Pandora(90)

The man remains unmoved. ‘I hope there is a point to this. Daylight will soon break. I have been up all night and my bed calls.’

Hezekiah raises a finger. ‘Twelve years pass in which the man waits for his chance to come again. And then, it does. He is finally reunited with the artefact. An artefact that is in perfect condition for its age. And by God, it is beautiful. Grecian carvings, intricately detailed. A pure work of ancient art, thousands of years old, brought to light once more. A living memory.’

A muscle quirks.

‘Can you imagine it?’ Hezekiah lets his voice lower, injects it with his soft, salesman’s tease. ‘A vase of such an age. Think of the historic value. Think how buyers will be competing for it. Think of the tragedy behind it, how buyers would feel knowing it was important enough to die for. A bidding war! The most aggressive bidding war the market has ever seen. Greater than anything seen at Christie’s. Wouldn’t that be a wondrous thing?’

As if in agreement a yell comes from the back of the tavern, followed by raucous laughter, the sound of breaking glass.

‘It must be worth thousands,’ Hezekiah whispers.

The trader says nothing, does nothing, except slowly twist the pencil in his hand, tipping it back and forth against his fingers. Left, right. Left, right. Oh, the bastard plays a hard game. Hezekiah’s eyes water. He rubs them, longs now, too, for his bed.

‘Thirty thousand pounds. At the very least.’

A tic, a twitch. Hezekiah’s confidence rises. He brings it home.

‘Forty per cent of the takings will go to you, of course.’

The man watches him for one long drawn-out moment, and Hezekiah is fearful he has overstepped himself, that it all sounds too improbable, too beyond the realms of reality. But then the trader cracks a smile, gifts him a gold tooth.

‘Well, Mr Blake.’ He opens the book once more, poises the pencil. ‘Let me see this artefact. If it is as you say, then it seems we have an accord.’



He will celebrate. It is only right.

As Hezekiah wends his way slowly, painfully home – past Long Acre, down through the Strand – he spies a shop that seems already to be awake. A single candle shines through the window and Hezekiah raps on the glass, his eye already on the handsome leather coin purse hanging from a hook on the wall behind the counter.

He is admitted, the purse wrapped in tissue paper, and Hezekiah is just thinking about his bed, a hearty breakfast, some gin to dull the pain in his leg and then (his stomach trilling with anticipation), a full day to bask in his longed-for rewards, when the clerk states his price.

‘Charge it to my account. Hezekiah Blake, of Blake’s Emporium.’

The clerk blinks at him. ‘Oh, no, sir,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid that is not possible.’

Hezekiah stares. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘No nonsense, sir. We won’t be offering credit any more, certainly not until your account is in order.’

‘In order?’

‘In order,’ the clerk repeats. ‘Cash only.’

He cannot fathom it. It is too early, he has had a trying night, he has had no sleep.

‘You have had my custom for years! All the shops along this stretch of road have had my custom, and none have complained as you have.’

‘You have taken, sir, many a ware, but you have not given back. Even if the taxes had not risen to prevent credit, your debts would have been called in. There has been no payment on your account for over six months.’

Hezekiah cannot help it. His anger comes upon him like a wave and before he knows it he is slamming his fist onto the glass counter; it shudders under his weight.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he breathes, quite unable to contain himself. ‘I am an esteemed trader! I run an antiquity shop! In fact, I am due very shortly to make a prestigious sale. A very prestigious sale. You will be paid in full then. In the meantime—’

‘In the meantime, sir,’ comes the reply, ‘you must wait. We have plenty of coin purses. This one will keep.’

It is unwarranted. Never before has this happened. But Hezekiah knows as he looks into the pointed face of the clerk that he will not win this argument, not today, and so he turns with as much disdain as he can muster (and as best he can on a bad leg), and leaves the shop without a backward glance.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN





Edward has not crossed the Thames since he has lived in London, not since the stagecoach brought him in when he was twelve years old. Even then, he did not go near the docks, did not see the squalor there, and when he passes an old man sleeping naked (is he sleeping?) against an empty barrel Edward wonders if what he suffered at the hands of Carrow was not so bad after all when compared to the circumstances in which some people are forced to live.

There is a mist over the river this morning. Edward covers his mouth at the stench of decay, not altogether sure if the mist is the stench. Can one see a smell?

Edward stops to find his bearings. When Coombe instructed him how to find his loft, that he must wade through mud to get to it, Edward thought he had been joking. Cast right, past the crates, he remembers the large man saying. Seeing them Edward continues on, is thankful this morning’s frost has gone some way to hardening the earth, but he keeps to the wooden boards – recently lain, it seems – that have been placed down on the ground.