Pandora(50)

His face goes very still. ‘Listen,’ he says, sitting forward, his expression earnest, urgent. ‘I’ve been advised by the Society director – in point of fact, told – to contact an expert to gather further information about the pithos. Do I have your permission?’

‘Mr Lawrence, I—’

‘Edward. Please.’

‘Edward, I …’ Dora falters, tries again. ‘If the pithos is as old as you say it is, then my uncle must mean to make his fortune from it. And if he sells, neither you nor I will benefit. The pithos will be lost to us both.’

‘But this is why we must work quickly! Learn everything about it that we can.’

She opens her mouth, closes it again.

‘Dora.’ Mr Lawrence – no, Edward – squeezes her hand. She had quite forgotten he is holding it. ‘I know you are afraid. But please, let me investigate this. There could still be an innocent explanation. Let me try.’

Try. A word full of promise. Of hope. And yet … Dora shakes her head, the cog of her mind spinning like a tandem wheel. In an effort to stop it she pulls her hand free, rises unsteadily to her feet.

‘You have more faith in my uncle than I do. But very well. I give you leave to continue looking through those crates, to take from them anything you can which will help with your studies, and I shall continue to sketch the pithos, for my jewellery. Once I am finished you may take what I have done and I wish you luck with it, truly. But let us not dwell on fancies that may never come to pass.’

Edward rises too. ‘You sound like Cornelius.’

Dora does not answer. She crosses to the desk to retrieve the sketchbook from where she left it upon coming down to the basement. Hermes blinks up at her, spreads his wings in a monochrome stretch. Very gently she strokes his fine head with the backs of her fingers. When she turns Edward is watching her, a troubled expression on his face.

‘What is it?’

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Shakes his head.

‘Nothing. Nothing,’ he says again and he shrugs himself from his coat, unwinds his scarf, proceeds to the shelving, and begins to lift down the crates, one by one.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE




Dear Sir,

Please forgive my writing to you without any formal introduction, but I wished to direct a missive to you before appearing on your doorstep.

I was advised to seek your assistance by the Director of the Society of Antiquaries himself, Mr Richard Gough, as I have recently come across a most extraordinary item that will undoubtedly be of interest to you – a large pithos, of what appears to be Grecian design. On analysing a sample of clay taken from said pithos, the Royal Society have discovered – quite to my own shock, and, I am sure, to yours – that the pithos cannot be dated. Indeed, it is so old that there appears to be no record of anything like it in our known history.

The owner of this item presently wishes to remain anonymous – their situation is a delicate one to which I am extremely sympathetic. It seems possible that the pithos – together with a vast collection of Grecian pottery – might have been acquired illegally. I seek not only your opinion but also your assistance, as an esteemed collector of Greek antiquities yourself.

Please do forgive the vagueness of this missive – if you might find yourself in a position to discuss the matter with me, then I hope to be more forthcoming and will divulge further details. I enclose within this letter the business card of the establishment in which I work, and I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to discuss this matter with you at your earliest convenience.

With deepest Respect

& Gratitude, etc.

Edward Lawrence





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO





Every day Hezekiah disappears down to the basement for hours on end; each time Dora watches his limping descent and return with a feeling she has never experienced before, and, despite it being warranted, it succeeds in making Dora ashamed of herself for feeling such a thing at all:

Hatred.

Until now Dora has only ever felt a fleeting kind of resentment for her uncle; resentment for his blatant disregard of her parents’ reputation, the Blake name. But Hezekiah’s forgeries have never actually harmed her. For twelve years he has sold his wares without incident and she herself (Dora is mortified to realise) has grown complacent. She thought she had time. But to discover now that Hezekiah unashamedly risks not only his neck but her own … There may be no outright proof of the fact, but in the face of recent events how can his guilt be doubted? This is why Hezekiah has no concern for the cleanliness, the reputation of the shop, the living Elijah Blake – his own brother – left behind, for he has no real need for its custom. And so, this hatred she now feels eats away at her heart like a maggot, fat and pulsing, gorging on that resentment so long buried deep.

Dora has directed it as best she can. During Hezekiah’s sojourns – when, every now and then, she hears the sounds of his angry pacing below – she has spent her days sketching behind the counter with renewed urgency, her only interruption seven customers, four of whom merely browsed and three of whom purchased, in turn, a Ming vase (one of Hezekiah’s latest purchases), an African figurine (carved by the Deptford carpenter) and a pair of hat pins that even Dora had not seen before, scurried up, she imagined, from one of the dusty curiosity baskets at the back of the shop.