezed with panic as she ran into the workshop clutching her apron in two fat, red fists. I glared at her so she would not disturb my uncle, who was rearranging a few pieces of art which had been brought in for repair. His table and shelves were jumbled, but he held everything with delicate care. It would not do to upset him.
Perhaps I should limit him to silver, portraits, and jewelry. No marble, glass, or porcelain which might be easily broken.
“Who’s here?” He looked up.
I set my writing paper aside; I was in the midst of sending out letters of enquiry to the many well-to-do clients Sheffield Brothers had served over the years.
“Possibly Lady Charlotte Schreiber,” I said with a calmness that I did not feel inside. “I’ve invited her to call.”
“Oh.” He turned back to his work, and I smoothed my dress on both sides and followed Orchie to the parlor.
Debt collectors? But I had one month yet, and I’d paid a few of our creditors with funds gained selling our remaining treasures. I summoned courage as I went to face them.
Instead of debt collectors, I found two police officers, one of whom was the constable who had escorted me to Mr. Clarkson’s rooms.
“Miss Sheffield?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I wanted to come by and speak with you about your employee, Mr. Clarkson.”
“Please, have a seat.”
Orchie ran for tea, more for a reason to eavesdrop than to be polite. The two men sat awkwardly on the gently curved rose-fabric sofa.
“First, miss, I want you to know that he was decently buried, though in a pauper’s mass grave. It was consecrated ground, however, as we had no indication at all that the man took his own life.”
“Had that even been a consideration?” I asked with alarm.
“All things are a consideration, miss,” the other officer answered.
“We had the body examined, and it appeared that he died of natural causes. Most likely consumption.”
“He had looked so well just before the time. Yes, he coughed, but not unduly so. His skin seemed to have been pinkening not a few weeks before he died, and he was able to keep up with energetic work. He was young . . .”
“I understand this is upsetting,” the officer said.
“Indeed. Were there . . . were there any marks on him at all?”
“Not that we were told of, miss. Do you have any reason to believe someone would want to do him harm?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Then perhaps that is best left alone.”
Was that a warning? Was there a reason for the warning? Or was this simply the typical protocol when a relatively poor man died?
The first officer held out a large box to me. “All his belongings in here, miss. Not much—seemed to me as if his rooms had been cleaned out ahead of our arrival. I asked the neighbor, and he denied it, but who knows? Perhaps he’d been the thief. Can’t have been much, by the looks of his rooms, and if any of it were stolen from you, well, you’ll keep that, then. Would you care for the clothing, too? I can see it delivered
.”
“No, no, that’s quite all right,” I said. “You can donate it to some charitable cause.”
“You did say you might know where to find his family? We will send notification if you can provide an address.”
Orchie returned with the tea, but the men were just standing to leave.
“I shall see that anything valuable is returned to his family.”
“Very well then,” the constable said. “Good day, miss.”
Orchie closed the door behind them. “I thought it was them debt people coming for us,” she said.
“Fortunately, not yet. And not ever, I believe. I have worked out a strategy. But in the meantime, I need to return to my letters in the workshop and send them out to perhaps convince some of our former associates that they would like to return to us.”
I brought Mr. Clarkson’s box into my bedroom and left it there. Later that evening, after dinner, I sat at the small table in my room and looked through his things. Many empty bottles of paregoric syrup, though just a few of them came from Jackson’s Chemists, the chain that Mr. Denholm owned. Perhaps Clarkson had only begun to use his syrup of late?
I looked at the Jackson’s bottles. They looked to be the same as the bottles from the other chemists. The lingering pine scent reminded me of Mr. Clarkson; although he had not been kind to me in the end, he had been a great help to our little firm.
What had turned him into the man who’d spoken to me so viciously? Or had he been the same man, the same character, all along, just hiding it well? His own little charade, perhaps.
His kitty rubbed up against the box, and I petted her; she hadn’t let me till now.
“I’m sorry, small cat,” I said.
There were a few trinkets in the box and some photographs of his family. A watch and a personal pen and ink set; I would see them returned to his father. Perhaps they would have some sentimental value.
Oddly, there were bits of broken pottery. They did not appear to be valuable, but they were in various sizes. A linen bag was wrapped around one of them. I opened the bag and inside found damp, slightly molded tea leaves. I closed the fabric bag, and as I looked at the shard it had enfolded, I saw that it was stained.
My heart sank. An old trick of the fraudster. Using tea to appear to age new porcelain.
Oh, Mr. Clarkson. What else have you done?
I didn’t need to wait long for that question to be answered. At the bottom of the box was one more slip of paper. An invoice, with a personal note scribbled upon it by Mr. Clarkson. The invoice was due to Lord Tenteden, a relatively new client to the firm, for an extraordinary sum. We had, apparently, purchased a silver set for him and then sold it to someone else; we needed to return his monies. Rather than remitting the funds due to Lord Tenteden, they had somehow gone to pay earlier invoices.
How could I pay this one and keep the firm’s respectable name and my father and uncle’s treasures? I had sold nearly everything, but we were finally safe for the moment. Or so I had thought.
I must secure another commission. And make arrangements with Lord Tenteden. But at least I could be assured this was the final invoice—nothing remained in Mr. Clarkson’s possession.
I sent Lord Tenteden a well-worded, respectful telegram asking for perhaps two more months to pay this invoice, due to my just having discovered it upon the death of Mr. Clarkson.
He responded tersely, saying he would give me less than a month, till March 15.
I responded in the positive. I had written Clarkson’s father shortly after his son’s death to offer my sympathies. Now, I wrote a second quick letter to Clerk’s Curiosity Shoppe, Bristol, the same shop that appeared in the photographs. I reminded him that I was an acquaintance of Mr. Clarkson’s and said I would like to visit, if that were possible, and to send permission by return mail.
I hoped I would hear back shortly. I hoped it would be properly delivered. But even if I did not receive word, I would undertake the journey. Perhaps the missing Roman pieces would be found in Bristol.
They must be. March pressed in.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Seven
A week or so on, I had not received word from Mr. Clarkson’s father. I did not know, in truth, if that was the correct shop for Mr. Clarkson’s family, or even if they were who he’d said they were. I withdrew funds for Mr. Clarkson’s last pay packet and tucked it into the box with his other things. It was the end of the month. I needed to conclude this matter so I could, hopefully, return any Roman objects I might find before Signorina Francesca was in real danger of losing her goods—or her well-being—and pay my firm’s debts before I was in danger of losing my freedom.
“Thank you for accompanying me.” I squeezed Marguerite’s hand as we waited at Paddington Station. It was perhaps three or four hours to Bristol. We could take the train out, conclude matters as required, and return the same day. Although I required little for the journey, I took a large bag with me to transport Mr. Clarkson’s goods, such as they were, to his father, and have space to return with any stolen goods I might find.
The train exhaled a grimy puff and several hot belches before jostling to a stop; we boarded one of the second-class cars. First class was entirely out of our reach, of course, and perhaps I should not have splurged on second class. But I did not want to ride with the ruffians certain to harass us on the cheaper carriages.
Some three hours later, we disembarked from the train and asked a carriage to drive us to Clerk’s Curiosity Shoppe. I gave the address to the carriage driver. He shrugged, then the horses did, and we took off.
He finally deposited us at a broken-down building at the end of a lonely spoke of a road near some rough taverns on the canal side. The shop itself seemed dilapidated, its brightly painted exterior dimmed and weathered with the years.
We entered the building and the door chimes swung wearily. A young lady came to greet us. “May I be of some help to you, ladies?”
Before speaking, I took her in. She was perhaps fifteen years old and had long, well-cared-for hair. She looked like Mr. Clarkson, but her skin was pink, and I did not hear the cough that punctuated his life up to the full stop end.
“I’m looking for the father of a Mr. Robert . . . Clerk.” I took a guess that was Clarkson’s real name.
“One moment.” Her smile dimmed, and she returned with an old man who looked to be bent sidewise a bit, like a table with one leg shorter than the others.
“May I be of some assistance?” he asked.
Marguerite stood closer to me for support.
“I’m Miss Eleanor Sheffield, of Sheffield Brothers,” I said. “This is Mrs. Marguerite Newsome.”
The old man’s eyes bulged. I stood patiently; Marguerite was young and beautiful and certainly not the chaperone many expected.
“I was the employer of a Mr. Robert Clerk, or Clarkson. Would that be your son?”
The man nodded. “Was my son. Why? I ain’t got any money to pay for anything he might have done wrong, and we’re all responsible for our own sins; ain’t that right, miss?”
I thought it interesting that would be the father’s first suspicion.
“I have brought his effects to you,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to view them in private?” He might become emotional when he saw his late son’s belongings.
He led me to the back of the shop, which was much larger than expected. It was four or five times as deep as it was wide, and there was row upon row of shelves holding every kind of art, some of it very valuable indeed. As we made our way to the back, we passed a kiln which might be used for casting plaster. Nearby, on a shelf, were rows of shepherdess figurines—the exact statuette as the object which had belonged to Lady Lydney.
Although I was aware of the gravity of the task at hand, I wanted to examine these and did not know if he would be willing to accommodate me after I delivered Mr. Clarkson’s goods. “May I?”
Mr. Clerk nodded nervously. I picked one up. It was truly well made—clear glazing and a
fine, steady hand had painted it. The colors were just a bit too bright for something which would have been older, and the blue was slightly off. Blues were difficult to reproduce. Each of the figures, I could see, was a little smaller than the original, with which I was familiar. It would necessarily be so. A cast must have been made of the original, and whatever figures yielded from the shell would have lost a bit of space. The tiny printing on slips of paper in front of each one indicated prices much too high for reproductions. There were addresses, too. Most of them overseas. Bristol, as a port, was a convenient place from which to send art to far-flung locations whose collectors would never meet with one another and thereby understand each had a copy, none the original.
Mr. Clarkson. It needn’t have come to this. He must have removed the original from Watchfield, made a mold, and then returned the original, selling the copies overseas. Now I knew he had a kiln at his disposal, I could clearly see his deceitful story.
“Most of our business is in foreign parts,” Mr. Clerk said proudly.
“Surely you know these are copies?” I asked quietly but firmly. My hand quivered a little at the realization that we were at this man’s mercy in a strange city.
His eyes darted down for a moment, and he called out to another young woman behind him. He likely hadn’t expected to have knowledgeable guests in the back rooms. “Change these prices, then.” He mentioned a more reasonable figure. I did not know if he meant to keep that price after I left, but after my silence at the Denholms’ home, I could not go along with false reserve.
The day was dark, and gas was dear, so the aisles between the shelving were dim. Of a sudden, I wondered if it was wise for us to follow him down them. I had rather thought we’d be having a conversation closer to the front of the store.
Might the man have a weapon? Would he be angry when I delivered my news?
I stood still in front of another shelf which had a small table nearby. “If you don’t mind, I think we’ve gone quite far enough,” I said. “I simply wanted to hand over Mr. Clarkson’s things to you. Some look to be tenderly cared for, perhaps family bequests. I thought you might want them. I know I would.”