by Sandra Byrd
Soon, Orchie was up. She knew something was awry as soon as she saw my face. “What is it?” she asked.
“I found some items in Uncle Lewis’s room,” I said. “As I was tidying it up last night and preparing a bag for his return home. Some pasties. Old and rotted. And money. Lots of banknotes.”
She flinched. “Oh. Dear me. I looked, that once, and found no money. Hadn’t smelled any rotted food, but then he wouldn’t let me in too often.”
“Everything was hidden in clothing drawers locked by unusual levers. I did not know he had such bureaus. Some other drawers had false fronts, so you couldn’t have known last time you’d looked for me. Papa had a bureau like that too. I think they must’ve had twinned sets as young men.”
“I’m glad to know I hadn’t overlooked anything.” Her face pinked.
I nodded. “The banknotes I found were pinned to invoices which had not been remitted. Invoices I have since paid, of course, with money from items I have sold. Nothing new—not since you’d directed the post to me.”
Orchie sat down. “Oh, I’m sorry. But ’appy is this day!” Her smile filled her face. “You can certainly use the additional funds.”
“We can,” I agreed, sighing once more with relief that our house was now on a firm foundation. “But . . .”
Her face moved from joy-filled to tentative.
I continued, “The worst part of all is that I found some Roman antiques. They appear to be ones that were entrusted to Lord Lydney and then stolen. We had thought Mr. Clarkson . . .”
“That cannot be!” she said. “Why would your uncle have stolen them, and when?”
“I think they are what they appear to be,” I said. “I shall ask him when he is home and settled if I feel he is up to it. Whilst we wait for Lord Lydney, I shall place them in crates, softly cradled and well wrapped, in the workshop.”
Harry appeared shortly after breakfast. “Are we ready, then?” he asked.
I nodded. “I have something to share with you in the carriage.”
As we made our way to the hospital, I told him what had transpired. “I cannot be certain, of course, because I have not seen the exact treasures that Signorina Viero agreed to transport. But I believe them to be old and Roman, and they look to be the kind of thing that would have been sold along with the bottle that Pazzo has already reclaimed.”
“How could this be?” Harry asked.
“I do not know,” I answered. “We shall endeavor to find out. But, Harry . . . some of them appear to be fraudulent, and I can’t be certain, but a few might have been stolen, as you suspected.”
“Would it be criminal to have them in England?” Harry asked.
“Most certainly, if they are stolen. The sentiment might even be stronger in Italy, where they belong.”
We pulled up in front of the hospital, and the driver waited whilst we went in to retrieve my uncle. When he saw me, his face lit up, and he nearly leaped out of the chair where he’d been waiting to depart. “Eleanor! You are back. You are not in prison.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.
I hugged him to me. “I am not in prison. Lord Lydney and I are here to take you home, where you belong, and where you will remain.”
Uncle grinned and waved his walking stick in the air, almost losing his balance until Harry steadied him from the side. We drove back to Bloomsbury, and once home, the three of us helped him to his room.
As soon as he walked through the doorway, he turned to Orchie. “I told you not to clean this up!” His voice held as much fear as anger.
“Nor did I,” she said firmly, confident at dealing with his antics.
He saw the drawer which had been opened by the lever pulled out, and a sudden light of realization and remembrance flashed across his face. He then turned toward me, his voice more boy than man. “You found them.”
I responded in a voice both steadfast and quiet. “Indeed, I did.”
He looked at Harry. “I don’t suppose you would like to help an old man out of a pinch?”
“I already did.” Harry kept his sense of humor, despite what this pinch had cost him. “I’ve paid for them.”
“Oh. Oh.” Uncle sat down on his bed, and Orchie propped him up with some pillows and took off his boots. “And here I thought I’d been assisting you, young man.”
I pointed toward the drawers, still open. “Do you feel up to telling us what has transpired?”
He sighed and held his head for a moment as if to clear the cobwebs. “As I recall, I journeyed with you and Mr. Clarkson to do the last inventory at Watchfield. I grew tired, and that Mr. Clarkson left me to rest whilst he went to the porcelain room—in which he seemed overly interested.” He fell silent.
“You were going to get the key for me,” I gently prompted him. “For the room on the third floor at Watchfield House.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” he said, his memory invigorated. “I went to ask the gatekeeper for it, he refused me, but then I felt tired, and I sat down for a bit and closed my eyes. When I awoke, I was alone and went to look for the man. Instead, I found the crates. Those Venetian beauties . . .” His rheumy eyes filled with joy. “Then I saw the smallish crate with the Roman art inside. I went to look at it, and I knew your father was up to his old tricks again.” He looked at Harry. “Is he here, presently?”
Harry looked at me.
“No,” I answered. “He is not. What do you mean his old tricks?”
“Well, whenever he stored things out of sight, and they were stolen, he would keep them in crates with a blue mark across them—” he drew a line in the air—“like that. Then the gatehouse man, or his valet, would keep the goods out of sight until he could place them . . . somewhere. I caught him once, with a relic. Told him he’d have to return it and he refused. Dressed me down and worked only with your papa from then on. Your father wouldn’t have let him get away with that either. But I suspect your father—” he looked at Harry—“just got better at keeping things hidden.”
“So you saw these Roman goods,” I said. “And then . . .”
“I knew just by looking at them that some were frauds and some were stolen. He hadn’t returned the relic; I had no faith he would return these, either.” He turned toward Harry. “I thought if he were caught out, he would blame you, just like he always does. I wrapped them in my clothing and brought them home and put them with the clothing in the drawer and then . . .”
I looked at Harry, who nodded. We both understood that my uncle was blending present and past and had little sense that he was doing it.
“Would you like to show us?” I asked. “I have put the pieces in the workshop.”
Uncle swung his legs around the bed. Orchie went for his boots, but he waved her away. We helped him down the stairs and then the hallway, stocking-footed.
We settled my uncle once more in the best parlor chair. I lifted the treasures one at a time—they were all small, certainly able to have been nestled among Uncle’s clothing in his travel bag that first visit back to Watchfield. First, a tiny mosaic glass bowl, perhaps one hundred years old, possibly one which held olives. “Was this one of them?” I asked.
“A beauty. Yes, yes. I believe that to be genuine, and if not terribly expensive, dear enough for the likes of us.”
I, too, believed it to be genuine. Next, I lifted an early Roman ribbed bowl from the small casket in which I had set it for safekeeping. The glass was a light-green tint and had a beautiful pearlescent oxidation on it.
I held it close to him, and he squinted. “I’m not certain.”
“Nor am I,” I responded. “But something about it troubles me.”
He nodded. “One of the ancient glass bottles troubled me too.” He stood, and Harry held him by the elbow. “I left it just over here, on a shelf, so that I could examine it in a better light.”
As he started to walk toward the shelf, I raised my eyebrows at Harry, who nodded to me in return. The glass bottle had not been planted by Pazzo. My uncle had placed it there f
or careful examination and then forgotten it.
“I’m just checking that now,” I said. “I’ll ask you more about it later.” I did not want to tell him that it had been snatched back.
I held up a small Roman plaque. He agreed that it was valid. Then we came to the gold-and-porcelain chalice and platter for celebrating Eucharist. To my eyes, they looked real and perhaps five hundred years old—pre-Reformation. Very valuable indeed.
“Thief!” my uncle cried out. “This is the one I first noticed. These could not be lawfully sold. Indeed—” he turned toward Harry—“once more your father has taken advantage of an unstable political situation to ‘acquire’ goods from Italy. These were designed, commissioned, and purchased solely for religious purposes and were stored at the Palazzo del Quirinale, where the pope resides.”
“Stolen from the church?” Harry asked. “I do not think Viero or his sister would have approved of that, had they known.”
“Viero?” Uncle asked. “Who is that? Nonetheless, they must be returned to Italy. I had been planning to do that, to return them to their owners, to set things right for all involved. I meant to find out where I must send them, and then, somehow, I forgot. I’m sorry.” He hung his head. “I do not want you to be blamed for this, young man. To be hanged, as it were, for your father’s sins.”
I came behind him and put my arm round him. “Do not concern yourself. You must rest now. I shall pick up the threads from here. You have done quite enough. Without you,” I said in all sincerity, “none of us would have recognized where these belonged. I certainly would not have. You have done well.”
He nodded, and Orchie helped him back to his room.
“They must all be returned to Italy,” Harry said. “Their proper owners found.”
“Your money. Abalone,” I answered quietly. “Due to Uncle Lewis. I’m so sorry.”
He touched my cheek. “It’s for the best. We do not want to be responsible for stolen goods. Once we know they have been acquired illegally, it is our responsibility to see them restored, as your uncle so rightly insisted, though his methods were somewhat—” he smiled—“questionable. I shall ask Viero to take them when he returns to Italy. He’ll be here next week.” He caressed my face for a moment and then took his leave.
I sat down in the chair my uncle had just vacated; it was still warm, and I was well aware of the symbolism of his leaving the chair and my taking his place. Sheffield Brothers was in my hands now. Had Mr. Clarkson’s deceit, coupled with my uncle’s well-intentioned theft, brought us to the place whence the firm could not be recovered?
I let my mind relax for a moment and my gaze drift back to the items on the tables in front of me. In an instant, I realized that the ancient ribbed-glass bowl was certainly fraudulent and guessed that the small oil bottle my uncle had taken for examination, and which Pazzo had pocketed, was as well.
I immediately put on my hat and coat and went to call on Lady Charlotte.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Six
Charlotte returned to the workshop with me within the hour, as I knew she would.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
She took my hand in her own. “Of course. We are friends.”
“I had worried that might not be the case any longer once it became known what Mr. Clarkson had done and that our firm owed debts.” I explained to her about my uncle.
“You have done quite well, my dear, with the circumstances you were given. I said as much at the Burlington only last week.”
I squeezed her hand. “Mr. Denholm mentioned that. Your support means a great deal to me.”
I showed her the treasures, one by one, and we agreed on their value and on which were authentic. Though we could not be certain that all of them had not been stolen, they would have to be returned for that reason alone. I shared my thoughts on the ribbed bowl and the missing oil bottle, and then the insight my uncle had passed along about the sacred items from the Palazzo del Quirinale.
Her eyes misted over. “It will be a sad day when we lose his wealth of knowledge. But yes, I suspect he is right.”
I nodded, a bit saddened myself. “I shall endeavor to learn all I can before my uncle is unable to continue teaching me.”
She looked up from the table. “Do you think Lord Lydney would be willing to have these exhibited before he has them sent back to Italy? I am sure many of our friends would enjoy seeing them before they are rightfully returned. Perhaps the Venetian treasures might be exhibited too? We were not able to see them when we were last at Watchfield.”
Oh yes, I’d forgotten that. It was because the Roman goods had just been discovered stolen. I sensed something behind her request, but as she was not forthcoming with it, I could hardly ask if she had some other rationale. It would be presumptuous. There may be nothing there but what is on the surface, I thought. Her friends would surely enjoy seeing these, and as they are to be returned and Harry has paid for them, there is no harm in it.
“If Lord Lydney agrees, of course,” I said. “I shall telegraph him, and Signorina Viero, and ask if that might be possible. You’d like to host them at your home?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yes, that would be wonderful. Make your enquiries and we shall agree upon a date as soon as you hear back.”
Lady Charlotte had asked me to arrive at her home ahead of the others. Her dinner preparations were complete, and she wanted to speak with me privately.
“There will be many in attendance from the Burlington. Although it is not an official club meeting.”
My stomach clenched though I knew I was safe. “Mr. Denholm?” I asked.
Charlotte shook her head. “No, dear. His questioning of you at the last meeting made it clear that he was no friend. I would not subject you to another onslaught!”
I nodded, grateful. “It is appropriate that many from the Burlington are here. They would be the most likely to appreciate the Venetian treasures as well as the Roman ones.”
“I’d like them to appreciate you.” She put it bluntly.
“Me?”
“Yes. There was some . . . discussion . . . after all, with the understanding that Mr. Clarkson had not been, shall we say, completely aboveboard. May he rest in peace. I would like you to explain about the Roman treasures to the others present tonight. Perhaps the Venetian, too. I shall introduce you. It may go a long way to setting things right where people’s thoughts about you and your firm are concerned.”
She offered a chance to stand before those who might have rejected me and explain myself. I wished it were not necessary, but it was. It also offered me the opportunity to set things right regarding Harry.
“I agree—with inestimable gratitude.” I embraced her. “But I believe Signorina Viero should be allowed to speak of her own Venetian treasures.”
“A wonderful idea!” Charlotte said.
Her friends—many of whom, if not most, were collectors and valuers—soon arrived, and as they filtered into the rooms and circulated, they watched me with wary interest.
Well before dinner was to be served, Harry arrived with Signorina Viero and two other men, one of whom I gladly recognized as Stefano Viero; the other I did not know.
Charlotte welcomed them, and Mr. Schreiber directed Harry’s man, bearing a large crate which I assumed held some of the Venetian treasures, to the library, where he’d set out the Roman treasures for display.
“Miss Sheffield.” Stefano took both my hands in his own and kissed each cheek. He looked tired and thin but as handsome as ever, and I told him so.
“Perhaps you are Italian, Miss Sheffield? Such a delightful compliment.”
I laughed. “No. But I wish I were, after having viewed many of the beautiful works of glass your countrymen have produced. Thank you for allowing my friend Lady Charlotte Schreiber to share them this evening.”
“It is our pleasure,” he said. “May I introduce Barone de Bennetto? My friend and a friend of Lydney, too.”
Signorina Viero turned he
r eyes to the handsome de Bennetto, a man with deep-blue eyes and a stubbled black beard. By the look on her face, I imagined they were more than mere friends.
They departed, and I stood there alone with Harry. I could hardly keep my eyes off him, and it seemed he felt the same way, as his gaze did not waver.
Mr. Herberts approached us and spoke up. “I am glad the two of you are here together. I was sold—wrongfully, one now understands—a piece of majolica. I gather it was from your family.” He turned to Harry. “I should like to return it to you.”
I looked toward the ground. Mr. Clarkson. Again.
“I will be happy to pay for it,” I said, “if you remitted funds to my firm or someone representing it.”
Mr. Herberts gave me a fatherly smile. “Consider it a gift for the forthcoming occasion.”
I looked at him oddly. What forthcoming occasion?
“And I would be happy to patronize Sheffield Brothers if it will continue to offer its services,” he said. He looked at Harry as he said it. Harry squeezed my arm and nodded his agreement to Mr. Herberts.
Charlotte had tables set in her large dining room, with lacquered screens separating each table to allow for more intimate conversation, and had thoughtfully seated me with Harry and his Italian friends. The conversation around the table was lively, and my heart filled with happiness and pleasure in a way I could not have imagined possible only a fortnight earlier.
Signorina Viero, seated next to me, leaned over as we ate sorbet. “I must apologize, Miss Sheffield, for accusing you of stealing the Roman treasures, or any of mine. If the truth were known, I was the one who was duplicitous, not telling his lordship that I had allowed the Roman goods to come with our own goods. He was so kind to pay for them, and we will seek, in Italy, to see him reimbursed. I was quite wrong. I hope you will accept my apology.”
I took her hand. I had, after all, questioned her motives as well. “War and difficulty and evil people encourage doubts in all of us, signorina. Please do not concern yourself any further. And please, do call me Eleanor.”
