by Sandra Byrd
“When I completed my inventory, that crate was empty,” I said once more.
“So you were in control of them, then!” The man who spoke moved threateningly toward me, and Harry stepped between us.
I moved closer to him, grateful. “Perhaps they had been emptied in Italy,” I said. “Before I even saw them.”
“No,” one of the Italians said. “Further, I had someone check on them in Austria.”
“You opened crates on my father’s diplomatic property?” Harry nearly shouted.
The man shrugged. “I paid dearly for the Roman glass—they are old and very costly. I demand their return. You are clever, Miss Sheffield. You have connections, Lord Lydney. I am a patient man, and my buyers are not expecting their goods immediately, as Italy is being put back together. I suggest you find my tesori before I return to England mid-March. If not, then I will take the Venetian treasures as payment instead. Or—” he looked longingly at Francesca—“perhaps I shall simply take the Venetian tesoro herself.”
Harry moved to stand next to Francesca protectively. It was a gallant thing to do under the circumstances. And yet. My heart, which had been racing with intimidation, now dipped into multiple miseries.
The Italians left the room. Francesca apologized once more to Harry, who waved her off with a combination of chivalry and irritation, and she exited with her mother. That left the two of us in the gatehouse.
Harry went to speak with the gatehouse keeper, but of course, he had not been here when the crates had arrived, as the staff had been completely replaced.
“I will check with the former gatehouse keeper,” he said. “I believe he lives nearby. But he would not have had interest or knowledge or the courage to steal. I know him sufficiently well.” He turned toward me. “You have never seen these pieces? You are certain?” His voice was not accusatory, but it was not the intimate or playful tone in which we normally conversed.
“No, Harry. They were not here. I am not lying, and I did not take them.”
I began to shake. He came close to me and put his arm tightly around me. “I know, Ellie. I know. I am staggered. We must find them somehow.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Could Mr. Clarkson . . . ?” he suggested.
I shook my head. “I do not think so. But if he did, they would be at his home. I will enquire immediately upon arrival in London.” Unless he’d already taken them to Bristol and shipped them overseas. I did not raise that concern yet. One step forward before jumping three more.
In truth, I thought that stealing Roman treasures was beyond even Mr. Clarkson’s folly. And even if he had, it would have taken him longer than two short months to find buyers who had the means to purchase such treasures—unless those buyers were already in place, in London, and Clarkson knew he could depend upon their greed and discretion.
“Could the Vieros have done something with them?” I asked. “They withheld this information from you.”
“It’s possible,” Harry said. “I am not happy about that. But they would not have known where to sell them. There is no benefit to them in a threat to Stefano. I only wish she had told me about them, but most probably I would have refused to transport them, and I understand her fears for Stefano. There are criminals in every country, and they particularly flourish during times of war.”
I nodded. “I guess these treasures are looted, then? Stolen?”
“That would not be a bad assumption,” Harry replied. “I just cannot say. I knew nothing about them until now. I will telegraph some people I know and see if they can apply this new information to finding Stefano. He has hidden before in underground networks, and as Rome is not yet free, he may still be gathering information. Or he may be injured. I assume we would have heard if he were dead, but it’s a chaotic time.”
I agreed, and we returned to the house together. Until Stefano returned, and especially with this new threat, Harry would have to guard Francesca even more closely.
If the treasures had been stolen and delivered into private hands, it was entirely possible that we would never see them again. What would that mean for the Viero ladies if Stefano did not return?
A short while after we arrived back at the house, Charlotte pulled me aside. “We were going to view the Venetian treasures,” she said. “But I understand from Signorina Viero that plans have changed somewhat. What has happened?”
Perhaps it was because I had no mother to guide and comfort me, perhaps it was because I knew she would understand the value of the Roman pieces, or perhaps it was because I needed a friend. I told her what had transpired. She spoke the words I feared, but which were true.
“They disappeared, then, under the watch of Sheffield Brothers?”
I deflected that. “Not exactly. It seems they were here on the property.”
“But whilst you were the trustee.” Her voice was not accusatory but was flecked with the gravity for which my situation called.
“That appears to be the case.”
“If I can be of assistance, dearest . . . This must be a tremendously discomfiting situation.”
“If you stumble upon someone quietly wanting to sell ancient Roman glassware, do let me know.” I laughed, though it unwound in a rather less restrained manner than I intended. She rested her arm around me until I steadied myself.
I would not cry while others watched.
I returned to my room, and as Marguerite and I were packing to leave, there came a knock on the door. “Ellie?” It was Harry.
I opened the door, and he came in, but out of decorum stood just inside the door.
“I must unravel some of this if I can,” he said quietly. “Where have they gone? Were they there at all? And then I shall be in touch. I wanted you to know right away.”
I nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Are you certain you did not see them? You could tell me, you know. . . .” He let the sentence dangle. “I could help.”
I thought of my comment to his father’s memory the night before. “You planted a seed of mistrust . . . and it’s thriving despite my efforts at every turn to uproot it.” Now such a seed was thriving in Harry’s heart, toward me. “I have not seen them, Harry. Ever.”
“Of course.” But his tone wasn’t as certain as his words. “Do let me know if you learn anything from Clarkson.”
“I shall.” I had not told him yet that Clarkson had resigned. I could never tell him now that I’d seen the barding was missing, that I’d been rummaging in his father’s chambers, in secret, because I’d feared one of my employees had stolen from him.
Perhaps he already suspected as much.
“One more thing,” Harry said. “It’s a simple thing, but I wonder if you still have the chatelaine of keys? I’ve had so many locks changed and will be changing more that I’m afraid you would find it quite useless in a very short period.”
“Certainly.” I had, of course, kept the keys, hoping I might be reengaged to care for the art, if not engaged for marriage. I returned to the bureau and removed the chatelaine, then reluctantly handed it to him. An unfastening of keys. When we were ice-skating, he’d said nothing could change his affections for me. But had they changed?
He had not asked to engage Sheffield Brothers to continue caring for the collection this year after our term had expired.
Marguerite, who had been in my room when Harry knocked, came up behind me and put her hand on my back.
“Good day, Lord Lydney,” she said, her voice cold, his champion no longer.
Harry, startled at her sudden appearance, grew more formal. “Good day, Mrs. Newsome. Miss Sheffield.”
But he held my gaze for a moment before he left.
As soon as I returned home, I wrote to the three creditors—the invoices Mr. Clarkson had flung at me—and told them I was making arrangements to pay them immediately. Then I sent both letter and telegram to Mr. Clarkson, asking if he and I might meet for a few minutes to discuss a professional matter. If he had stolen
and sold the Roman-era treasures, I did not know how I could repay them. The Vieros could have us all thrown into debtor’s prison.
I did not receive a response from Mr. Clarkson. Shortly after, I quickly wrote to Charlotte.
Dearest friend,
I hope this note finds you well. I should enjoy having you come to call at any time, or perhaps we might take in one of the exhibits at the British Museum together.
I’m enquiring after Mr. Clarkson, who is no longer with our firm. Was he in attendance at the last meeting of the Burlington Fine Arts Club?
Secondly, at Watchfield over Epiphany, you’d mentioned your willingness to assist me in these difficult times. I would be so obliged if you would be willing to make enquiries on my behalf with the club? If I—and Uncle Lewis—are to build up our reputation and clientele once more, perhaps that might be a place to begin.
Yours very truly,
Eleanor
Her reply came quickly, by the next day’s post.
Dearest Eleanor,
Mr. Clarkson was not in attendance at the meeting a few days earlier, though Mr. Schreiber did see him in attendance at a South Kensington event just a few days prior.
I shall do my best on your behalf, dearest. But as Signorina Viero has divulged the news of the disappearing Roman treasure among confidants, it is making a quiet, but certain, circulation. That may make for a difficult situation.
I shall come to call soon.
Affectionately your friend,
Charlotte
My father was dead; my uncle was not; therefore my father’s items would have to go first. I took all but one of the few remaining treasures from Papa’s curiosity cabinet, arranged to sell them, and then arranged to sell the costly cabinet itself. That very afternoon I was to deliver the final item, a snuffbox made of gold with scalloped leaves that grew from the top, enameled in white to look like the feathers of a swan. Papa had shown it to me when I was a girl.
“I admire swans, my girl, for many reasons. They are graceful, they are beautiful, they are rich in English history, and the ones on the Thames all belong to the queen. When two of them put their heads together and crane their necks, they form a heart.”
I took his box in hand and opened it. It was beautiful on the outside, but inside, it was empty; Papa did not take snuff.
He finished telling me his story. “The swan, you know, mates for life; once it’s chosen a mate, it will not choose another unless its mate dies.”
He’d shared the story before my mother had left, of course, and she had outlived him. I think he’d always hoped she would come back.
I sighed. Now the most valuable items that remained were Papa’s medieval pilgrim’s flask, which I had long hoped would be reunited with its companion piece at Watchfield, and Uncle’s Book of Hours.
Alice knocked on my door. “Laundry?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I’d quite forgotten.” I reviewed the number of dresses in my wardrobe—certainly not an affluence, but by no means pecuniary, either. “That clothes seller you know . . . ,” I began.
She dropped her basket. “Has it come to that, then?”
I sighed. “Not yet. Not yet.”
Later that afternoon, Orchie came into the workshop. “Is Mr. Clarkson not back from Bristol? He’s been gone quite some time.”
I drew myself up. “Mr. Clarkson will not be returning. When I decided that the valuables should remain in situ at Watchfield House, he decided he could do better without us.”
“Oh.” She looked startled, and I knew she must have been wondering how we would make ends meet.
“Uncle is still quite good at valuations,” I said. “And I’m hoping to meet with some of the collectors who have enjoyed working with Sheffield Brothers over the years.”
“Lord Lydney?” she asked, hoping, I thought, that he was going to ride in and save the day.
“We shall have to see” was my only response. There was nothing yet to say. Truthfully, I’d hoped that we might have become affianced in January. But perhaps that was not to be, then or ever. I simply did not know.
“At least he won’t be rummaging about in Mr. Lewis’s study anymore,” Orchie said with a sniff.
“Lord Lydney?”
She shook her head. “No, of course not. He’s a gentleman. That Mr. Clarkson.”
“He was rummaging?”
“Yes. I hate to bring it up . . . Well, at the time, I thought it was because he was doing something proper to help. Now, well . . . I can’t say, can I?”
I set the snuffbox down and went up to my uncle’s study. He was in there, reading. I scanned the room.
“What is it, dear girl?” His eyes looked clear this day.
“Is anything missing?” I asked.
“Besides Mr. Clarkson, you mean?” he asked, bitterness seeping into his voice. He stood and looked around. “I do not think so.” His voice took on a tinge of knowing shame. “But I cannot be certain.”
My eyes landed on the medieval Book of Hours. Once, I had noticed that something had seemed off about it. I plucked it from the shelf and turned the pages, one by one. Near the middle, one of the pages seemed a little loose.
I opened the book as wide as I could without harming the binding and then used a glass nearby on Uncle’s desk to look at it. It did appear to be the correct page. But it also appeared as though the page might once have been removed and replaced. If so, it had been done very carefully. The book was hundreds of years old. There was no knowing when such a repair might have been made if it had been done at all.
“What about your miniature portrait?” I asked. It was one of Uncle’s favorites.
“Oh, dear. Is that missing?” He knew exactly where to look for it, on the wall in a case, and indeed, it was gone.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Six
Some days after I delivered the snuffbox to its new owner, I tried once more to reach Mr. Clarkson by mail. When that failed, I went to the local police station and explained my situation.
“He was a former employee,” I told the constable. “Since he left our employ, we’ve noticed that several costly pieces of art are either damaged or missing. I’ve written to no avail. His home is in a somewhat . . . downtrodden neighborhood. My father is dead, and my uncle ill disposed.”
The constable nodded knowingly. “I can accompany you. I will not be able to search without a warrant, though.”
“I understand. Perhaps we can simply speak with him.”
We began walking down the street, a film of wet coal sticking to us as we did. There was no sense making conversation; this was not a companionable visit. I did appreciate the protection offered, though.
The city was in a depression brought on by severe weather conditions, a cholera epidemic, and financial hardships. There were no children out playing; windows were closed except for the occasional one opened to dump wastewater onto the street. For that reason, we walked nearer to the center of the road but, of course, were in danger of stepping into half-frozen horse muck there. We soon came to the street where Mr. Clarkson lived—or had lived, I suddenly thought. Perhaps he had returned to Bristol for good.
I rather doubted it. The money was in London, and he wanted to make a name for himself in the bigger city. Or rather, once upon a time, to add his name to Sheffield’s.
The officer knocked on the door and the lewd man who had followed me and Marguerite the last time was shocked into polite complacency.
“We’re looking for a Mr. Robert Clarkson,” the officer said. “Is he present?”
The man shrugged. “He lives upstairs. Haven’t seen him for a few days. Nor heard him cough,” he added in what appeared to be a surprising afterthought.
The officer walked upstairs, and I followed him.
He knocked. “Mr. Clarkson. Metropolitan Police. Please open the door.”
There was no sound at all.
“Mr. Clarkson. Please open the door.”
Nothing. Then, sadly, a cat mewing. Th
e officer turned toward me. “Do you think something might be wrong?”
I nodded. “I have never heard him go for days without coughing, as his neighbor has mentioned.”
The officer looked at me and then leaned back before rushing forward and pushing his shoulder into the door. The door, flimsy to begin with, splintered off the hinges and fell inward.
The cat leaped backward but did not flee.
“Stay here,” the officer instructed me.
While he went from the main room to the kitchen area and then to the back, I looked around nervously. The stench of rubbish which had not been removed stained the air. There were no lights on. Mr. Clarkson’s coat and hat remained on the rack inside the door.
A few minutes later the officer returned to the main room. “I’m afraid he’s dead, miss.”
“Dead?” I nearly fell backward out the door. “Are you certain?”
“There is a dead man in the bedroom. I cannot be sure it is the Mr. Clarkson for whom you’re searching. Does he have any relatives?”
I tried to quell my beating heart and keep the contents of my stomach quiet. “His father and sisters are in Bristol. I know of no one else.”
“He’ll have to be buried soon,” the policeman said. “There is no time to wait for someone to arrive from Bristol.” He took his hat off. “Let me go downstairs and get the neighbor. Better he identifies the body.”
I nodded. If there had been no other choice, I would have offered. But there was.
The policeman soon arrived with the wide-eyed man from downstairs who followed him into the bedroom and then, somberly, out again.
“It’s Clarkson,” the officer said. “I’m going to bring in another man to review this with me, and then we will contact you. I know you were concerned about stolen items. Is there anything you can see that belongs to you?”
I looked around the room, which was peculiarly empty of nearly anything personal. No objets d’art remained. Even Mr. Clarkson’s post basket was empty. It was as if someone had been here before us. Perhaps that was merely a flight of fancy.
“Not in immediate sight,” I said.
