“Better your nose than your skull. Come away.”
“I can fine by way out. Will you have a look at dem? Only for a moment to gib your opinion, den we snall be on our way.”
“I could tell almost nothing in a moment. I would need to look at them in proper light with my glass to tell you anything of meaning.”
“All I want to know is where dey came fwom and what dey might be worf. One minute, Dawcy? Den I will buy you an eggsellent dinner at de inn an we will be on the road back to London in de morning.”
I sighed. “Very well. Meet me round the back with the horses. You say there are four vases?”
“Yes, about twelf inches high. Vewy old—do be caweful with dem.”
“Of course.” I waited till Bingley had seen himself safely out and was no longer in sight. Dripping blood on the front steps of the house could prove nearly as awkward as the upstairs sitting room.
“Now, then,” I muttered to myself. “Where were these vases?”
Apparently, the housekeeper had at least begun to do her work because the furnishings were in various stages of cleaning. The drapes that would normally protect them from dust were mostly removed in the drawing room, at least. The room held a fair collection of paintings and so on. None too rare or costly, but respectable, nonetheless. The paintings seemed to have been selected and hung in their places based on the color scheme rather than any great depth of taste or understanding. I scanned the room lightly and found the set of vases I sought gracing the mantel.
They were very much in the classical style of Amphora pottery, with a narrow foot, a voluptuous body, and a slim gullet, graced with twin handles in the shapes of feathers or braids or simple round columns. Each was a burnished clay tone with Attic black detail and edging that resembled the Parthenon or animal processions or other such glories. The central figures included athletes, chariot horses, Dionysius at the grain harvest, and warriors with their swords. One even appeared to be Hercules battling the Hydra. The detail was exquisite. Altogether, they were a striking collection.
Gently, I lifted the nearest from its perch to inspect it. Sixth century, I should think. The artistic peculiarities of the era were all in place. Minimal evidence of restoration, though I could clearly see one place where a crack had been mended. To be expected for something of this age. It added to the value if the repair was nearly as old as the vase. The paint near the handle was worn, as many were. I scratched it lightly with my thumbnail and found the ancient paint was smoother than it appeared to be. That was interesting.
I picked up a second piece and was instantly struck by its weight. It was finely balanced, to be sure, but heavier than my memory informed me it ought to be. Curious! But then, it had been some years since I had studied Amphora pottery. My memory could have been imperfect.
I was reaching for a third vase when I heard the front door of the house open. Surely, that was Bingley, admitted at last by someone who kept the grounds. I heard a man speaking in the hall.
“This way, Lizzy. I believe the vases are in the drawing room.”
My hand froze on the vase, and my lungs desisted from their employment. That was not Bingley, but two strangers, and they were coming to examine the very things in my hand. And I looked like a thief.
I cast about for some inspiration. I could simply confront them. I was doing nothing wrong. Well... hardly. It did look rather suspect. And Bingley had wished to keep his curiosity to himself until he had reasons to say something, so my presence could prove problematic for him.
A lady’s voice echoed in the hall now. Botheration! I had no wish to terrify a lady! I could slip into the next room, but there was no time. The footsteps in the hall were coming closer by the heartbeat.
Not knowing what else to do, I ducked behind the fireplace screen, tucked my knees to my chest, and waited for them to leave.
Five
Elizabeth
“Whatdoyoumakeof them?” my uncle asked. “Are they worth writing up in the lease paperwork?”
The vases were, without a doubt, my father’s handiwork. Useful for decorating, like all the other replicas that graced fine homes. But Papa’s vases did not look like replicas, and they had fooled some of the best “experts” in London—a significant source of delight for him. Certainly, he did not sell them for “replica” prices.
If it should be discovered later where Rumfield acquired them, and they were fake artifacts, it would be disastrous. Our only hope was that no one thought about them too much, or looked at them too closely. My mouth was dry, but I tried to formulate the most educated-sounding answer I could. My voice wobbled. “I am sure Papa would advise you to do so. They are very… ahem… very old.”
“Are they? I’ve no eye for such things.”
“Oh, indeed, uncle.” I was a terrible liar. I hated doing it, and I never did, save when I was trying to keep my father from disgracing himself. I raised the nearest vase and tried to force my fingers to stop trembling. “You see this one here. It is an image of the ancient god of wine and merriment. Quite a common motif of the fifth or sixth century, Papa tells me. I should think this vase alone would be worth…” I thought quickly. “T-twenty pounds.”
“Well, that is not so bad. I feared something on the order of several hundred, from the look of it.”
“But I am no expert,” I answered jerkily. “Everything depends on its condition, of course. It could be worth many hundreds to the right collector. I am certain Uncle Gardiner could give his opinion if you wanted it.”
Uncle Philips pursed his lips. “No, that will do, Lizzy. No one is trying to sell these artifacts. I only want to know how they ought to be managed for the lease. If you say they are worth noting, that is satisfactory for me. I will make the necessary amendments.”
I let go the breath that was threatening to make me dizzy. I had averted the crisis. No one was profiting from my falsehood, and no one ought to lose by it. I was merely representing Rumfield’s property as he no doubt believed it to be, and this Bingley person could pack them away for safekeeping if he had rowdy children who might break them.
“Only one more thing,” Uncle Philips said. “I was to look in on a painting upstairs and verify that it is still here. Rumfield claims he left it, but it was not noted before. Care to come with me?”
