Megan, Jamie’s sweet little sister, watched the scene avidly from Ian’s side. She had a canny way of obtaining vast amounts of information by simply observing.
Ian studied the Biedermeier chair Pemberton had pointed him to, looking over its green and gold striped seat, thin scrolled back, and delicate arms—probably wondering which stately home in Austria it had been stolen from. After he’d looked it over carefully, Ian sat down, booted feet planted on the floor.
He said nothing as he glanced at his large, gloved hand resting on the chair’s arm, looked Pemberton in the chest, and then flicked his eyes to Jamie.
Waiting for Jamie to continue the interrupted conversation. Jamie shivered inside, both in excitement and trepidation.
He cleared his throat. “Mr. Pemberton. We all know you acquired the Roman necklace—how you did so is immaterial to us. We only wish to purchase it. At a reasonable price.” Jamie darted his father a quick look, but Ian didn’t move. He’d returned his gaze to the V where Pemberton’s dressing gown closed over his stiff white shirt.
Jamie steepled his fingers, exactly as he’d seen Uncle Hart do, but maintained a slight frown, like Uncle Cameron when he negotiated over the price of a horse.
“Reasonable to whom?” Pemberton asked in an interested tone.
“To all concerned,” Jamie answered. “After our transaction, we would have the necklace, and you would have a price and our silence.”
Pemberton listened with grave attention, then sank back into his wooden seat and chuckled. “My dear young man, are you offering to purchase an artifact you believe stolen in the presence of a chief superintendent of Scotland Yard?” He gave Uncle Lloyd a beatific smile.
That was exactly what Jamie was doing. Damnation.
If one of Jamie’s uncles had marched in here and demanded the necklace, it would even now be in the Mackenzies’ possession. Uncle Hart would have coolly told Pemberton to hand the necklace over, and Pemberton would have scrambled to fetch it, apologizing all the way.
What Dad would do, Jamie wasn’t certain. But he’d never be sitting as Jamie was now, squirming in shame and worry. Jamie was out of his depth, and Pemberton knew it.
Dad and Uncle Lloyd weren’t coming to his aid. Curry had relapsed into silence as well, an old habit, Jamie knew, when he was around a beak. No matter how close Uncle Lloyd had become to the family, he was still a policeman.
Into the heavy and awkward silence came the light voice of Megan.
“We only want the necklace to give to our mum on Hogmanay. Did you know it was made for Empress Pompeia Plotina by an artisan who wanted to impress her? She rewarded him with a villa in Roman Britain, which is where this necklace was found. Only, archaeologists are unconvinced it is the correct necklace. There is speculation that it is a medieval replica, copied from documents left in the jewelers’ home.”
Pemberton’s assured expression slipped. “Is that so, young lady?” He sounded no less pompous, but Jamie caught a quaver in his voice.
“Oh yes.” Megan patted her satchel, which was half her size. “I have done ever so much reading. It’s fascinating, really, how the jeweler fell in love with the empress. Though he knew he’d never be with her, he could make her beautiful gifts. But it is now believed the original necklace was lost, possibly buried with its maker, or destroyed by Emperor Trajan in his jealousy.”
“Or sold by him,” Pemberton said. “The Roman emperors weren’t known for their moderation.” He resumed his superior smile. “Even if the story is true, it makes the necklace no less valuable. Medieval jewels can be just as precious.”
Megan gave him a frown. “No matter what, it was very bad of you to steal it. What you ought to do is return it to the museum, and then we will purchase it from the man who was supposed to have bought it from them in the first place.”
Pemberton gazed at her in perplexity, then at Ian, who remained a silent statue. Jamie was flushed with embarrassment, but he couldn’t help admiring Megan.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Pemberton said softly.
He sat up, folding his hands on his lap, his patronizing smile returning. “Alas and alack, my friends. Perhaps before you stormed my little castle and postulated your theories, you should have ascertained whether I still had the necklace. It has indeed been stolen—from me. I no longer have the thing. Not that you will prove I ever had it, so put away the frown that says you’ll drag me off to jail, Chief Superintendent Fellows, there’s a good chap.”
Chapter 7
Ian sprang to his feet, his patience at an end. “Who does have it?” he demanded.
Pemberton also rose, slowly, but Ian knew the man wasn’t as calm as he pretended to be. “If I knew that, do you not think I’d have sent someone after him? To drag him back . . . And give him up to the police, of course.” He made a short bow to Fellows.
Ian scowled. Pemberton was exactly the sort of man he disliked—overly clever and pleased with himself, certain he was smarter than anyone he knew.
Ian briefly wondered whether Pemberton had encouraged the thief to steal the necklace, knowing inquiries were being made about it. Ian hadn’t exactly hidden his interest.
“You do know,” Ian said. “Tell me.”
He noticed Jamie watching the drama closely. The question of why Jamie was here distracted Ian, which made his frustration rise. But he knew that if he crossed the room and shook Pemberton as he wished to, Fellows would stop him.
Megan remained in her seat, clutching the arms of the chair, another Biedermeier piece, very fine. She said nothing, waiting for Ian to fix the situation.
He wished he could. Ian had wanted to make the world perfect since the day Jamie had been born. That determination renewed itself when Belle and then Megan had come along. Ian knew he never could make the world right for them, though Beth said she loved him for trying.
Jamie climbed to his feet. “Please, Mr. Pemberton,” he said with an odd tremor in his voice. “It’s Christmas.”
Ian began to frown. Jamie had never been sentimental about Christmas before—he saved his revelry for Hogmanay.
Megan’s lip began to quiver, her blue eyes widening. She said nothing, only clutched her satchel and looked pathetic.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ian saw Curry grin and turn away.
Pemberton stared at both children in exasperation. “Oh, very well,” he said with a sigh. “It was taken by, of all people, an archaeologist. I highly suspect so, anyway. The man dug up a Roman barracks near here and found nothing but pots, so I suppose he wanted a bit of gold for his trouble. I noticed my necklace was missing after he’d paid me a visit to view my Roman artifacts. My necklace looks remarkably like one at that museum in London.”
He let his eyes go wide, pretended innocence.
“Where is this man now?” Ian asked.
“Oh, who knows.” Pemberton shrugged. “He was quite upset when he saw my necklace, went on about keeping artifacts in their own countries, returning the Rosetta stone to Egypt, and all that nonsense. I said things were much safer here in jolly old England, and besides, my necklace came from a dig in East Anglia. Or so I’ve been told.”
Damnation. Had this well-meaning archaeologist already taken the necklace to whatever ruin it had come out of and thrown it back in?
Ian tried to ask another question, but only a growl came from his throat. Fellows smoothly took over. “The name of the archaeologist?”
“Richard Magill,” Pemberton answered readily. “Not of the British Museum or anything, or any university I’ve heard of. From whatever dig will employ him, I suspect. I didn’t think much of him.”
Again, the perfect man to push the necklace onto if Pemberton needed to be rid of it. There were so many objects in this room worth fortunes that Pemberton could stand to lose one gold necklace if it meant keeping himself out of Newgate.
Ian gave Pemb
erton a final glare, then he gestured for his children to accompany him and stalked from the room.
He saw no reason for cordiality or formal leave-taking. They’d cornered a thief and obtained the name of the man who likely had the necklace. Ian had no reason to remain after that.
He heard Fellows murmuring something to Pemberton and Curry’s voice chiming in, but Ian was no longer interested in Cornelius Pemberton.
The footman who’d admitted them rushed to open the doors, or tried to. Ian, with his long stride, beat him downstairs to the front door and slapped it open.
The carriage they’d hired waited. Ian opened its door, lifted Megan in, and waited for Jamie to join them.
Jamie hung back. “We have our own transport, sir. Curry and me, I mean.”
“Dismiss it,” Ian rumbled. “Inside, Jamie. Curry,” he called as Curry emerged from the house.
Curry sighed. “I’ll see to it. Go with your father, lad.”
“Meet us on the train,” Ian told Curry, and climbed into the coach.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” Curry said with exaggerated patience. “Shall I also prepare you a large meal and polish your boots at the same time?”
Ian ignored him and took his seat in the coach, facing Megan, Jamie beside her. Fellows climbed inside and landed next to Ian. Curry slammed the door, made an ironic bow, and hurried off.
“Damn Pemberton,” Fellows said as the carriage started, his scowl very like the ones Hart could produce. “Er, beg pardon, Megan. But he’s a slippery cove. I want to arrest him for something.”
“Send your inspectors to ransack the house,” Ian suggested.
“On what charge? We do have rules—we can’t search a man’s private home for no good reason.”
“There is plenty of good reason.” Ian met Fellows’s hazel eyes with equanimity. “The Biedermeier chairs in that room came from a villa near Budapest that was robbed of almost everything last year. Hart and I stayed in the villa when he was the guest of a former Hungarian ambassador. I remember the chair because there was a small gouge on the arm in the shape of a bird’s beak. I sat in the same chair just now. If Pemberton doesn’t have a bill of sale from the ambassador, you can nick him.”
He turned to look out the window as Fellows gave him a sudden and pleased grin, and the carriage swayed onto the road, leaving the false castle behind.
* * *
Curry did catch up to them on the train, entering the first-class compartment with a tray of tea and plenty of cakes. Jamie and Megan fell upon the cakes, and Fellows gratefully accepted a cup of tea. Ian took nothing, resting his hands on his knees as he watched Jamie and Megan eat with enthusiasm.
Curry, who had learned not to wait for Ian’s command either to leave them or join them, sank onto the seat next to Jamie and plucked up a tea cake.
“Your face, lad,” Curry said cheerfully. “When you said, ‘Please, Mr. Pemberton. It’s Christmas,’ I thought I’d split me sides. You should be in a theatrical, Master Jamie.”
Jamie grinned. “Megan played her part. She can make her lip tremble on command.”
“I didn’t lie,” Megan said hotly. “I do want to find the necklace for Mama. Even if it’s medieval, not Roman. It’s pretty.”
Ian agreed. He didn’t give a damn about the necklace’s provenance, only the delight it would give Beth.
“What do you want to do now?” Fellows broke in. “Hunt up this archaeologist?” He took a slurp of tea. “That means more messages, more train travel. You can explain to my wife about my constant absence. I doubt it will go well for you.”
True. While she was a quiet, soft-spoken woman, Louisa Fellows had a backbone of steel.
“David Fleming,” Ian said. He swept up a cup of tea from the rattling tray.
Jamie frowned. “Uncle David? Do you think he’ll know where to find the man?”
Ian already knew why he’d corner David, Hart’s closest and oldest friend, but he’d learned from experience that others wanted to hear everything that went on in his head.
“Fleming helped excavate a British Roman villa in Shropshire about five years ago, for Dr. Pierson, his friend and mentor,” Ian said.
Four nods, all rather impatient. But Ian had no way of knowing which part of the explanation they wanted, so he simply related everything.
“They employed an archaeologist to help them,” Ian continued. “Dr. Howard Gaspar. He might know Mr. Magill or of him. So I will ask Fleming.”
Fellows gave him a nod. “Sound thinking.”
Megan took on a dreamy look. “That excavation was where Uncle David met Aunt Sophie.”
Jamie snorted. “Yes, very romantic. Uncle David told us about falling in the mud and making a huge fool of himself before she’d even look at him.”
Curry chuckled. “Aye, that’s the way of it, lad. As you’ll find out soon enough.”
Megan continued to look sentimental, Jamie confused.
Ian nodded. “A man is always a fool when he falls in love. Your mother has plenty of stories about my idiocy. But you must not let that stop you.”
“What if the young lady has no use for you at all?” Jamie muttered.
“Eh?” Curry asked with interest. “Is there already a young lady?”
“No,” Jamie said quickly, but his face had gone crimson.
Curry laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re almost grown, lad. It was bound to happen.”
Megan licked crumbs from her fingers. “Jamie’s in love with our ghost.”
“I am not!”
Jamie sounded ten years old then, winding himself up for an argument with his sisters.
“He thinks she’s beautiful,” Megan went on serenely.
Jamie growled. “She’s not even a real woman.”
“Why did you go to Pemberton?” Ian asked Jamie abruptly. Everyone stared at Ian, as they were apt to when he suddenly changed the subject. But it was important, and Jamie looked horribly embarrassed under his sister’s teasing.
“Sir?” Jamie asked, eyes widening.
Ian did not repeat the question, only waited.
Jamie deflated. “Because I wanted the necklace. I knew you were trying to buy it for Mother, and I wanted to find it first and give it to you both. For Hogmanay.”
Ian gazed at him in true puzzlement. “Why? Did you think I wouldn’t find it?”
“No.” Jamie grew flustered. “I just . . . To save you the bother. No . . . Maybe to prove I could find it. I don’t know. I wanted to do something wonderful for you and Mother. To please you.”
“As a surprise,” Megan put in. “So you’d be happy on Hogmanay.”
“And, I suppose,” Jamie said in a small voice, “to make you proud of me.”
Ian was extremely proud of Jamie already, his tall, robust son who had inherited none of Ian’s difficulties. Jamie had a free and easy way about him, coupled with Mackenzie determination, and most people liked him at once.
Ian loved Jamie with a love he’d not known he possessed. The same went for Belle and Megan, two daughters who shared their mother’s beauty.
This love had come upon him naturally, out of the blue, when he’d beheld Jamie’s tiny face peeking from the bundle in Beth’s arms sixteen years ago. The love had blossomed again for Belle, and again for frailer Megan, whom they’d worried over the first year or so of her life.
Both his children watched him now in worry, Megan with eyes of deep blue. Beth’s eyes.
Ian launched himself from his seat and caught the startled Jamie in a rough embrace.
Jamie’s return embrace told Ian that no more words needed to be said. Ian pressed his son, his precious son, to his heart.
They released each other at the same time, Jamie surreptitiously wiping his eyes. Ian then caught Megan for her share of the hugging.
My l
ad and lass, Ian thought. There was another lass waiting at home, along with Beth, his light, his love. Can any man be as blessed as I am?
* * *
Daniel Mackenzie thought himself equally blessed. He not only had the most beautiful wife a man could find, but that beautiful wife knew her way about a combustion engine.
She’d also given him a blue-eyed mite called Fleur, now seven years old and hopefully sound asleep in a nap. While Daniel kept Fleur from the more dangerous aspects of his machines, the dear girl could already competently steer a motorcar from the safety of her mother’s lap.
At the moment, in the snowy yard Daniel had adapted into a space for working on his motorcars, Violet adjusted a nut on the motorized cycle she and Daniel had built, her hand competent on the spanner.
Daniel had kept a close eye on the motor-bicycles that European manufacturers were creating from regular bicycles. The Peugeot company in France was doing wonderful things with them, but Violet had proposed they build their own and improve on the design.
Thus, the Mackenzie prototype was born. The cycle had thick tires, a hard steel body, a bicycle-like steering bar, and a belt drive adapted from Daniel’s motorcar constructions.
“That should do it,” Violet said, lifting her spanner away. The engine had rattled ominously and the cycle had refused to slide into gear on their first try this morning. “Flywheel was canted.”
“Well then, my lady.” Daniel patted the seat. “Your steed awaits.”
He knew Violet would never politely beg off and tell Daniel to be the first to ride the cycle. She grinned at him, tossed aside the spanner, and swung her leg over the seat.
“Mount up,” she said. “And hang on.”
“If we’re too banged up for supper, Aunt Eleanor will not be pleased,” Daniel said as he scrambled aboard behind her.
“I’ll be careful, fusspot.” Violet pulled her leather helmet over her head and adjusted her goggles. Daniel did the same, never failing to think how adorable Violet looked in her riding gear. “Off we go.”
A Mackenzie Yuletide Page 6
