Harold tipped his head with a polite smile.
“Of course,” he said. “But I confess, I do sometimes envy those with the leisure to examine such sites without interruption.”
Marcus joined her side, his posture deceptively relaxed. His eyes, however, tracked every word.
“Interruptions serve their purpose,” he said. “They remind us that history was never meant to be hoarded.”
Harold’s expression flickered before he let out a short laugh.
“Quite right,” he said. “Though it could be argued that those of us with prized collections such as yours are themselves guilty of such hoarding.”
Marcus stiffened, and Catherine’s hand came instinctively to rest upon his back. At her touch, he eased, sending her a glance of quiet gratitude. She did not catch his reply to Harold, for Sophia had called to her, and she stepped away to assist.
Kneeling beside the worn outline of a threshold, she traced its edge with careful fingertips. Glancing up, she spied Edmund beyond the main group, speaking in low tones with Alexander. His posture was rigid, and even from a distance, Catherine could see that his expression had hardened into grim focus.
She straightened. The sun had risen fully now, leaving long lines of sunlight across the ancient stonework. Shadows pooled in the recesses between foundation blocks, and the wind stirred the grass with a sound that was not quite soothing. She had not mentioned it to Marcus, as he was already terribly disturbed by the missing ring.
However, she could not help questioning the perfect timing of an investigator of artefact theft-related crimes being a guest in their home on the very day one of their own precious pieces had gone missing. What if Edmund was the one to be doubted? His documentation had seemed legitimate enough. But what if it was not?
Chapter Sixteen
The sun had risen clear, and by midmorning, the ruins behind Penwood Estate were filled with activity. James crouched beside Eleanor over a patch of ground lined with fragments, gesturing with excitement.
“This one matches the rim on the vessel from Dorset,” he said.
Eleanor’s brow wrinkled as she studied where he was pointing.
“But the clay content is entirely different,” she said. “Which suggests local production mimicking imported forms. That alters our understanding of regional trade.”
James nodded.
“Precisely,” he said. “We need to revise the typology.”
Charles stood several paces away with Sophia, the two of them cataloguing markings on tile fragments and making tidy notes in matching journals. Their movements were quick, spare, and familiar.
“This one has definite indications of military storage,” he said. “See the scoring pattern?”
Sophia nodded.
“Supply cache, I should think,” she said. “Mid-second century, judging from the glaze.”
Charles nodded.
“I agree,” he said.
Nearby, Henry knelt in the grass with Beatrice and William, who were listening intently as he described the context of a previous excavation near St. Bartholomew’s.
“It was not the size of the site that mattered,” he said. “It was the unusual grouping of burial vessels. I would be pleased to show my notes.”
William beamed and nodded.
“I would like that very much,” he said.
Beatrice held up her head with intrigue.
“So would I,” she said. “Most clergymen I meet lack both curiosity and precision.”
Henry’s cheeks turned a pale shade of pink as he lowered his chin.
