Pandora(45)

‘Tell me, Mr Lawrence, from where did you get this?’

Edward links his fingers together in his lap. He knows Gough’s reputation for directness, his predilection for making even the most confident of men quake in their stockings, and Edward strives for calm.

‘From a recent acquaintance, sir.’

A beat. Impatience.

‘And this acquaintance’s name?’

Edward catches himself. He thinks of Miss Blake, the danger it might put her in if he were to answer. He glances at Cornelius, then away again.

‘I would rather not say, sir.’

Beside the director, Cornelius stirs.

‘You would rather not say,’ Gough echoes.

‘That is correct.’

‘And why is that?’

Edward’s palms begin to sweat. He must choose his next words wisely.

‘I would like to keep my dealings with the individual on a purely confidential basis for the time being.’ After a moment he adds, ‘It is in this person’s best interests. Sir.’

Something in Gough’s face tics. The older man glances up at Cornelius. Then he steeples his fingers beneath his chin, pins Edward with a level stare.

‘You do realise, don’t you, Mr Lawrence, that you came to us for help.’

‘Of course. But my concern, sir, is for the family involved and it requires a great deal of delicacy.’ Edward pauses, licks his lips. Dares. ‘I also realise that my future with the Society is in question, and I would prefer to have full discretion on this matter.’ He pauses again. ‘Mr Ashmole says the clay analysis brought up interesting results?’

There is a shift, it seems, in the air, and Edward’s heart flutters against the cage of his chest as he realises what that shift might mean. He thinks of Miss Blake and then, in turn, his misgivings. How cruel it would be, how utterly cruel, for the pithos to be something of consequence, only to discover it has been acquired illegally after all …

Gough is staring at Edward, and the silence that has built up between them continues to stretch. Cornelius looks pointedly at the toes of his polished boots. Edward shifts in the chair.

‘What did you find, sir?’

Gough clears his throat.

‘The object in question. May I at least ask you to describe it to me?’

Though reluctant to divulge Miss Blake’s involvement, Edward cannot find any issue in this request.

‘It is,’ he explains, ‘or rather it looks to be, a large Grecian vase that would have carried within it such things as grain or wine or oil, known to the ancient Greeks as a pithos.’

‘I am familiar with the terminology, Mr Lawrence,’ the director says on an impatient sigh, and Edward feels his cheeks flush.

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

Another beat.

‘Well, Mr Lawrence, go on.’

Edward ducks his chin. ‘It depicts on its body a carved scenic representation of the creation of the first mortals on earth. More particularly, it shows the story of the legendary Pandora.’

Gough drums his fingers on the desk. ‘You mean the myth, Pandora’s Box.’

‘The very same.’

‘And what age do you believe it to be?’

‘I do not believe it to be of any particular age. Aside from the carvings themselves there are no differentiating marks that would confirm its era. There are no traces of paint – not the black of, say, a piece from the seventh century, or the red from the third. The pithos was too heavy for me to lift so I was unable to check for a forger’s mark on the base.’

He chances a glance at Cornelius. His friend looks, Edward notes, faintly impressed, and he feels a jump of pride.

‘Would you care to hazard a guess?’ Gough says now, and Edward returns his gaze to the director.

‘I …’ He shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t want to attempt it, sir.’

Gough sits forward, the space between his heavy eyebrows creasing.

‘Mr Lawrence. The manner in which we have tested the clay is very new, and as such I must stress that the method is still widely experimental. But according to my scientists, the clay in this vial predates history. In fact, it appears to be impossible to date.’

A thin camber of smoke from the fire leans into the room.

Edward blinks. ‘Impossible?’

‘Indeed.’

‘It predates history?’

‘That’s what I said, Mr Lawrence.’

‘But … but that’s ridiculous!’ Edward cries, looking between Gough and Cornelius as if they were playing some mean trick. ‘There’s not a mark on it. No cracks, no discolouration. It’s in perfect condition.’

‘And yet—’

‘Are you mocking me, sir?’

‘I assure you I am not.’

It is all Edward can do not to storm out. How dare they laugh at him like this? And Cornelius, of all people! The hurt, the dismay, it is debilitating, but as he angrily begins to rise from the chair Cornelius holds up a placating hand.

‘Edward. This is not a jest. We were as disbelieving as you are.’

And all Edward can do is stare.



The claret is duly poured. Edward sits slumped in the chair, mentally exhausted, cradling his glass.

‘No,’ Edward is muttering, again and again, ‘no. There must be some mistake. You said yourself that the method is experimental.’