Pandora(85)

‘Where are you going?’ she cries, scrambling up the treads behind him.

‘To her room! She is hiding it. She knows. Which means he knows! I must get to it before Coombe gets to her.’

‘Hezekiah, don’t!’

But he is already on the landing, then the second, Dora’s attic, and he wrenches the door open so hard he feels the wood pull on its hinges.

The room is impeccably kept for so drear a place. The magpie – that dratted disgusting bird – squawks loudly at him, an affronted rattle, but he ignores it.

Hezekiah goes straight to the wardrobe, flings its contents onto the floor. Nothing. The chest of drawers next. Each drawer he opens, rummages between the garments, flings those too to the floor. Nothing.

Where next?

From the doorway, Lottie is watching. ‘Hezekiah …’

‘For God’s sake woman, leave me be. Go on, get out. Go!’

Lottie stares at him. Then, with a resigned sigh that irritates him beyond measure she disappears, and he waits for her heavy foot on the stair before continuing his search.

Hezekiah limps toward the bed, clatters to his knees, looks underneath. A carpet bag. He reaches for it, pauses only long enough to trace the embroidered H with his finger, remembering when he bought it for Helen, and in his anger he rips it. Nothing. Nothing!

The magpie screeches.

‘Shut up!’ he screams. ‘Shut up!’

Where else? Where else would she keep it? He spots the desk under the window, smiles in relief. Of course!

He opens a drawer, his lip lifting in a sneer. Junk. Glass, wire, scraps of leather and lace. He reaches for a glass bead. Didn’t he notice one of his mock-jade bracelets had gone missing a while back? He will punish her for this, too.

Hezekiah sifts through the flotsam and jetsam of useless items. Nothing! But just as he is about to turn away he notices a familiar pouch.

His coin purse! She took it! He reaches for the purse and opens it. No money. No note. Instead, a small tinderbox. And inside that …

‘That conniving little bitch.’

The box is filled with wax – a wax mould, he sees on a squint – and nestled within that, a small metal key.

Hezekiah reaches for the chain around his neck, pulls it up through his shirt, looks at both keys side by side.

Identical. Hers is newer, the brass not yet marked with age. But the teeth …

He remembers the night of the gin.

So. That’s how.

He drops the chain. The key bounces lightly against the cushion of his chest.

He discards the box, the duplicate key landing on the floor with a dull chink. Hezekiah spins on his good leg, looks manically about the room.

Where is it, then? Where is it?

Is he wrong? But he cannot be! Perhaps she has the note with her, perhaps she is showing it to Hamilton this very moment, perhaps—

The magpie – having been silenced by Hezekiah’s screaming – lets out one long, drawn-out cry, and Hezekiah jumps. It watches him from its cage, its small black eyes judgemental, accusatory. It cocks its head. Hezekiah sets his teeth.

‘Well, then.’

And as Hezekiah approaches, the bird begins to hiss.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE





‘Oh, my dear!’

Lady Hamilton puts an arm around her shoulders but Dora barely registers the kindness.

How can this be? How did her uncle acquire it, how could he have known?

A glass of water is placed in Dora’s hand and she is forced to drink.

‘Forgive me,’ Dora whispers when she has emptied the glass. She looks across at Sir William, at Edward, both watching her with concern. ‘Please continue. I must hear it. I need to hear the rest.’

‘Dora,’ says Sir William, looking deeply troubled. ‘There is a serious matter at hand here. I would have protected you from it if I could.’

‘Tell me.’ She knows her tone is hard, unforgiving. But Dora will not let this lie, not now she is on the cusp of the truth. ‘Please.’

Lady Hamilton sinks back into the seat beside her. Sir William clears his throat.

‘After your parents died, I monitored the dig site for years. I bought the land, you see, put overseers in place, to notify me if there was any change.’

‘What do you mean, change?’ Mr Ashmole interjects.

A pause.

‘I cannot tell the rest without you understanding the history of Helen and Elijah Blake. Dora, if you would?’

She hesitates. Edward leans forward in his seat.

‘If you do not feel able …’

He looks at her with such concerned affection that Dora must do her best not to cry.

‘No. I shall explain, as best I can. I was only a child, you understand. My memory of it is hazy at best.’

She takes a breath.

‘I grew up without any set home. There was the shop, of course, which my parents often left in the charge of my uncle, and I spent many a month there when they were inclined to return. But they could never stay in one place for long. They spent their lives exploring the Mediterranean, and I accompanied my parents whenever they went there. My mother was fascinated by the cultural history of her homeland. She was always reciting the Greek myths to me, always sketching them on scraps of paper she kept in her pockets. It was she who taught me how to draw.’ Dora smiles, wistful. ‘It was during a trip to Naples that we met Sir William.’