by Sandra Byrd
There was more than Arthur’s collection here. There were items I believed might have been stolen, including a rare piece of medieval barding, armor made to protect horses. Not only were they not documented—which could be damning, because they were hidden for what reason?—they were too valuable for the late Lord Lydney not to have flaunted them openly if he could.
I would document them, and when I’d ascertained that I’d found someone both knowledgeable and trustworthy, I would make enquiries. I remembered what I’d told Harry the night after the funeral, in the summerhouse. “During the last war, Italy was looted.”
The gateman was Harry’s father’s man. As was his valet—unquestionably loyal up until his lordship’s death. This locked room on the third floor, of course, could have been accessed by the valet, who, according to the gatehouse man, had the only other key. He could have placed the stolen goods safely within. “He is my father’s man,” Harry had said, “and his man alone, through and through. There would be the devil to pay if we were caught.”
The devil, known as the accuser, desires someone else to pay for his misdeeds and cloaks himself as an angel of light whilst making others look bad. Likewise, Lord Lydney had blamed Harry for the theft, knowing it would cast a deep shadow of suspicion. Perhaps he’d instructed his valet to place Arthur’s items in the secret room during one of his visits back to England, then written to me with his false claim. He’d have assumed, then, that I would see Harry as untrustworthy and donate the collection—including Arthur’s items—to the museum. Had his claim that Harry preferred to remain in Austria in the company of Francesca Viero also been a mistruth? Likely.
I thought back to Harry’s statement that his father loved the game Questions and Commands. Of course, if the commander was not satisfied with the answer given in response to his query, he would demand a forfeit. Perhaps, in this case, the collection? He could also require the responder’s face to be smutted with coal, thereby publicly shamed.
The late Lord Lydney wanted Harry to both forfeit and be shamed. I was growing more certain of this day by day. It was an evil game played from beyond the grave, a way to punish the son he’d not loved for the death of the son he did love, using someone else’s hands—mine—like the clock’s, to bolster his own baseless claims.
Looking at the size of some of the pieces in the room, it became clear why a second, outside staircase was required; by no means was there enough room for the armor to have been transported through the narrow passage in the wardrobe. Was there?
I went back to look, and within seconds of my peering down the stairs, I watched as the wardrobe door below clicked shut, sealing off the baron’s bedchamber.
Had someone followed me—trapped me? I quickly tiptoed down the stairwell and tried to push open the door. It would not open.
I looked for another secret panel with which I might open the lower door, hoping there was a lever trigger on each side. I felt up and down the sides of the inside of the wardrobe, which was now only open to the above chamber in the dark. I felt nothing of interest or value. The air grew thin, and soon I was inhaling my used breath. It was hot and moist, and I grew light-headed.
Movement caught my eye, and I gasped. It appeared that the door which opened to the upper room was also slowly closing. If I did not make it up the stairwell before that exit closed, too, there was no guarantee I could unstick the lever a second time. I would be well and truly trapped!
CHAPTER
Fourteen
I clawed my way up the stairs just in time, reached my hand out and pushed the door open, and then stumbled onto the floor of the small room. It seemed this door had an automatic hinge. Did the bottom door, too?
Or had someone tried to trap me in here?
I looked at the door to the hallway, the one which Mr. Clarkson had sought the key for, and felt an immediate sense of relief. It looked of the style of a double lock, which meant it had one key for the outside and one for the inside. I had my keys. Thank you, God. Please, may one of them work.
I struggled with each key on the chatelaine, forcing them into the lock one after another with no luck. I tried twice, thrice. My clothes were damp with my efforts, although the room, which was unheated, was frigid. I grew chilled.
Perhaps I could pick the lock. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to the memory of Arthur and took his thin rapier to see if I could wriggle the point into the area which seemed like it was a keyhole.
Nothing.
Finally I sank to the floor and in anger used the sword hilt to hit the serpent icon—how apt—on the back of the lock. When I did, the snake popped out and revealed a lever. A simple lever. I pulled it, and as I did, the lock disengaged.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I went back down to the late Lord Lydney’s suite of rooms and slipped inside once more, walking to the armoire. I saw the lever now because I knew it was there, but it had been very cleverly disguised. Like recognizing evil, I thought.
I looked once more at the clock.
There was no tick, tick, tick; the hands were stilled once more, but unfortunately, the hands of the late Lord Lydney—a shepherd of iniquity—were not. His hands continued to move from beyond the grave. But this time I had caught him out and I would, if I could, still them permanently.
The next morning, Mr. Clarkson was already in the study when I went to meet him to complete our inventory. He greeted me kindly and we set to work, dividing the remaining rooms in the house between us. When I passed through the bright salon where Harry’s mother’s porcelain had been kept, I noticed that this time, all her figurines were in place. Had any truly been missing before? I ran my finger along the glass upon which they stood. The glass was completely clean. It could be that the housekeeping had been better kept up since Harry was back in residence. Perhaps Signorina Francesca oversaw that, too? Or perhaps the person who had moved them was bright enough to realize that he or she could not leave a telltale trail of dust?
Downstairs, in the Italian room, I ran through the majolica, the fine Italian earthenware that had been famous, and very collectible, since well before Henry the Eighth wooed Anne Boleyn. It seemed to me that a piece or two was missing, but when I checked what was there against the latest inventory, every piece had been accounted for. There were dozens of pieces. This was only one account. It would not be unusual for me to have misremembered. Perhaps the pieces I’d recalled had been a part of another assemblage.
Everything seemed in place. Mr. Clarkson left for a train which would take him to visit his family in Bristol for a few days. Within the week, we would need to prepare for a large dinner hosted by the Burlington Fine Arts Club in support of the South Kensington Museum, which still desired the Lydney Collection. I hoped to make a good enough impression to overcome the mistake I had made with Lord Parham. Surely, if he desired the fraud to remain secret, he would keep that secret himself. Then I could curry bonds of professional camaraderie with the others. I’d learn more about what the museum hoped for its future and if it might be the better home for the Lydney Collection. Regardless of my feelings for Harry, I had to make an objective decision.
I returned to my room, ready to pack for my return to London. When I arrived, I saw Marguerite there, waiting.
“Are you ready to leave?” I asked. “I have some wonderful news to share with you.”
I told her about the fact that I’d found Arthur’s collection in a hidden chamber, and that the mantel clock, too, had been found. “So you see?” I concluded. “All things thus far point to Harry being the man I thought he was. I am diligent in the ascertainment, though. I have a list.”
She smiled weakly.
My heart was troubled; she normally jested about my note-taking habits. “What’s wrong? Is it Lord Grimsby, the man who seemed to favor you last night?” I sat down at the table near the window. The clouds shivered flakes of ashen snow over the tawny dead lawn.
“He was a wonderful companion,” she said ruefully. “Until he made it cl
ear that he was interested in a . . . dalliance. The kind of arrangement one might propose to a woman of lesser moral qualities. I don’t know what gave him the idea that I could be open to such an arrangement.”
I reached across the table and took her hand. “I would never, ever have expected that of Grimsby. I’m shocked. It was an idea he brought with him, and most probably brings with him everywhere. Nothing you’ve done, dearest. We shall look for someone else.”
She nodded, but her mood had not lifted. “Perhaps happiness will not be attainable for either of us.” She looked wistful, and I wondered if it were only her interactions with Grimsby which had made her doubt the potential for my happiness, too. A picture of the beautiful Francesca Viero came floating through my mind.
“Let’s pack your pretty gowns,” I said. “The plum one was a decided success yesterday evening. Of course, I shall have to sell some jewelry of my own now.” I thought back fondly on the necklace. It had had a swan song, of a sort, the night before. “Did you ask about my selling some jewelry?”
Still uncharacteristically glum, she answered, “Yes. I’m so sorry, but he’s not buying anything further for the moment. Apparently there are more sellers than buyers.”
Ah. “I shall find a way to carry on,” I said. I must find someone discreet—I would not want our clients to know that I was in nearly desperate straits. It was one thing when the rich sold some of their treasures to buy things even more costly. That was not, as would be known, our case. “Still, dearest, that is not the end of the world.”
This time she took my hand. “I’ve heard it said trouble comes in threes.”
The disappointment of the potential suitor. One. The fact that there was currently no buyer for my jewelry. Two. “What is the third?”
“Last night I heard . . . well, I heard that Harry and Signorina Viero were married in Venice.”
I pulled my hand from hers as though I’d been clutching an ember. “From whom did you hear this?”
“From the vedova Viero, the signorina’s mother.”
I shook my head back and forth, unwilling to believe it was true.
Marguerite continued, “I asked how they’d been able to flee from Venice without passports, without British papers, especially during a period of war. She answered that as her daughter was married to an English nobleman and the son of an ambassador, they were given smooth passage.”
“Oh.” My eyes looked down at the table.
“I asked the signorina,” Marguerite went on.
I looked up again. She’d risked a social breach for me, as only a dear friend would. “And she replied . . . ?”
“That they had not truly married. That they’d claimed it, for protection, but that it was not a true marriage in any way, legally or . . .” Now she let her sentence drop off.
“Which is why none of us has heard of it.” The tiniest bit of relief began to seep into my heart.
“Maybe.” She hesitated before adding, “She’s titled. And wealthy.”
“I know. I remember that about Stefano.” I recalled the words Harry’s father had used in his letter to me: he’d once expected me to be a caretaker and wife, a daughter-in-law, but he had not suggested I would be a welcome addition to his family. I was neither titled nor wealthy.
Perhaps I’d merely been a youthful dalliance to Harry. A passing of the time during school holidays. Now he’d come into his title . . .
I let a minute elapse so I could control my emotions and my voice. “From time to time I’ve considered that perhaps once Harry learned of his father’s intention to have me dispose of the collection, he decided to keep his affections for the signorina quiet until he’d won the collection back. That he tarried in Venice—and Austria—because his heart and mind were set on someone else.” I said it so she would not have to.
“Maybe,” Marguerite agreed once more. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I had not anticipated this . . . possibility. Should you speak with the signorina yourself?”
No, I would not speak with the signorina. “I’ll speak with Harry.”
Had all he spoken to me been from true affections of his heart? Or had they been misleading actions to further selfish goals?
Perhaps this Lord Lydney was the shepherd of iniquity.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
BLOOMSBURY, LONDON
Once I had returned home, Orchie divulged that there had been another visitor to the house wishing to speak to my uncle about an urgent matter, but Mr. Clarkson had spoken with him and he had left, reassured. She did not look happy when she said that.
“Did he not handle it well?” I asked.
“Oh, he did,” she said. I ascribed it to her suspicion of anyone outside the family, as she had shown with Alice. Or perhaps she did not like to see my uncle’s place being taken, professionally. I did not either. But I believed Uncle’s illness had caused some longtime clients to turn away from us, and Mr. Clarkson would earn their trust and perhaps keep them on good terms. It was imperative that we make a good showing at the South Kensington dinner. And that I sell some of my mother’s jewelry.
I did not know where to turn. I was more accustomed to buying than to selling. In the workshop, Mr. Clarkson kept a small drawer in which I’d seen him place professional cards and notes for contacts. Perhaps he would have something in there?
In his drawer, I found those bits of paper with contact information, but nothing that would indicate where I might discreetly sell my jewelry. I could certainly not let it be known, publicly, that we were struggling, so discretion was all important. I was just about to leave his desk when I saw, propped up against the back, a daguerreotype. I picked it up.
It appeared to be a family. A father and some children, anyway. No mother. Some lovely little girls and a lanky young man. I peered closer. Yes. It was a young Mr. Clarkson. He looked innocent and sweet. Behind them appeared to be a shop—the curiosity shop? I took the photo to my desk and magnified it with my glass. On the shop awning was the word Clerk’s.
I could not be certain, but the street looked somewhat familiar. East End London, maybe?
The door to the workshop opened, and my heart leaped into my throat. My new glass dropped to the floor and the daguerreotype with it. Fortunately neither broke.
“It’s just me,” Orchie said.
Relief. “Yes?”
“Next time you see the lady doctor, could you ask her for a bit more of that willow bark tea? My aches are getting worse.” She put her hand to her back. “And perhaps you might ask her if there’s something to quieten him down. At sunset, he’s all twitchy and tense.”
We did need more tea. But she’d also given me a splendid idea. I would bring the jewelry to the pawnshop once owned by Dr. Garrett’s family and ask for discretion.
I went into my father’s room and sat down on the bed. Papa. Is this the correct thing to do? He would not, of course, answer me directly, but I knew him well enough to know that he would tell me to do what was necessary to save the firm and the family. I opened the drawer and pulled out the soft velvet pouches which held my mother’s jewelry. I left but one elaborate set: a gold-and-pearl necklace with matching teardrop earrings. Papa had given the set to her on their wedding day. I’d wear it with Marguerite’s amber gown to the charity dinner for the South Kensington and then be done with it.
I took the omnibus past the slaughtering waste ground, where the air still smelt of blood, finally heading into Whitechapel, an amalgam of English slum misery and immigrant stepping-stone hope. I stepped down from the omnibus into the cold mist. The streets teemed with men and boys; a few clutches of women stood near to one another, their large skirts wounded with rips and tears. I turned a corner, and as I did, I saw three tough-looking men fall out from an alleyway and follow me. They kept a distance at first, but as I sped up, they came closer. They whistled, and I could hear them muttering about how pretty and fresh I was. I clutched my bag closer, regretting the decision to come to this part of town alone with a ho
ard of expensive gems.
They were nearly behind me. I smelled the dirty sweat wicking from their wet woolen outerwear. I heard them breathe. A threat of footsteps.
I finally ducked into the shop at 1 Commercial Road.
“Can I be of some assistance?” The reedy man behind the counter smiled at me. He had but a few more teeth than my prison friend Jeanette.
The ruffians loitered outside the door. When I looked at one, he tapped his capless head as if in greeting and grinned wickedly. How would I be able to leave—with money on my person? My vision blurred as my apprehension grew.
“I’d like to sell some jewelry,” I said.
“Do you have ownership papers?” he asked.
Well, no. And I had not expected that question, though I would have asked it myself.
I shook my head. “They were my mother’s, and she’s gone now. I do know the Garretts. My family has been in the evaluation business for some years, and my father, William Sheffield, worked with Mr. Newson Garrett on occasion.”
He looked at me skeptically. I did not blame him. And I did not receive as much for the jewelry as I had hoped. I was mindful of Marguerite’s warning that there were more sellers than buyers at the moment. It would, in any case, keep the wolf from the door for a month or two longer.
As he counted the money behind the counter, I asked him, “Have you heard of a shop named Clerk’s? A curiosity shop, perhaps?”
He looked toward the ceiling, appearing to think, then back at me. “There was a pawnshop named Clerk’s here some years ago. I think they was run out.”
He smiled, silent now, and handed the money to me, but I did not move to take it. I glanced at the men waiting for me and my money, eager to mishandle both, I was certain.
“I cannot leave safely,” I said to the shopkeeper.
