“We’re still piecing the details together.”
“What about your timeline here in London? Where are you staying?”
“That’s not relevant,” I said.
Caulfield’s pen stopped. He looked at me, and something shifted behind his eyes. He was now officially aware he wasn’t only marveling at a piece of history with a pretty woman. He was dealing with me, too. “Of course. I apologize. Occupational habit. When I’m researching provenance, I like to learn as much as I can.” He stashed the pen. “Why don’t we schedule a follow-up appointment? I’m available anytime tomorrow or the day after.”
“We’ll be in touch,” I said.
But Grace said over me, “Tomorrow works.”
“Wonderful. Shall we say ten o’clock?” He slid his things back into his satchel when Grace nodded to him. “Before I go, would you mind if I took a few photographs? For my records.”
“Of course,” she said.
Caulfield took his phone off its stand and snapped several shots of the egg from different angles, including a few of the open yolk with the hen visible inside. “This really is extraordinary, Ms. Laurent. I appreciate you bringing it to me.”
What he meant was: I appreciate you bringing me a healthy broker’s fee.
He stood, shook Grace’s hand, then mine. “I look forward to tomorrow.”
I watched him cross the pub toward the door. He walked quickly, didn’t look at anyone as he went. Just before he stepped outside, he paused and glanced out the window—a quick look, barely a second. The street was busy with what appeared to be a standard lunchtime crowd of tourists taking photos of the scenery, office workers eating on the go, and people with their faces glued to their phones.
Nothing overtly wrong. But Caulfield had walked so fast through the pub that the stop before leaving stood out. No one did things like that without a reason.
I shifted so I could see him as the glass-paned door closed behind him. He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped briefly, pocketed it, and was gone.
“Oh my god, Garrett!” Grace practically squealed, her smile beaming. “Do you think it went well? I think it went well. He seemed genuinely excited. Did you see his face when he opened the egg?”
“I saw it.” I sat on the edge of the booth seat, keeping an eye on the door.
“So? What do you think? He thinks it’s real, doesn’t he? Oh my god, Didi had a real”—she clamped her lips shut, then whispered—“Fabergé egg!”
What did I think? I thought he’d wanted to ask too many questions that had nothing to do with authentication. I thought his interest in our timeline and location was a red flag. I thought the way he’d glanced out that window before leaving suggested he was looking for someone. “I think we should be careful.”
Her smile dimmed. “You think that about everything.”
“That’s why you’re still breathing.”
“Garrett,” she sighed. “He’s a respected expert. Samantha vouched for him and so did your friend Jean.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t qualified.”
“So what’s the problem?”
The problem was instinct. The problem was decades of learning to read people in situations where a wrong read got you killed. Jean and Samantha had vouched for Caulfield as an expert, not for him as a person. And I wasn’t jumping to the conclusion I could trust him yet. Fuck, I hadn’t even jumped to the conclusion I could trustGraceyet, even though she hadn’t given me any reason not to. “There’s no problem. I’m cautious.”
I signaled for the check. Grace was quiet while I paid, her excitement visibly shifting into something more like impatience.
Outside, the afternoon sun had broken through the clouds. London stretched around us, all old stone and new glass, red buses and black cabs, with people flowing all around. I wore the travel pack with the egg inside, keeping one eye on Grace and the other on the rest of the world.
She took a deep breath and smiled again, as though breath was all it required. “Okay. So. The Tower of London next?”
“Not yet.”
“Yet? When? You said?—”
“I said if the meeting went well, and I felt it was safe.”
