Halley thanked the clerk and exited with Edmund at her side. He had done an excellent job of looking silently rugged.
The Channel Islands Estate Jewelry and Loan Company looked . . . fortified. The windows were barred, albeit tastefully, with custom wrought iron and a security guard paced behind a locked door. When they were buzzed inside, they were greeted by a gentleman in a suit.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Hernandez, introducing himself. “Are we in search of something in particular?”
Halley pulled Edmund’s ring from her middle finger, the only digit upon which it would stay put.
“Do you buy old rings?”
Mr. Hernandez smiled and examined the ring, hefting it and turning it round and round. “Would you mind following me to the back of the store? I can give you a better idea if we just . . .” He was already walking, the sentence trailing unfinished behind him.
They followed Mr. Hernandez, who slipped behind a counter and began to examine the ring under a series of lenses.
“Interesting. Interesting. Yes. If you don’t mind, I’ll need to . . .” Once again, he turned without completing his sentence. After dragging the ring over a black testing stone, he left them, passing behind a door leading to a private area in back.
He was gone for long enough that Halley began to worry, but just as she was considering knocking on the door, Mr. Hernandez reappeared.
“This is my colleague, Mrs. Wu,” said Mr. Hernandez. “She is the owner and will be happy to assist you from here.”
Mrs. Wu was already scrutinizing the ring. “What do you know of its history?” she asked Halley.
Halley cleared her throat. “I’m told it was made in London, around the time of the Mayflower.”
“Mm-hmm,” intoned Mrs. Wu.
“Or a little before. Supposedly it was to commemorate a death in the family.”
“A memorial ring,” said Mrs. Wu. “Sometimes called a mourning ring.”
“That sounds right.”
“And it was left to you?” asked Mrs. Wu.
“I, um, had a goth phase. You know, skulls and crossbones and stuff.”
“It’s valuable,” said Mrs. Wu. Her gaze was fixed on something inside the ring.
Halley glanced to Edmund. “I just want to know what I can get for it.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Wu. “You might consider leaving it to secure a loan, instead.” She reached from below the counter and produced a laminated flyer describing the process of pawning a treasured item to obtain ready cash.
“Um, okay,” said Halley.
Mrs. Wu turned for her office. “If you will excuse me a minute, there is a reference I’d like to consult.”
Once Mrs. Wu was out of hearing, Edmund asked, “Think you it bodes well that she taketh such care?”
Halley shrugged. “I’ve never done this before.” She flipped the loan flyer over and examined the image of a satisfied customer shaking hands with Mrs. Wu. Alongside the photo was an example of a pawn ticket, which looked vaguely familiar.
At this point, Mrs. Wu returned from her office. “You have an interesting decision to make.”
39
• EDMUND •
Edmund listened as Mrs. Wu explained what she had been able to ascertain as to the ring’s probable origin and possible value.
“From what I can determine, your ring may have been crafted by the painter and miniaturist Nicholas Hilliard, who also worked as a goldsmith in London. See the maker’s mark here? Hilliard used a mark like this.”
Edmund had never been more aware of the pain of holding his tongue; the ring was indeed of Master Hilliard’s manufacture.
“I have to emphasize, I’m not an expert in this area,” continued Mrs. Wu. “The ring could be of nineteenth-century origin, passed off as a family heirloom from an earlier time. Or it could be genuine. I can’t make that determination.”
“So you don’t know what it’s worth?” asked Halley. “I mean, it’s got to be worth something because it’s gold, right?”
“It is gold. Close to twenty-four karat. The scrap value of the gold is this,” she said, sliding a small slip of paper over the counter.
Edmund’s uncertainty as to the squiggles on the paper were cleared up by Halley.
“Eleven hundred thirty-four dollars,” Halley said softly.
Edmund raised his brows. This was more than enough to purchase jade rings for his purposes.
“You can get that price from me or anyone else who buys gold,” said Mrs. Wu. “However, I strongly advise against it.”
Edmund was on the point of asking wherefore, but restrained himself.
Halley gave voice to his query. “Why?”
A thin smile graced Mrs. Wu’s face. “You ought to have the ring professionally evaluated.” She slid a small rectangular card across the counter. “This is the woman I would trust to provide an accurate valuation. I should warn you, she is generally backed up six to eight weeks.”
Edmund examined the card. The name Sotheby’s was writ in large print, along with a woman’s name in small print and a length of numbers. He knew not what the curious cipher might signify.
“This is a Los Angeles number,” said Halley. “Isn’t there someone I could talk to here in Santa Barbara?”
Mrs. Wu hesitated. “Martin Nieman is local, and I’m sure he would buy the ring, but . . .”
“But what?” asked Halley. “You don’t trust him?”
Edmund, too, had noted Mrs. Wu’s hesitation.
“I recommend Christine Smith-Westley.” Mrs. Wu tapped the card on which the name was imprinted.
“I’m sort of in a hurry,” Halley said.
“I understand,” said Mrs. Wu. “Many of our clients find themselves in your position, but allow me to impress upon you the . . . potential of your item. A piece such as this comes through my door once a year, if that. If the Hilliard mark is genuine, it could fetch anywhere from eight to twenty thousand, auctioned through the right house.”
“Sotheby’s,” murmured Halley.
“Exactly. Christine can determine the provenance of your ring beyond any doubt. If it is genuinely a memorial poesy ring of the early seventeenth century made by Hilliard, you owe it to yourself to investigate all your options.” Mrs. Wu hesitated and then added, “If the piece were mine, it’s what I would do.”
“And if I don’t? How much will you give me for it?” asked Halley.
Mrs. Wu turned over the piece of paper upon which she’d written the value of the gold. Upon this she jotted down a new figure.
“Two thousand five hundred,” murmured Halley. “But you’re saying it could sell for a lot more at an auction?”
“It could,” said Mrs. Wu. “When I first examined the ring, I assumed it was of later provenance than what you suggested because of the inscription. Inscriptions were common in the late seventeenth century, not the early. However, I found examples of inscribed memorial rings from 1520 and 1592. Now, if, on the other hand, your ring is an imitation of a sixteenth-century style, it most likely dates from the nineteenth century, when there were repeated revivals of Elizabethan-era design. In either case, its value is well above the weight of the gold.”
Halley nodded thoughtfully.
“Why don’t the two of you discuss this over the lunch hour?” suggested Mrs. Wu, checking her wristwatch. “I have another client coming in by appointment in a few minutes.”
Halley examined the card with Mrs. Wu’s purchase price. “But this offer stands?”
Mrs. Wu nodded once.
“Okay,” said Halley. “I’ll think it over. When will you be free again today?”
Mrs. Wu smiled and handed Halley another business card. “This is my personal line. But I must advise you, if the ring has been in your family for over four hundred years, you’ll want to be certain before you take a step you can’t undo.”
40
• HALLEY •
Halley shook Mrs. Wu’s hand and then turned to exit the sto
re with Edmund.
Edmund, however, was bent over a case of women’s rings.
“This craftsmanship is remarkably fine,” murmured Edmund.
Halley drifted to his side, leaning in close to examine the rings. In the still air of the shop, she could smell the scent of lavender clinging to his skin. She wanted to breathe it in deeply, to hold the memory of it. Of him. God in heaven, but she wanted him to stay.
“Never have I before seen such bright gems,” said Edmund.
Halley’s eye caught on one ring, narrow-banded, with three tiny diamonds set flush into the band.
Halley gasped. She knew that ring. It was her ring. Two Christmas’s ago, Jillian had given custom-made friendship rings to Halley and DaVinci. Halley had lost hers nine months ago.
“That’s my ring,” she whispered to Edmund. “It’s one of a kind. It’s been missing since New Year’s.” She turned. “Mr. Hernandez?” she called. “Can I ask you about a ring in your case?”
The gentleman approached, beaming genially. “It’s dangerous, coming here with your querida,” he said to Edmund. “Which one would you like to see?”
“I don’t need to see it,” said Halley. “I can see it just fine. That ring”—she pointed, tapping the glass—“It was stolen. It’s mine. I can prove it. My friend had three of them custom made for me, her, and our other best friend.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Hernandez. “In the event of stolen property, of course we would restore the piece. We work closely with local law enforcement to avoid this sort of thing. If you’ll give me a moment, I’d like to check how we acquired the ring.”
Before he’d finished speaking, an idea had lodged in Halley’s mind, and she felt sure she knew how her ring had ended up here and why the image of the pawnshop ticket had looked so familiar.
Mr. Hernandez busied himself on a tablet computer, keeping the screen hidden. “Ah—it was used to secure a loan,” he said. “And in this case, the item was not paid for after the expiration of the loan, which is how it came to be for sale in our case.”
“Who brought it in?” demanded Halley.
“I’m afraid that’s confidential until such time as we can establish—”
“Was it Inga Mikkelsen?” she asked, interrupting Mr. Hernandez.
The gentleman’s eyes narrowed for a split second. Long enough for Halley to know she’d been correct.
“It was her,” fumed Halley. “Inga Mikkelsen is my mother. She had no right to sell my ring.”
“To protect all the interested parties, we adhere to strict procedures. If you’d like to, er, make a claim to ownership, there will be paperwork,” said Mr. Hernandez. He pulled a sheet of paper from one of the shelves below the counter.
Halley took the sheet with shaking hands. Too angry to look at it, she folded it in half and then in quarters.
Stiffly, she said to Edmund, “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
41
• HALLEY •
Outside, the morning had grown warm. Banners snapped in the breeze as clouds scudded past. Faint strains of music drifted down State Street. Halley appreciated none of it. Her mind was spinning. She clenched her hands into tight fists.
“Mistress,” Edmund said softly. “Are you oak-ay?”
“No!” snapped Halley. “I can’t believe my mother.”
She broke off. Her throat had grown suddenly tight, and if she tried to speak another word, she’d be crying.
Edmund took her by the elbow, gently guiding them both back to the truck. Once they were inside the cab, Halley tried to speak again, but she was too angry. Too hurt. Too everything. Bitter tears spilled over her lower lids.
“I can’t—” She broke off into an angry sob. “I cannot—”
“Hush,” said Edmund. And then he gathered her into his arms. “Hush, lady.”
She cried for a solid five minutes, soaking Edmund’s shirt. In all that time, he simply held her, pressing her close.
She took a final shuddering breath and then pulled herself out of his arms.
“She had no right,” Halley whispered. “No right to pawn my ring. It was mine. Mine.”
Halley didn’t know how to explain what she was feeling. Edmund had always had things of his own. Animals, servants, a great hall, a title. How would she explain how much this small ring with its tiny diamonds had meant to her? It had been new, and hers. Not a hand-me-down, not something retrieved from her mother’s discards. It had been a gift. A promise. Best friends forever. And her mother had pawned it for a loan and then defaulted rather than explain to Halley what had happened to it.
“It’s so . . . despicable,” muttered Halley, now drawing her sleeve along her eyes and nose. “I know she’s selfish, but I never would have expected this.”
“Lady, I am sorely grieved for thy hurt,” said Edmund. His amber-flecked eyes were pinched with pain. “If aught I can do might help thee, I would gladly undertake it.”
Halley stared at his earnest expression for a moment before releasing a single laugh. “Oh, Edmund . . .” She shook her head. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. But this isn’t something that’s fixable.”
She didn’t want to talk about her mother. Didn’t want to think about her. She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Edmund nodded. “Mayhap I might buy it for thee?” he asked. “Once I sell mine own ring?”
“No,” said Halley, sharply. The harshness of her response surprised even her. But she didn’t want Edmund paying off her mother’s debts, not even to recover her ring. She would fill out the claim form. She would do everything properly, and her mother would pay for it, not Edmund. She glanced toward the Channel Islands Estate Jewelry and Loan. Besides, she didn’t ever want to walk through those doors again.
She fished in her jeans pocket for the cards from Mrs. Wu and crumpled them, tossing them to the floor of the cab. It didn’t fix anything, but it felt good.
After that, Halley dialed the phone number for one Martin Nieman, dealer in antiquities.
“I’d like you to evaluate a four-hundred-year-old ring for me,” she said to the answering machine. “Mrs. Wu at Channel Islands Estate Jewelry says it’s from the workshop of . . . um . . .”
“Master Nicholas Hilliard,” said Edmund.
“Hilliard,” repeated Halley. “Nicholas Hilliard. And I want to sell it.”
42
• NIEMAN •
Martin Nieman did not make a practice of working weekends, but the coincidence had been too extraordinary to ignore. Another piece of jewelry from the workshop of Nicholas Hilliard? What were the chances?
Unless Dr. Jules Khan had a niece or lover to whom he’d given the ring . . . The voice on the message had sounded young. Inexperienced. Uncertain.
It was more out of a sense of loyalty to Khan than anything else that Nieman returned the girl’s call. And curiosity, naturally. He so rarely had the opportunity to acquire pieces older than two hundred years. Not to mention, should the piece indeed prove to be sixteenth-century, and from Hilliard’s workshop, the girl would probably have very little idea of its worth.
It was simply too good an opportunity to let slip.
The girl had answered immediately and agreed to meet at Martin’s home; he really couldn’t bear returning to work again today—he had a gallery opening to preside over tomorrow. Fortunately, his best set of jeweler’s eye loupes never left his jacket pocket, and he maintained a small assay lab at home.
Five minutes prior to the appointed hour, Martin heard what sounded like a UPS or mail truck rattling up his narrow drive, but upon looking out the window, he saw it was an old pickup. It looked vaguely familiar. For all he knew of young people and trends, it was possible all of Montecito’s hip youth drove about in inexpensive pickup trucks.
Pasting his most genial smile on, Martin waited for the knock and then welcomed his guest.
Or rather, guests.
The girl had brought a young man she identified as her Danish boyfr
iend, who spoke little English. So much for Martin’s theory the girl had obtained the ring from the professor in exchange for . . . favors. Although, who knew, with today’s bohemian standards?
Martin repaired his smile.
“Come in. Do come in. Thanks awfully for agreeing to meet here.” He was laying on the accent rather thickly. “It’s just through here.”
“Thanks for, um, seeing us,” she said. “On the weekend. Here’s the ring.”
Martin observed that the girl wore the ring on her middle finger, and that there was no sign of a tan line on that digit. She’d not had it for any length of time, he surmised. He accepted it with another smile, beginning the examination with his naked eye. The piece was in good condition. Very good condition if it were genuinely sixteenth-century. Martin’s heart began to beat faster. In contrast to necklaces, such as the professor had brought in earlier, rings tended to show more signs of wear, but this one was barely marked.
Looking up, Martin murmured, “Fascinating,” to the girl and her companion and then withdrew his loupe set.
The girl seemed nervous. Enough so that Martin was seized with a sudden suspicion. Had she stolen the ring from Dr. Khan? The thought, once it presented itself, was unfortunately difficult to dislodge. Not to mention, it made his present transaction less straightforward. If he acquired the piece below its value and sent it to auction, as he planned to do, Khan would eventually discover it had surfaced and would blame Martin for saying nothing.
“Hmm,” sighed Martin, as he examined the inside of the band. It was engraved with Hilliard’s mark. “To whom else did you say you’ve shown this?” he inquired softly.
“Mrs. Wu, over at Channel Islands,” replied Halley. “She’s the one who told us it was made by the goldsmith Nicholas Hilliard.”
Martin smiled, and this time it was a patronizing smile. Only an individual devoid of education in art history would refer to Hilliard as a goldsmith rather than as a miniaturist. The girl was an ignoramus. Oh, it would be such a sweet thing to pluck the ring from her for pence on the pound! But . . . he had a duty to contact Khan before making a purchase. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing he could do without putting his future business relations with Khan at risk.
A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1) Page 16