Pandora(105)

What else did Edward mention?

All three Coombe brothers, dead at Hezekiah’s hands. Dora grimaces. No, the pithos cannot be blamed for that. Napoleon Bonaparte? His actions are his own. So much of what is wrong in Europe can be laid at his door, and he has been threatening to invade for years. As for the weather … she looks out the window again. Snow, gales, biting frosts. The rain is relentless. But. It is winter; one cannot expect the conditions to be kind. Briefly Dora thinks of Lady Latimer’s guests, their sickness the day after the soirée. It could have been the monkey. And yet …

Why does Dora find herself daring to believe?

For a piece of pottery to survive undamaged underground for so many thousands of years? Unprecedented. If it had not been touched by the toxicity of open air then she supposes it could be preserved beautifully. But a flood buried it in the first place – it is a miracle no damage occurred then. Even if it had survived the flood unscathed, her parents had excavated deep enough to have freed it from the earth that held it. When the cave-in happened, it should have been damaged then. And if not then, the second flood and excavation would surely have caused some harm? And if not then, certainly the shipwreck would have done the job, and if not then …

Dora shakes her head. How can all that be explained?

And it spoke to her … did it not? She heard voices. Crying. Perhaps she imagined it, all the other things too.

But Hermes, Hermes did not imagine it. Hermes felt something was wrong. He did not want to go down to the basement that first night, was uncommonly restless. She thinks of how he fled when she whispered Pandora’s name. He was perfectly occupied pecking at the lid bef—

Dora lowers the pencil.

So that was it.

The note must have been in the lid, rolled up or folded so small she would not have noticed it at the time. That was why Hermes was so defensive when she went near the birdcage, why he made such a mess …

Dora shuts her eyes, pinches back the tears that have begun to form at the corners.

Hezekiah killed her pet bird for a scrap of paper that did not belong to him.



By the time she is washed and dressed and has eaten it is past six, the rain has paused in its onslaught, and so she goes directly to Edward’s lodgings, knowing he should have returned from the bindery long before now.

His landlady – a fat woman with too many chins – directs her up to a pokey first-floor landing and Dora raps hard on the door, her sketchbook clutched close to her chest.

‘Dora,’ he exclaims in surprise. ‘What are you …?’

Edward blushes. His shirt is untucked, his cravat loose about his neck. His blonde hair is wet at the temples, and Dora sees she has disturbed him in his toilette.

‘I …’ Dora tries to compose herself. After Mr Ashmole’s revelation about Edward’s past she has been unsure how to act around him, how to feel. Her original anger is more now an irritable ache, and her knowing more of him … Well, it changes things.

‘Dora?’

‘I thought you should know I’ve finished the sketches of the pithos. For your …’

The words lose themselves in her throat. He seems to shake himself.

‘Of course! Please, please, come in.’

He steps aside. Dora ducks her head under the lintel.

It is the first time she has seen his lodgings. The set of rooms he keeps, she notes, is not much bigger than her attic was, but it is clean and warm and serviceable, no peeling window frames, no woodwormed beams. Dora smells the musty scent of books, a hint of candle wax. She looks about her with interest, at the bookcase tucked into the alcove next to the narrow fireplace that blazes brightly in its grate, the desk that stands at the window, spread with papers of tightly packed text.

‘Forgive the mess.’ Edward is darting around the room, picking up discarded stockings, shirts, shoes, and he piles them in his arms, looking deeply embarrassed and flustered. ‘Would you give me one moment? I just need to …’ and he is trailing away, retreating into a bedchamber off to the left, taking his creased garments with him.

Dora wanders over to the desk, removes the sketches of the pithos, spreads them out across its surface and as she does, one of the papers beneath is knocked aside, catching her eye. A phrase pops into focus, and she moves the rest of her drawings to take a better look.

It is easy to hide such pieces in an establishment that has become known only for its counterfeit wares. While deeply frowned upon, duplicates are not uncommon in trading circles, and so authorities are unlike to suppose that genuine articles might be hidden in amongst the dross of a business whose complete catalogue is made up entirely of forgeries. And that is how the black-market operates – deception within deception – the oldest trick known to man.



‘I am so glad you came,’ Edward’s voice sounds behind her. ‘I’ve wanted to—’

He stops when he sees what she is reading. His hands fall limply at his sides.

‘So,’ Dora says quietly. ‘This is it.’

Edward’s face has paled to porcelain.

‘Yes.’

They watch each other. He makes to step forward. Dora turns her head.

‘“Genuine articles might be hidden in amongst the dross of a business whose complete catalogue is made up entirely of forgeries”,’ she reads. Dora turns back to look at him, and despite her earlier thaw, the stab of betrayal is still sharp in her chest. ‘Are there other antiquity establishments such as Blake’s Emporium, then? Can you honestly stand there and say this is not about me?’