The Book of Lost Things

by Cynthia Voigt

  Max piled the silver back into the big bowl and carried it over to the sink to wash off the paste before beginning the final polish. How long would it take him to search through the pantries and laundry room, and the maids’ rooms upstairs, in the whole castle? Three days? A week?

  But that, as it turned out, was not necessary.

  It was when he carelessly shoved a clean fork onto the disorganized mound of washed silverware he was piling up on the drainboard that Max found it. He had shoved the fork onto the pile and reached down into the warm, soapy water to pull up the next spoon, or fork, or knife, when he heard a clattering sound. He knew what had happened. One or more—he hoped not many more—of the freshly washed silverware pieces had been knocked down into the narrow space between the brick cellar wall and the cabinets under the drainboard.

  Zenobia looked up from where she was arranging three pale chicken carcasses on a bed of chopped vegetables in a long roasting pan.

  “Sorry, Missus,” Max apologized.

  At the same time she asked him, “Did you light the ovens?”

  He was drying his hands, trying to think of how to recover whatever had fallen into that narrow slot. He barely heard her question, and it made no sense to him.

  “Did I ask you to light the ovens?” Zenobia wondered, and now worried, she said, “Don’t tell me I didn’t ask you. I meant to ask you. After all the years you’ve worked here, Martha, you don’t still need to be told, do you? If my Baroness knew …”

  Max went around the end of the drainboard and tried to see into the dark space. He pushed the sleeve of his shirt up to his shoulder to make his arm as skinny as possible.

  Zenobia watched this, and then unexpectedly she laughed, a round, happy sound. When Max looked at her, he glimpsed the girl she might once have been. “My arms are too fat now to fit into there,” she said, and held them out in front of her. “But I was once as slim in the arms as you are, can you believe it?”

  “Of course I can,” Max said, crouching down to reach in.

  He heard Zenobia get up, but she didn’t walk toward him. “What was that temperature?” she asked, but Max couldn’t have told her. He grasped something with his hand, and pulled out one of the oval spoons he had so carefully removed tarnish from, which was now covered with dust. He reached in again, in case two had fallen onto the narrow slot. The next fork he removed had not been polished, and was in fact a dinner fork, larger and heavier than the lunch forks. So he reached in again.

  The Cellini Spoon was the fourth or fifth utensil he pulled out of the damp darkness, and he knew what he had as soon as he saw it, thick as it was with seven years of dirt and dust.

  A quick glance at Zenobia assured him that she was still in front of the oven, consulting with herself about temperatures. Max returned to his seat at the table and to the bowl of polish. He was not at all surprised when, after several minutes of vigorous work, there appeared on the long, broad handle of the big spoon the bas-relief image of a reed-lined riverbank and a tall figure approaching it. He laughed out loud, victorious and glad, and Zenobia said, “It’s not often we hear that, in this place. There was a time, though. Do you remember the times?”

  When Max had finished re-presenting the Cellini Spoon to the light of day, or rather, to the dim light of the kitchen cellar, he held it out to admire. It was an incredibly beautiful piece of work, and it glowed gold. The floating basket, in which the infant was hidden, was about to be discovered, the story of the exodus from Egypt was about to begin, and the craftsman had somehow filled his image with promise and hope. How had he done that? Max wondered, studying it. With the curve of an arm, a ripple in the water, the two smiling faces hidden among the bending reeds …

  Zenobia’s voice interrupted his dreamy thoughts. “That one has a stand in the dining room. I’d best take it up. If she sees it not where it belongs, she’ll have one of her tempers.”

  The Lost Spoon

  • ACT III •

  Spoon in hand, Max dashed across the kitchen. “No!” Zenobia cried. “No!” she cried again, as he stormed past her. “Martha, don’t!”

  He ran for the stairs.

  The cook came after him as fast as she could, which was not nearly as fast as Max. “We never go in the dining room when my Baroness is—” she called.

  But by then Max was bounding up the narrow staircase, bearing the Cellini Spoon. There was no difficulty in finding the dining room. An open door at the head of the stairs led onto a short hallway, lined with drawers and cupboards, the content of the drawers a mystery but the cupboards lined with more glassware, more plates, and some tarnished silver candelabra. Beyond that another door stood open, revealing a dimly lit dining room furnished with a long, dark table at the near end of which one person sat alone, her back to the door, almost invisible in her tall chair.

  The Baroness didn’t respond to Max’s footsteps, almost as if she didn’t hear the movements of servants. Max approached her chair, the spoon held out before him, as if he were presenting her with the keys to the city or with her newborn heir. Only when he reached her side did she turn her head to see who it was that dared disturb her meal.

  Then she recognized what it was Max held in his hands, set down her fork, and took it from him. She studied it for a long minute before she glanced up at Max. “Well,” she said, unsmiling. “That’s the Cellini Spoon. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful,” Max agreed, entirely sincerely.

  “It has such luster … Where did she hide it that so little air got to it?” the Baroness asked. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the spoon, which she cradled in her two hands. “You’d expect some tarnish, after seven years, but— Just look at it.” She turned it over.

  Max saw that the back of the spoon had also been carved to show the same scene, but from the rear. Now you saw the backs of the two women, hidden among the reeds, and the proud face of Pharaoh’s daughter, her hair falling straight from under her high crown. The river rippled along, but no more than a round edge of the basket was visible as it floated away from the reeds and toward the Pharaoh’s daughter. “It’s wonderful workmanship,” he said.

  The Baroness looked sharply up at him. “You know something about art? No wonder the portraits failed to impress you.”

  “Well, the lily of the valley, at least, is—” Max began, but he was interrupted.

  “I told her,” Zenobia panted from the doorway, stepping forward but not coming too close to the woman seated at the table. “Martha, I told you, and you disobeyed. She disobeyed me, my Baroness. I promise, I did tell her.”

  “I know you did,” said the Baroness. “You may return to the kitchen, Zenobia, and I will deal with Martha. However, I find I’ve changed my mind and there will be no luncheon on Saturday. It seems that I know no one to invite.”

  Zenobia didn’t agree. “There’s the doctor and his wife, for one.”

  “That’s two, and he died five years ago. Moreover, the widow has gone to live with her daughter in the capital.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Zenobia. “He cured my headaches,” she told Max.

  “Back you go, Zenobia,” the Baroness said, but not at all impatiently.

  “I’ll admit it, my Baroness. I’m not sorry. It was all going to be so … so hurried, and the silver only once polished. Not that I couldn’t make you a lovely luncheon.”

  “I know you could. Nobody cooks for me but you, Zenobia. Another time, when I’ve found some guests, we’ll have our luncheon. By then I promise you a better scullery maid, too. One who knows her place, and stays there.” She looked sternly at Max.

  Max knew it was an act, but even so he resented it. Hadn’t he just recovered her priceless family treasure? Zenobia didn’t need to see him scolded like that, like a servant. Even if as far as the cook was concerned he was a servant, the Baroness knew he wasn’t.

  “Yes, my Baroness,” Zenobia said, and turned away. The two in the dining room listened in silence as she went slowly bac
k through the butler’s pantry. Then the Baroness turned her attention back to Max.

  She did not tell him to make himself comfortable. He ignored that and pulled out the chair catty-corner to hers and sat, although he was careful not to rest his elbows on the table.

  “Well,” she said again, and set the Cellini Spoon down beside her plate, where it shone gold against the bright white damask cloth. “Tell me,” she ordered.

  “The spoon was never stolen,” Max told her. He explained where he had found it and suggested that someone might want to investigate more thoroughly, perhaps with a broom handle? Because who knew what had fallen into that narrow space over the years. He did not tell the Baroness what else he was thinking.

  He didn’t need to. She was thinking the same thing. “I made a mistake,” she announced.

  This was too obvious to need any response.

  “It was an entirely reasonable error,” she went on, “but an error nonetheless. I acknowledge that. I have paid dearly for it,” she reminded him.

  “You are not the only one.” Max spoke as Inspector Doddle, a man with a deep concern for justice. “And you’ve paid the least, as it seems to me,” he added, speaking for himself, Max Starling. Then he wondered. The young couple had lost one another, but maybe they had gained something, too. Maybe the Martha had gained a worthier lover. Certainly the nephew had gained independence—and Max could imagine how hard this imperious, scornful great-aunt would be to live with. The nephew had lost his inheritance and gained independence. Did independence always have a price? If so, Max hoped he didn’t know the price of his. Then he realized that his case was more like the Martha’s because the nephew had had a choice, but she, like Max, hadn’t.

  The Baroness interrupted his thoughts. “What’s done is done. What’s lost is lost. Time flows in one direction only and thus what’s past is gone. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

  Max had had just enough geometry to be able to say, “Not QED. You haven’t actually proved the proposition.”

  The Baroness didn’t care about mathematical certainty, it seemed. She knew what she meant, and that was good enough for her. “I will be able to tell Mrs. Henderson of your usefulness when next she comes—and she’ll have that child with her, leashed I hope. She speaks highly of you, and I agree that she has good reason.” The Baroness didn’t say Although I don’t, not out loud, but Max heard those words as clearly as if she had spoken them.

  He got to his feet. What else was it she had expected of him? He thought that she had expected either nothing or the discovery of the spoon in some place that absolutely proved the Martha’s guilt. It didn’t seem that the spoon was what she was really after. But if it wasn’t the spoon, what was it? Just to have been in the right?

  The Baroness held out her hand, but before Max could take it she pulled it back and set it beside her plate, clenched into a fist, and said softly, “I was very wrong.” She looked up at him.

  Max couldn’t think of what to say to that. She was an old woman, she was a baroness, she had only said what was true—what did she expect him to say? Not It’s all right, we all make mistakes, he was sure. But if not that, then what? What more did she want of him?

  “Well,” the Baroness said, for the third time. Once again she held out her hand. “I should thank you for finding my spoon.” At least you did that much, Max heard in her disappointed tone of voice.

  Max shook her hand and almost didn’t remember, “I believe the second payment of my fees is due?”

  She had been waiting for him to ask, and she thought less of him for asking. Scornfully, she opened a small reticule she had set beside her on the chair, took twenty-five out, and gave it to him. Max took his fee and he walked out of the room without hesitation, but the Baroness had succeeded in filling him with doubts. Had he really succeeded at this job? Or, for that matter, had he actually succeeded at any of the jobs he’d been paid for? It had been only by accident that he found the spoon, he knew that. Just as he had found Angel-Humphrey only by accident. In two out of the three cases, he had succeeded only by chance, and the third, which he could claim as his own success, refused to resolve itself. The lost dog that he’d located was simply presenting him with a different, and more serious, problem. But what was the Baroness thinking of? Why wasn’t she satisfied? What more did she expect from him? If he hadn’t known how little she enjoyed his presence, he would have thought she didn’t want him to be done and gone.

  He rode his bicycle slowly down the long flagstone drive between two rows of ancient beeches, their thick gray trunks reminding him of the elephants he had thought he’d be riding on in the faraway country he’d thought he’d be going to with his parents who now— This was not something he wanted to pursue, so as he turned onto The Lakeview, he thought instead about how hungry he was. He should ride over to check on Joachim and the dog, but he could do that later in the day, after he had eaten. He wished he felt more sparkly and successful. He certainly should feel that way. It might have happened only by chance, but he had after all found the spoon, something nobody else had been able to do, not for seven years.

  To his right, the lake opened out wide, its surface ruffled by a light spring breeze. On his left stretched high walls and the occasional ornate gate, behind which lay the wide estates of Queensbridge’s oldest and wealthiest families. He pedaled along the paved road, alert for the sound of a motorcar, which could approach so quickly that its driver wouldn’t see him until it was too late.

  Max emptied his mind, not thinking or remembering or even, at that moment, worrying. For that brief time, he wanted to be just a boy on his bicycle, riding beside a lake, admiring the silvery blue color of the water and the light blue, cloud-streaked sky above it. It couldn’t be any other month but May. Only May shone with a sky of that particular color and produced such long streaks of cloud. Max would like to paint that skyscape. He thought that if he could paint it well enough, everybody who saw it would know that it was May. Then he had a large idea: a calendar of skies, one skyscape for each month. He wondered if he could do that, if he was talented enough, patient enough, clever enough. It would be hard to make clear the differences between the gray winds of a March sky that cleared the way for spring and those of a November sky, which blew in the cold of winter. Hard also to show how much hotter August is than July, with only colors and brushstrokes. Max picked up speed. He would have time, at home, to try to capture this May sky on paper and begin the project. His mind was full of possibilities.

  He sped among the narrow roads to Thieves Alley and lunch.

  He rounded the final corner, his heart high. It was all there, the gate with the brass bell hanging beside it, the little front garden, the small stone house and—

  He saw the thing happen in chunks, as if it was taking place at two different times. But it wasn’t. It happened all at the same time. The front door of the house burst open and a man emerged. The man did not have red hair, and he didn’t close the door behind him. He leaped down the steps. He was a man running away.

  At the same time, a bicycle approached from the other end of the street, a bright red bicycle, ridden by a girl in a blue school skirt. She wasn’t going fast, just riding, her head turning from side to side as if she was searching for something particular. Her white-blond hair was in a long braid tied at the end with a red ribbon. She looked familiar, but Max had the man on his mind.

  He pedaled hard. Why was the man running away out of his house?

  The running man burst through Max’s gate and did not close it behind him. His jacket hung crookedly off his shoulders, as if someone had grabbed it and pulled, hard.

  The girl had seen the man, and she turned her bicycle toward him. Did she know him?

  The man—he had dark hair, Max noticed, but things were happening too fast for him to notice more than that—dodged to the right to avoid running into the bicyclist.

  The girl swerved, too. As if she wanted to run into him.

  Max was coming close to the pair of
them. He knew the gate and door to his house were both wide open, but he couldn’t worry about that, not now. He wanted to catch the man.

  The running man dodged left.

  The girl swerved right, to stay in his path.

  The man looked back over his shoulder, saw Max, and increased his speed.

  And the girl ran her bicycle right at the running man. When he saw what she was doing, the man raised both hands and pushed at her, shoving her hard. She tumbled off her bicycle, yelling “Hey!” not in fear but to object. “What do you think you’re—?” and she thumped down onto the hard ground, her legs tangled up in the bicycle frame.

  While the man ran off, around a corner and out of sight.

  Max didn’t hesitate. He knew he had a good chance of catching the running man, since he was on a bicycle, but the girl was lying on the ground, and if she was hurt— It was more important to make sure she was all right and get her to a doctor right away if she wasn’t. The man’s hands had been empty, clenched into a runner’s fists, Max remembered. So if he had taken anything it was something small.

  Max skidded to a halt and dropped his bicycle to the ground. The girl was just who he thought, but what was she doing in Thieves Alley? “Pia?”

  Her eyes opened. She didn’t smile. She tried moving her hands and arms gently, then she flexed her feet at the ankles. “I’m all right,” she told him, and began the process of extricating herself from the metal frame. But she kept sitting there on the ground. “It looks like my bicycle’s OK, too.” She pulled the skirt of her school uniform down over her knees.

  “What are you doing here?” Max asked. Then he looked back to the open door. “I have to—” He turned to his house.