Pandora(62)

Cornelius lounges back in the armchair he did not deign to leave when Edward escorted Dora to the door.

‘I was not rude.’

‘You were. You know you were.’

‘Was it not rude that she turned up at my home unannounced?’ Cornelius shoots back, refilling his glass from the decanter at his elbow. ‘I have a mind to give Fingle an earful when I see him next. He had no right to divulge my address without my express permission.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Edward says, settling himself into the chair vacated by Dora. It is still warm. That faint perfume of lily. ‘It was very good of him to help her – she was clearly in need of me.’

‘How flattering for you.’

The comment is posed as a sneer. Edward ignores it.

He hoped, he truly did, that Dora would be proven wrong, that Hezekiah Blake’s misdemeanours were limited only to forgeries and nothing more. But, it seems, there can be no denying the fact any longer. Gough, Edward thinks with a grimace, will be thrilled when he tells him. He can be thankful, at least, for Dora’s sake, that her own fortunes have turned. It eases his conscience somewhat.

‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am that Lady Latimer has taken one of her designs,’ Edward says to Cornelius now. ‘It is precisely the kind of endorsement Miss Blake needs. I hope more will come from it. But according to what Miss Blake has just told us she will need to secure her future as soon as possible in the event her uncle is exposed.’ Edward frowns. ‘Allowing the pithos to be displayed so openly where it might be recognised is a bold move on his part. To risk so much …’

‘Three hundred pounds. Many would risk more for less.’

Edward rubs his thumb thoughtfully against his chin. If Hezekiah is discovered as a result of the soirée, Dora will be in immediate danger.

‘I still mean to help her, Cornelius.’

‘I’m really not so sure she deserves it.’

That sneer again. Edward sucks in his breath in annoyance.

‘I told you my plan. She agreed before to let me use her sketches of the pithos, even if she does not now know in what context I mean to use them.’ His stomach twists again with the guilt of it. ‘But I am determined to keep the Blake name anonymous. I will not expose her. I will help her. And when I gain entrance into the Society she can sketch for me. We can form a partnership, one that will allow her to leave the shop. One that will keep her safe.’

A long pause that prickles. Then, ‘I see.’

Edward hears Cornelius’ disbelief, his disapproval, and he looks at his friend imploringly.

‘Cornelius, if you had been with us … it was patent she knew nothing of what her uncle kept in that basement. Nothing at all.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘I just am.’

‘That is no answer.’

For a moment Edward stares into the hearth. There comes the memory of desolation, of being lost, of screaming over and over, in a darkness that seemed to breathe …

‘She is trapped,’ he says quietly. ‘I understand that better than anyone. I have to help her. Just as you helped me.’

At Edward’s words Cornelius’ face closes. Then he squints his eyes shut, snaps them open again.

‘I simply do not trust her, Edward. As far as I’m concerned she is as guilty as her uncle.’

Edward sighs. There is nothing else he can say – there is no use in trying – and so the pair slip into silence. As the fire crackles in the hearth Edward worries his inner cheek with his teeth.

He thinks of his visit to Gough that morning, how he pushed the little black book that outlined his notes on the pithos across the ornate desk, watched the older man read over them.

‘Have you heard from Sir William?’ the director had asked.

‘No, sir. I wrote to him, but have received no response.’

‘He will reply in due course. His return from Italy has meant that he’s in high demand. There are many affairs, so I understand, that he is busy putting in order. He lost a shipment of antiquities in December when the vessel they were being transported on sank just off the Scilly Isles.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘Indeed. But I bid you patience. When Greek artefacts are involved Hamilton can’t resist. For the time being, I would continue as you are. What are your next steps?’

It was a test, Edward knew instinctively. A measure, he supposed, of his knowledge and sincerity.

‘I would like to have the clay sample further examined, to conclude its geographical origin. I do not feel I can go much further with my investigations without it.’

‘Very good,’ Gough said, ‘I shall organise it with our scientists. Have you made any progress in ascertaining how the pithos was obtained?’

Edward hesitated. ‘I’ve been advised of three men who might be able to shed light on where it came from. That is, how it was acquired.’

‘Then make haste, Mr Lawrence.’ Gough handed Edward’s black book back to him. ‘In matters such as this, time is of the essence.’

Now Edward gazes into the fire. For so long he has wanted his life to have purpose. For too many years he has suffered under his own shortcomings, has feared his own shadow. Those early years in London … they continue to be a taint on him, a pestilence that has followed him like a wraith, that has woken him in the dead of night leaving his skin and bed sheets wet with cold sweat. Dora Blake has given him that purpose. In her lies the key to his success.