by Sandra Byrd
“All right, then,” he said gruffly. “What is it?”
I lifted the items, one by one, from my bag, and set them on the table before him. His eyes widened, and his mouth did too. He put his fist into his mouth to stop a cry of grief as he sorted through his son’s possessions. “To think of him being killed in the end.”
“But your son was not proved to be killed, sir. The police conducted a brief investigation and said he perished from consumption. He was taking quite a lot of medicine for it,” I offered—helpfully, I hoped.
“Bah.” He waved his hand through the air. “I saw him at Christmas, and whilst he wasn’t pink as a piglet, he was nowheres near death. I’ve seen those that die of consumption—his mother died of it when he was but a lad. He did not look sick unto death. No one needs to prove that to me.”
I could not argue that. I did not think he’d looked sick unto death either. I felt another pang of sympathy for Mr. Clarkson. I, too, had finished coming of age without a mother.
“He was a knowledgeable man.” I did not want to speak ill of the dead. “I know he cared very much for your family.”
“We could not have kept this shop running, paid our rent and bills, or put food on the table without the money he sent us,” his father said bluntly. “I know that rested hard on him. His ma’s family owned the property where our London shop was, and after she died, we had to leave.”
I hadn’t known that. It did not excuse his cheating, but it did, perhaps, explain it.
There had been a better way, but that was all over now.
“You should be careful, miss.” Mr. Clerk wiped his rheumy eyes with a dirty rag. “Them that got him might come for you.”
The Romans? Had Mr. Clarkson taken the Roman goods after all, attempted to sell them, and been found out? I now knew he was a thief.
Marguerite leaned toward me. “Let’s leave.”
I could not leave, not just yet. “Mr. Clerk, may I beg a favor? There are things missing from my shop. . . .”
“Are you accusing Robert of thievery?” he asked, drawing so close I could feel his fast exhales upon my cheek; his breath was dank and smelled of rotting teeth.
I leaped back. How to answer? “I’m wondering if he might have brought them here to repair or repaint and then, due to his untimely passing, was not able to return them to London.”
“Ah,” he said and eased. “That’s different, then. Have a look around.”
He handed a lit lantern to me, and Marguerite followed me down the aisles.
“Must we?” she asked.
“We must,” I said. The shelves mostly held inconsequential bits and pieces of people’s lives. It put me in mind of Mr. Dickens’s story A Christmas Carol, wherein Mr. Scrooge’s drapes and clothing were sold off after his untimely death. There was art to be had, though: beautiful portraits and jewelry and music boxes and cuff links and, in one corner, a basket of coins purported to be from the Roman era. There were many of them, too many to be all from an unknown Roman hoard. They weren’t priced, so I said nothing.
“Trinkets,” his father offered. He began to cry again, and I felt pity for him. But I must continue looking for the Roman items which had been taken from Watchfield House.
I wandered all throughout the place, and never did I get the sense that the man was hiding anything from me. As I opened the last door in the back, a nest of rats was disturbed, and one flew out toward Marguerite, who screamed, “Eleanor! Let’s leave.”
She did not have to prod me twice; I had a horror of rats.
I followed her to the front of the shop, profoundly disappointed that I had not found the Roman treasures. Perhaps they had never been in the crates, and the Vieros were in on some hoax which would, in the end, entrap Harry.
Perhaps Mr. Clarkson had already liquidated the items, having stolen them whilst I completed the inventory on our first visit after the funeral. They were small items, I’d think, having been in a small crate. There would have been enough time. If he had done that, though, it was far too late for me to recapture them. I had no proof, and it was unlikely that Mr. Clerk would show me his bills of lading, if indeed he kept such records.
On the way out, I glanced over the glass cases in the front. There were no items of Roman glass, but I did spy two things that were dear to me. My father’s watch . . . and Uncle Lewis’s.
Mr. Clarkson had arranged for my uncle to be accosted when I was at the baron’s funeral. Why? For the money and the watch, of course. And to make it seem like he was helpful, like family, and that we required his protection and assistance? Certainly.
But he had not only stolen from us. He had allowed my uncle to be beaten in the process.
My anger rose; I could feel myself flush and had a pain in my chest.
Mr. Clerk saw me looking at the watches. “They’s sold already; the man just hasn’t come by to pick them up. I have a few other things I can show you, though.” He looked thin. He sounded desperate. His eyes still watered.
“No thank you,” I said quietly. One, I had given to Mr. Clarkson to sell and had not balked at the fee returned. There was no way now to prove that he’d had a hand in stealing the second. Perhaps this small family could use the money to make it through the next months. There would be no further support coming from Mr. Clarkson and I had, still, the pilgrim’s flask and the Book of Hours.
I gathered up my empty bag and, as I did, glanced at a small print hanging on the wall. It was the one which had been stolen when the panes had been broken in the workshop. Mr. Clarkson had been behind that, too. Perhaps to, as he’d said, show me how much we needed a younger man to protect us. But what protection could a man who had allowed my uncle to be beaten have offered?
His father saw my gaze. “Is that yours?”
I nodded, and he took it off the wall, handed it to me, and bid me good-bye.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Eight
Once on the train, I explained about Mr. Clarkson’s wicked doings.
“I know he’s dead, Eleanor, and cannot harm you any longer,” Marguerite said. “You were right to not fully trust him. But this matter with the Romans and their treasures—I’m frightened. I don’t like this at all. I admire your courage in following through, seeking them in Bristol, but I think courage has tipped into folly. Promise me—no more misadventures. Lord Lydney can locate the items which have been removed from his property.”
I promised her. “I’m sorry I brought you.”
She smiled wanly. “In future, I shall charge more for my chaperoning services, dearest. And . . . Mr. Clerk seemed to think his son did not die of natural causes,” she said.
I nodded. “I had wondered about that myself. I’d even asked the police officer. He’d assured me it was a natural death. Of sorts.” I recalled the uncomfortable conversation.
“Do you have any reason to believe someone would want to do him harm?”
“Not really.”
“Then perhaps that is best left alone,” he said.
“I shall have to tell Harry I have not found the Roman treasures.”
She smiled. “That brings to mind: a mutual friend has mentioned in recent conversation that Harry is breeding horses now and has been for some time. His father never arranged an income for him, of course. The breeding provides an income to buy more stud horses, which provide more income . . . and while he’s not rich, things are growing in the right direction.”
My eyes rose, and so did my spirits. “Truly?”
“Truly,” she said. “That does not put the man solidly in the clear as to where his finances have come from, but it is something.”
A few days after my return home I received a telegram from Harry.
Nothing turned up here. Have you found anything? Will be in London a week hence, 8 March. May I call? I hope all is well. My best, H.
It wasn’t exactly a personal letter, but it wasn’t impersonal, either. Therein lay the difficulty. I telegraphed back to Watchfield that I looked forward to
his visit but had found nothing. I did not yet tell him that Clarkson had died. I would tell him that in person.
I would also then tell him that there was no sight of the Roman treasures and, therefore, all was not well. Would he feel obliged to protect Francesca until Stefano returned to England? What if that did not happen? Would she relinquish her Venetian treasures in lieu of those which had been stolen? Would Harry feel he had utterly failed his friend if the family treasures were liquidated?
I felt a certain kinship with Francesca. I, too, had been releasing my family’s treasures to preserve the lives of those I loved.
It was time to tend to my work, and I was happy to do so.
“Another commission!” I said as I entered the workshop. It would not be enough to pay our remaining invoice, but it would pay the rent and gas. Uncle sat in his chair in the workshop. We’d brought in the most comfortable parlor chair for him, as he often fell asleep whilst working, but when he did work, he was very sharp indeed. Dr. Garrett had told me that the older memories persisted, but the more recent ones, like if he had eaten dinner or not, slipped away most quickly.
His desk and table were covered by all manner of items. It was quite crowded, and I did not know how he kept track of it all, but in truth, my father had been the organized one and Uncle Lewis the one who’d tended toward untidy.
“He’s been emptying the wardrobes and closets again,” Orchie whispered. “Afraid someone is hiding inside them. Won’t let me go in even to fetch the laundry, though he’ll hand it off to ‘Miss Carolina,’ otherwise known as Alice.”
I turned back to the note at hand. I’d been invited to meet with Lord Grimsby, the man who had made an indiscreet suggestion to Marguerite but who was, perhaps, as powerful as Lord Parham. Grimsby had indicated that he was interested in commissioning a purchase of some majolica; among my remaining treasures was my father’s sixteenth-century majolica pilgrim’s flask. Perhaps he would be interested? I hated to sell it but needed to pay that final invoice by the fifteenth. Grimsby had indicated that, furthermore, he would like to speak with me about the Burlington Fine Arts Club. His mention reminded me that Charlotte had not yet called, despite her promise to do so.
I was an outcast.
I hesitantly agreed to meet Grimsby at the South Kensington, in a public place. I could not afford to turn down what might be an enriching commission.
I met Lord Grimsby in the forecourt of one of the galleries.
“My dear Miss Sheffield.” He presented his arm to me. I took it, but with a certain stiffness that allowed a distance to remain between us.
“As a widower, I am always thankful for female companionship, especially when looking at art,” he said. “Beauty for beauty.”
A certain heaviness settled in my stomach. “You were going to show me some of the objects you most admire and would be interested in . . . my uncle’s procuring majolica for you?” I knew better than to suggest I’d do it on my own.
“Yes, yes, my dear. But let’s not rush.”
Let’s rush.
We walked through the section which included some fine majolica, in which he appeared interested. I was glad I had been deeply educated in the Italian pottery because it gave me a solid foundation upon which to make conversation.
He stopped for a moment and patted my hand. “I would like for us to be friends, Miss Sheffield.”
I inhaled, sorry that Marguerite had heard this same sort of offer during the Epiphany celebrations at Watchfield, but glad that her encounter had given me a warning.
“I would be most pleased to work with you as a representative of Sheffield Brothers,” I said.
At that, he looked up sharply. “I had rather thought of a more personal friendship. Along the lines of a companionship. It would be mutually beneficial. I have great sway at the Burlington, of course, and among others who collect. Lord Parham is an old friend, for example. Mr. Denholm, who will be hosting the Burlington at his home on the fourteenth of this month, has been seeking my friendship. Couldn’t we be . . . friends . . . too?”
“An irregular friendship with you, or anyone, is not something I would find of interest, Lord Grimsby. I’m sorry.”
He sighed deeply. “I had rather expected you would say that. It’s too bad I am not an antique, Miss Sheffield, that I might invite your undivided attention.”
I pursed my lips to keep from laughing. But you are an antique, Lord Grimsby. And despite your title, wealth, lineage, and a family provenance, there is nothing of remarkable character to note. “Alas . . .” was all I allowed myself to say. “A woman’s reputation is a dear thing.”
He nodded. “Yes, quite right.”
“The majolica?” I asked as we returned to the forecourt of the gallery.
“I shall contact you as soon as I am ready to proceed,” he said, his smile distant and practiced, insincere.
“Of course,” I said. “Until then.”
He bowed. “Until then.”
There would be no commission.
I would sell my uncle’s Book of Hours, although how I could explain its loss to him in his fragile state of mind, I did not know. I would also sell my father’s majolica pilgrim’s flask. They were all that remained of value in our house, but they would cover the expenses that we owed for now and for several months that followed, and keep me out of debtor’s prison.
Selling them publicly would certainly call attention to our dire straits, something I was loath to do following hard upon Mr. Clarkson’s death, which had already caused some loose and speculative talk among the collecting community. Perhaps Lord Tenteden would agree for a discreet swap—one or the other of my remaining treasures to cancel his outstanding invoice?
When I returned home, there was a note for me.
Will call on you tomorrow, at the workshop, and will have our friend with me. Please advise if this is not suitable.
Harry
CHAPTER
Twenty-Nine
I sat in the parlor nearly weeping with relief. Lord Tenteden had agreed to my suggestion. He offered a meeting in five days, on the thirteenth—in advance of his deadline, and the soonest moment he would be back in London—to trade both my father’s flask and my uncle’s Book of Hours for the debt we owed him. He’d told me, in his note, that he was most amenable to the arrangement, so I moved forward with confident relief.
I hadn’t wanted to give them both up, but I had little choice.
Harry arrived in the afternoon, and the friend was, of course, Francesca. “Please, come in,” I said as Orchie took Francesca’s cloak and Harry put his hat and coat on the stand inside the foyer.
Francesca held a rather large box in her hands.
“We are in London for a short time as her mother is visiting friends. We thought this might be a good occasion . . . Well, given the current circumstances . . . she—we—are wondering if you would be willing to value one or two of the Venetian items,” Harry said. His voice was as laden with sorrow as the iron clouds burdening the horizon this stormy spring day.
“Certainly,” I said. “Let’s go through to the workshop.” I turned on the lamps in the workshop, lighting up the entire room. Francesca unwrapped the first item, which was the beautiful water pitcher I had seen when I had first done the inventory.
“Oh, this treasure.” I was captivated by it once more and reviewed it carefully, looking for cracks and fissures, examining the paint and the smoothness of the glass. “It’s perfect.”
When I named a figure, Francesca inhaled sharply. “Are you sure?”
“Per certo,” I said. “I am certain. But why are we valuing these? They will go back to Venice, surely, to your family palazzo?”
“Unless I need to sell them, signorina,” she said. “To replace the Roman treasures. It is not Harry’s responsibility to repair this situation. It is mine alone.”
Instinctively I reached out and touched the back of her hand in sympathy. I had agreed, this very day, to trade my father’s and uncle’s rema
ining treasures to help my own family. I wondered if Harry would be able to purchase the Venetian treasures. Despite what Marguerite had insinuated about his growing income with the horses, I did not think he had the required funds readily available. Not without selling his own family treasures.
“Would your brother agree?” I asked.
“We don’t know where he is,” she replied. “Perhaps replacing the treasures will bring him back.”
She looked on the verge of tears, so I moved swiftly to the next item to give her time to regain self-control, something Marguerite often did for me. “This next piece?”
She handed it over. It was a most beautiful Venetian loving cup, a larger cup with two handles made for a couple to drink out of at a marriage celebration. The French called it a coupe de mariage, and once a couple drank out of it at the same time, they could not be separated. This beauty was created from Cristallo glass with jewels shot throughout. It was likely to be sixteenth century.
“I did not see this in the inventory.”
“There are two,” Francesca replied. “I kept one in my room, and Mama has the other one.”
Had she hidden other treasures, too?
I was just about to offer a value when someone knocked at the shop door. I went to it and opened it, about to ask whoever was there if they might come back in a few hours, when the men standing outside pushed their way in. I anxiously sorted them into a collective. A mob of Italians.
“Miss Sheffield,” one man said, his English heavily accented. “How good to see you again. This time, we visit your shop.”
“Signor Pazzo,” Harry said. “How convenient to find you here at the same time as we have come for a visit.”
“We followed you,” Pazzo replied brazenly. “Perhaps we may have a look around. We might be prepared to make a purchase or two.”
“I’m certain there is nothing here of interest to you,” I said, but it did not stop the three men from looking at the items in the display room. When I moved forward, they followed. When I stopped, they stopped, but ever closer to me.