Pandora(43)

‘That desk only contains the sale ledgers for the shop,’ Dora says in answer to his unspoken question. ‘Everything above board. I have already checked.’ Mr Lawrence looks at her once more, face grim, but he says nothing and Dora sighs, glances at the pocketwatch attached by a ribbon to her belt. ‘You’d best carry on. We only have an hour left.’

They settle to their work. Dora forces herself to push her darkling thoughts from her mind, to continue the copy of the pithos. It is, after all, her only hope of escape now. If she cannot sell her designs, then—

Stop, she tells herself. Do not think of it.

Dora fills in the shading of Prometheus and Zeus, the details of the mountain, stratus clouds, trees of fir and pine, starlings in flight. For the briefest of moments she feels the same chill she felt when she opened the basement doors earlier. She tugs her shawl tighter around her shoulders, prods the end of her pencil to her cheek.

Concentrate.

The details of the carvings truly are astonishing. But, Dora contemplates, there are some elements of the pithos that will not translate into jewellery. She turns her attention to the meandros borders, sees now why her earlier attempts failed. The lines are thinner, the patterns more sparsely spaced. In comparison to these, her drawings look like childish scribbles. Methodically, Dora transfers the decorations onto paper.

Mr Lawrence, too, is methodical. He examines every crate on the shelf, makes notes on each item, then carefully replaces them exactly as they were before he disturbed them. He manages to sort through four more before Dora announces the time again.

‘Seven minutes to two.’

‘Two hours is so very little time in which to get anything done.’

‘Yes,’ Dora says, closing her sketchbook. ‘But it is all we can allow. How much do you have left?’

Mr Lawrence adjusts one of the crates on the shelf, then claims his scarf from the banister where he left it hanging. ‘Two more crates on that shelf, two more shelves above it …’ He turns his head, assessing. ‘The shelving opposite, the crates on the floor there. And of course, whatever is hiding behind the stairs.’

They look together. Beyond the staircase, that wide expanse of black.

Mr Lawrence hesitates. ‘It really is very dark.’

Dora almost asks him why he fears it so, but something in his face stops her. Instead she says, ‘Perhaps it is not as deep as it seems.’

‘Perhaps. But the shop floor does stretch that way.’

‘We can take the candles over, have a look …’

‘Another night.’

The words come sharp, too sharp, and Dora stares at him, but Mr Lawrence has already turned away, is winding the scarf around his neck. On the last loop he gestures to the Bramah safe near the desk.

‘Do you have the key to that?’

Dora shakes her head. ‘My uncle only wears the one key around his neck, and it doesn’t fit that lock.’

‘If he has any paperwork at all,’ Mr Lawrence says, ‘it will be in there. He must keep the key somewhere.’

‘Yes, he must. But you have no idea what it took for me to get the key to the basement.’

Dora manages to suppress a shudder at the memory, but Mr Lawrence gives her a quizzical look all the same.

‘Another night,’ she says, and his mouth twitches at his own words thrown back at him.

‘Touché, Miss Blake.’

‘Touché, indeed.’





CHAPTER NINETEEN





Today the smell of burnt leather makes Edward’s nose itch, the candles sting his eyes, and his feet shuffle restlessly beneath the table. He tries to concentrate on the filigree lining of the finish, the narrow strip of fine ivy tendrils and swirls. He sucks in his breath, clenches his jaw, but when he feels his hand begin to shake he admits defeat and places the pallet tool aside, settling into the hard-backed chair with a groan.

This, Edward thinks, is why Cornelius allows him time away when he begins a paper for the Society. Edward is not – nor ever has been – one for juggling several tasks together. A single venture at a time, that is his rule, especially since his work here at the bindery offers him little pleasure. How can he be expected to excel at a thing if he cannot be completely focused on it?

For the past five nights Edward has sifted through crate upon crate of Grecian pottery in the shop’s basement. The Blake collection is beautifully preserved, their calibre of the kind only to be seen in the British Museum. Edward is thankful for the opportunity to handle genuine articles (and at least three quarters of the collection appear to be such), to create a comprehensive list of their markings, their age. The fact that they might be stolen goods … This, unfortunately, makes producing a study of them untenable. Edward shakes his head to free the thought. At the present moment he does not wish to think on such matters. While his instincts tell him otherwise, he still holds out hope that the collection has been acquired legally.

He taps the tabletop with the tip of his index finger, thinks now of the pithos. It truly is an exceptional-looking piece of antiquity. The carvings in particular are exquisite. He has never seen anything like it, not even in his research books. Where, Edward wonders, did it come from?

Cornelius has taken the terracotta sample to the Society for analysis, and until he receives word, Edward will find it damnably hard to date. Even a guess will not do. As the pithos is unpainted it could come from any period within the Grecian timeline. The only point he can remember from his readings is that scenes which depict myth – as the pithos does – were typically produced within the Archaic and Classical periods, but Edward knows his knowledge is only rudimentary at best.