by Sandra Byrd
I bid her good-bye and walked through the door to the circular area where carriages waited during visiting days, pulling my cloak tightly around me. Today I saw but one carriage, though it was very fine indeed. When I drew near, I saw a hand waving me toward him. It was not Harry but Mr. Denholm waiting.
“Hello,” he said.
“Mr. Denholm,” I greeted him. “I did not expect to see you here.” When Harry had mentioned an unexpected friend, he must have meant Mr. Denholm, who had, after all, no lost love for the late Lord Lydney, especially as he would have preferred the collection to go to the South Kensington. Harry, not willing to sell Stefano’s treasures, must have promised to sell some of his own treasures to Mr. Denholm to pay back the Romans—and pay my way out of jail, too.
“I imagine not,” he said. “But I’ve paid your debt in full and have delivered the receipt from Tenteden to the warder.” He opened the door, and I looked inside before entering. My friend Mrs. Denholm rested within, which assured me that I could enter.
Once inside, I saw the tears filling her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . .” She looked so forlorn, and suddenly I felt afraid.
She. I. A casualty of women.
“Clarice!” Mr. Denholm barked. “That is enough.” I turned and looked at Mr. Denholm, who firmly closed the carriage door behind him. “I now have a favor to ask of you, in return for my paying your debt.”
A whip cracked and the horses startled, and we were off into the dark, wet night.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Three
“I don’t understand.” I turned first to Mrs. Denholm, who sat on the bench beside me, and then across the aisle to her husband. “Didn’t Lord Lydney sell art to you to free me?”
Denholm laughed. “No, no, Miss Sheffield. There has been no word of any sort from Lord Lydney. I’m afraid, as I’m certain Mr. Clarkson conveyed to you, that choosing to return the Lydney Collection to Watchfield House proved most unwise. Your only help has come from one you have spurned—and cheated. Me.”
“Spurned? Cheated?” I asked. My hands, inside my thin gloves, felt as though ice sheathed them instead.
“We’ll return to that momentarily,” he replied.
We raced over the cobbled streets much more quickly than I would have thought safe, the carriage jostling Mrs. Denholm and me together. The gas lamps sent streaks of light through the hazy mist but did little to lift the gloom either within the carriage or without.
“How did you know I had been remanded, then?” I asked.
“There was talk of your debt at the Burlington last Thursday,” Denholm said. “Lady Charlotte Schreiber took up your defense despite discussion of the shame of it all, and speculation about how you were going to remit what you owed to Tenteden. And then chance smiled upon me.”
Mrs. Denholm took my hand and spoke quietly. “You’ve me to blame, I’m afraid. When I visited at the prison today, your friends told me that you had been remanded for a debt which had remained unpaid and asked me to pray for you. I’d hoped to do more than that. I’d hoped that Mr. Denholm would undertake your cause in the same charitable spirit with which you have undertaken the Visiting Committee.” She dabbed her eyes. “Alas.”
“But why me? And now?” I addressed Mr. Denholm. “What have I done to harm you?”
He did not answer. We pulled up in front of his home, and he let his wife out of the carriage first, then helped me down, a gallant measure I found most ironic. We walked up to the front door, and I was surprised when Mr. Denholm let us in himself. No man opened the door. A thought crossed my mind: the only people who had seen me with Denholm were the man himself and his wife. The carriage driver would not recognize me for my tightly fitted cloak. The prison warder had only the receipt from Lord Tenteden stating that my debt had been paid in full. Mrs. Denholm could not testify against her husband . . . should it come to that.
Denholm held the door open for his wife. She turned to me and whispered, “I shall be nearby even if you cannot see me. No harm shall come to you.” Then she walked into the house, and I followed her. I took both of my gloves off and dropped them to either side of the door, just outside.
The lamps were all turned off. There were no maids to be seen, no menservants. The house smelt faintly of roast beef drippings and beeswax. The clouds must have cleared somewhat because by the light of an almost-full moon I could make out the display cases in the parlor. They appeared to be half-empty.
“Follow me,” Denholm commanded. “Your imprisonment provided an unexpected opportunity, one I intend to capitalize upon.”
I turned to dash, and he caught my arm.
Mr. Denholm led me down a set of stairs and then another, until we reached a lower floor, completely underground. The walls were somewhat damp, and there was a locked room behind iron bars. In nearly every way it reminded me of the prison whence I had just been freed.
Once below stairs he lit some lamps and unlocked the iron gates before ushering me into a large room. To one side, there appeared row after row of bottles of wine. To the other side, where he lit even more lamps, I saw row after row of shelves which held dozens of treasures, if not one hundred. Many of them I recognized from our earlier visit.
I turned toward him, bewildered. “You’ve moved some of your collection from the display cases and walls?”
“Just this afternoon,” he said. “After Mrs. Denholm returned home. You see, Miss Sheffield, I came by some most disturbing information last week at the Burlington meeting. I don’t mind telling you I was a little discomfited by it all. Would you like to sit down?”
“No thank you.” I eyed the door. Could I dash for it? He saw my glance and closed the gates tightly.
“Please, come over here,” he said. “I am not the kind of man who mistreats a woman—and my wife is just upstairs.”
I had little choice but to hope he spoke the truth. I prayed that Harry would arrive at the prison and find me gone and then seek me out. But how would he know where to look for me?
Mr. Denholm stood in front of a large statue of Psyche. “Beautiful, is she not?” he asked. “Look closely, Miss Sheffield.”
I took the lamp he held out to me and looked the statue over very closely. From far away, she looked perfect. Up close, though, one could see that the marble used for her face was slightly different from the marble used for her body. Because statues were ungainly and heavy, they were often made in pieces and reassembled. This made it easy for someone to steal a portion and replace it with an inferior piece of marble—or even porcelain.
“Her face is not original.”
He nodded. “Yes . . . I learned that not too many weeks ago. Mr. Clarkson sold this piece to me, unfortunately. I lost significant funds on it and have no means by which to recover them, as the transaction was done under his name. It caused me quite a bit of shame when a fellow collector commented on my being duped. I brought it up to Mr. Clarkson during a visit in which, out of the depths of my kindness, I gave him some of our chemist shop’s paregoric. He then treated me disrespectfully by lying to me about it. That, I would not brook. I vowed to see him undone.”
I recalled what Denholm had said when I’d shared a possible story of the Egyptian stone upon its sale.
“Then the hands of the discoverer. The hands of those who transported it—tempted, perhaps, to steal such a valuable object but knowing that the probability of death awaited them if they were caught.”
“Quite right,” Denholm said, still caressing the stone.
Undone? Or dead? I looked at Denholm sharply, but he said no more. He had provided paregoric to Clarkson. Had it been tampered with? Bottled in a strength to which Mr. Clarkson was not accustomed? I could not know—nor could anyone at this point. The bottles were long gone and Mr. Clarkson pitched into a pauper’s mass grave.
I recalled what Uncle Lewis had said to me upon learning that I had spoken with Lord Parham. “They’ll never forgive you if they think you’ve let on they have f
alse pieces in their collection. It brings their eye, their judgment, and their taste into question. Never embarrass a rich man. Once anyone has shown acceptance of an item later found to be a fraud, it calls their entire collection into question, something they will never allow. Most are not as wise as they think they are and do not appreciate that being pointed out.”
Uncle believed I’d made a fatal mistake, but perhaps it was you who did, Mr. Clarkson. I’m so sorry. It’s never good to think you’re cleverer than your clients.
“How can I assist?” I asked Mr. Denholm, warier than ever now that I understood the danger he might present. “I’d like to return to my home and see that my uncle is well.”
“I understand he is not well,” he said. “Poor man. He’s been taken to hospital, having found out that his niece was remanded to debtor’s prison after signing for debts he owed. Perhaps he’s been returned home by now. Or perhaps . . .” He left the sentence to dangle.
“Who told him?” I nearly shrieked, no longer worried about myself.
“I did, of course. After I went to your home over the weekend to see about receiving the monies owed me for falsely sold goods.”
“You’ve just said Mr. Clarkson sold Psyche to you on his own account,” I replied. “Independent of our firm.”
“Yes. But I have many more pieces, Miss Sheffield, including one or two sold to me by Clarkson as a duly recognized representative of Sheffield Brothers.”
That part was true. If my firm had been involved in some misdoing, and it seemed it had, I wanted it set right. I nodded.
“Good. Here is a bargain I’d like to make with you. I have paid your debt and freed you from prison. I want you to tell me, confidentially and completely, which pieces are true and which are frauds. I do not want to openly display any which might bring me further shame.”
Now I understood. “And what confidence do you have that I can, or will, do so?”
“I have complete confidence in you,” he replied. “You’re young, I know, but your father and uncle have trained you since you were a girl. And it takes some courage for a chit of a woman to speak up to Parham and tell him that his prized Grecian urn is a reproduction.”
“He told you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I heard you tell him. I’d been standing outside the library.”
Ah. The shadow. “Very well,” I agreed. “I am only one woman with my opinion and experience, but I shall do my best. And then I am free to leave?”
“Yes. Upon my word.”
What that was worth, I did not know. I believed if I needed help, I could scream and his wife would help me. I hoped she would. In any case, the prison could, eventually, follow the trail of the paid debt to the person who had paid it. If harm were to befall me, I believed he knew the authorities would learn where to look. He wouldn’t risk that. It wouldn’t be easily explained away . . . as Mr. Clarkson’s death had been.
I walked around the shelves, lamp held high, looking from both twelve feet and twelve inches.
Everything seemed legitimate on the first shelf. On the second shelf, I saw a Palissy platter which seemed to be very old but gently restored. It was beautifully painted, a moving image of God pulling Eve from Adam’s rib. The damp of the room had caused the linens which bound the crack to lift slightly, and I lifted them even a bit further. When I did, I could see the distinctive letters PULL. This was not a Palissy. It was a Pullman, perhaps ten years old, if that. I said as much to Mr. Denholm.
“Thank you, Miss Sheffield. This was not even one I had suspected, as it had been a donation to the South Kensington.”
So—he admitted he had sampled and acquired treasures for himself out of those which had been donated? I was gladder than ever that I had returned Harry’s family collection to him.
Harry. A thought: If he went to fetch me from the prison and I was not there, he would certainly visit Tenteden, who would tell him that Denholm had paid my fine. He would then know where to find me.
I smiled. Perhaps in this one instance, I might be permitted to believe that Harry and I were cleverer than my client.
“You’re smiling?” His voice was not polite.
“I’m glad to have found the truth out,” I said honestly, though I did not clarify which truth I referred to.
The explanation seemed to satisfy him, as he relaxed.
I looked at the next shelf, filled with porcelain. Prominently displayed, just up in the front, was a shepherdess figurine exactly matching the one from Harry’s collection.
Was it one of Mr. Clarkson’s frauds? I picked it up and examined it as closely as the dim light allowed me. I tapped it against my teeth. I looked at the maker’s mark and the glazing and the fine cracks. It was the original, which I believed had last been seen in Mr. Clarkson’s rooms. That would mean, along with the ones in Bristol, the one at Watchfield was a reproduction.
Had his room been emptied of anything of value, or perhaps anything which might be condemning, by Mr. Denholm, or more likely one of his men?
It was a most damning piece of evidence. Chills ran up my spine like ice cracking. Mr. Denholm had arranged for Mr. Clarkson to be killed, but likely it would never be proved.
Careful not to show my recognition of the shepherdess lest he seize upon the moment to harm me, I moved on. Upon the next shelf sat an Egyptian bowl. I knew immediately it was all wrong.
“The bowl appears to be very old—but it’s quite possible that the pottery was aged and cracked to make it look much older than it is.” I ran my finger over the picture. “The bow and arrow being used to confront an enemy—and that is correct. However—” I tipped the bowl toward him—“the horses are not attached to the racing chariot. They are free-floating. That is not a mistake that a practiced artisan would have made. And this bowl would not have been preserved for so many years if it had not been crafted by a practiced artisan.” I faced him squarely, more confident now that I was in my area of expertise. “I’m sorry, but this is not right.”
“Yes . . . someone called that into question last Thursday night,” he said. “Parham, I believe. It was the second error, the second incidence of fraud at the hand of your firm.”
“I have never seen this piece.”
He took out a bill of lading. On it was written the Egyptian stone that Mr. Clarkson and I had purchased on his behalf. The chariot bowl was listed just under. The tally had been adjusted, and just beyond that, I had signed off on the pieces.
“I signed this before the bowl was added,” I insisted.
“There is no indication of that,” he said. “In fact, the handwriting is consistent throughout.”
“Of course it is,” I replied. “Because we both know Mr. Clarkson was a forger—and a very good one at that.” I thought of the many pieces he had painted.
“I think you knew about the bowl. You accepted the praise when Mr. Clarkson complimented you on sourcing the Egyptian treasure. In any case, it matters not, as he legally represented your firm at that time.”
That was true. I saw the difficulty of my situation. Mr. Clarkson had used my good name to cover his misdeeds.
Harry, please come. I looked over the remaining shelves and found nothing of interest until I spied a page from an illuminated manuscript, neatly framed. I lifted it down.
It matched my uncle’s Book of Hours. I had examined that book and found the pages intact, but at least one of them had been loose.
I read the page. It was, of course, painted in Latin. To the person able to read Latin, the errors would be immediately noticeable. If not, it would merely look like beautiful serif painting. I had to be honest.
“This is a painted copy of an illustrated page, not the page itself,” I said. “The Latin is not right.”
He looked shocked. “I had not expected this.”
Because you do not read Latin, I thought.
“I thought Mr. Clarkson had torn apart a true book and was selling the pages,” he said. “Yet another fraud.” His face grew re
d. “I believe your uncle’s signature was on that receipt.”
Perhaps it was the real signature. Perhaps it was Mr. Clarkson’s forgery. But if it were from even six months earlier, we would have difficulty proving that Uncle was not sensible enough to sign, especially as he had been signing for other commissions which had had no problem. I did not want them all called into question.
I believed that Mr. Denholm—and perhaps Mr. Herberts—were the only clients that Clarkson could have cultivated in his time with us who were wealthy enough to have purchased these expensive frauds. When—if—I was allowed back to my workshop, I should make a careful review of the books to ensure that.
“How shall you rectify this?” Denholm asked. “I want it fixed but done quietly. As I’ve said, I do not want my peers to know of my folly.”
Of course you do not, although they probably already do. What would my father have done? My uncle? Despite it all, they would have been honor bound to see the situation mended, and I felt that same compelling duty. I thought to strike the bargain I’d offered Tenteden. “Perhaps I might offer you the complete Book of Hours,” I replied. “In exchange for the false page, the false chariot bowl, and the monies you paid Lord Tenteden on my behalf.”
Denholm considered for a moment. “Yes. I will agree to that.”
“And if any other pieces are found to be fraudulent but connected with Sheffield Brothers, you will agree that this exchange makes them all paid in full. Forever.”
He smiled. “I have not purchased anything else from your firm, Miss Sheffield. Nor shall I in future. But you keep discreet about my follies, and I shall keep quiet about yours.”
“No need to keep quiet on my behalf,” I said. “I have done nothing wrong, and the wrongs committed by Mr. Clarkson I have made right.”
He opened a bureau drawer in a small office off the wine cellar and withdrew a piece of paper which listed some vintage bottles. On the back of it, he drew up the agreement, and we both signed it. I held out my hand. “I’ll keep that.”
