Pandora(22)

From what the white-haired gentleman told him Edward had not expected to find anything of worth here. Still, this does not prepare him for what he sees. Edward is no green man; his childhood at Sandbourne – despite his lack of formal education – gave him knowledge enough to understand at a very early age what was a genuine antique and what was not. His self-taught education at the generosity of the Ashmoles gave him the discerning eye of a collector and he can say, without a shadow of doubt, that there is not one item in Hezekiah Blake’s Emporium for Exotic Antiquities that can reliably be passed off as authentic.

The first shelving cabinet is filled with Oriental pieces. Edward looks at a plate, notes the mix of Japanese cherry blossom and Chinese dragons that would not be paired together were it legitimate. A small ceramic bowl. He picks it up, turns it over. It pretends to be Ming dynasty, but the reign marks have clearly been made by someone with little or no knowledge of that country’s calligraphy. The ‘Da’ symbol, for instance. It portrays a man standing upright with arms and legs, but the leg should not start above the arm as it does here. Cornelius – whose speciality is in Oriental art – would pale with disgust. From the corner of his eye Edward sees Mr Blake make to move toward him and so quickly he replaces the bowl on the shelf.

Mr Blake resumes his position at the counter.

Edward moves on.

The next cabinet is a concoction of mismatched trinkets and glasswear that could easily be found languishing in the basket of a traveller selling their wares outside of Newgate. He pauses to read a little card label – Curiosities from the 1500s – and it is all Edward can do not to snort.

He crosses to the cabinets on the other side, walks slowly up and down and back again, marvelling at the rubbish littering every shelf. Cornelius would barely be able to contain his ire. Indeed, he would not even exert himself to try. If the Society ever required someone to write a report on forgery within the antiquity trade, Edward thinks wryly, all he need do is spend an afternoon here and he would sail through the fellowship entry without a blink of an eye. Finally, Edward stops at a cabinet filled with men’s fripperies. He leans closer to view a crude-looking cravat pin displayed front and centre on a silk-backed board.

Clearly unable to curb his impatience any longer, Mr Blake is on him like a rash.

‘Ah, a true beauty that! Pearl and brass –’ in a rush he removes it from the cabinet, makes to peer at it close – ‘from the Stuart period if I remember correctly.’ Mr Blake proffers it to Edward like a chalice. ‘Ten shillings, for you.’

Edward turns the pin over in his hands, feels the weight of it, the roughness of the pearl. A recent fabrication, likely put together in under an hour.

‘I don’t think so,’ Edward says, making to turn away, but Mr Blake places a heavy hand on Edward’s shoulder and squeezes.

‘Pearls are particularly fashionable right now. I hear the Prince has a great fondness for them. Please, sir, do consider. Eight shillings, perhaps?’

Edward tries not to squirm under his grip. For a moment he is taken back to a dark room, the cruel unyielding hand of another, and he must blink the painful memory away.

‘That is not—’ he begins, but Mr Blake wags a finger.

‘Bills to pay, you see,’ he says, mock-jovial. ‘I can’t let this pretty little thing go for any less than five shillings. You are robbing me quite blind, sir!’

Edward knows perfectly well that what he looks at is no pearl – dipped glass, if he is not mistaken – and the stick is not even brass but steel painted to disguise it as such. No, the item is nowhere near worth the sum Mr Blake asks for it but his unwanted memory has distracted him, he hesitates too long, and somehow all at once Edward is standing at the counter parting with his day’s wages, Mr Blake is counting the coins in his hand, his niece is wrapping the cravat pin very carefully in a square of cloth, and Edward is not altogether sure how it happened.

‘I say,’ Mr Blake exclaims suddenly. The older man is staring at Edward’s wrists. ‘What magnificent cufflinks you’re wearing. May I ask where you purchased them?’

Miss Blake’s delicate hands still. Edward steals a look at her face but her expression is as blank as porcelain.

‘I …’ Edward hesitates, glances down at the new gold and emerald-studded discs. ‘They were a present. Purchased from a goldsmith in Soho, I believe.’

‘Do you happen to know which one?’

With an almost imperceptible shake of her head Miss Blake resumes her wrapping. Edward lifts his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Romilly’s, I should imagine.’ It is Cornelius’ favourite shop.

Mr Blake’s upper lip quivers. Despite the chill air of the shop, there is a sheen of sweat beading his Cupid’s bow.

‘Thank you, Mr Lawrence,’ Mr Blake says. He pockets Edward’s coins, awards him a smile filled with tombstone-like teeth. ‘I’m indebted.’ Then, to his niece, ‘You won’t object to minding the shop, will you, my dear?’ He does not wait for her answer, is already stuffing fat arms down his coat sleeves. ‘Mr Lawrence, perhaps you might accompany me?’

Edward clears his throat, forces a smile. He will not be chivvied from the shop; he must speak with Pandora Blake, alone.

‘I regret I cannot.’

‘A pity. No matter.’ He reaches for Edward’s hand again and Edward tries not to grimace, for the man’s hand has grown clammier, if that could even be possible. ‘A pleasure doing business with you, sir.’