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“Very well.” Stockton dipped his head.
Simon went down to the entrance hall and approached Mr. Johnson, the man who greeted visitors and helped them with tickets and information. A few questions provided Simon with what he wanted to know. The museum was still seeing an increase in visitors despite the loss of the coin. Few people asked about it. Most were interested in the location of the Oak Island exhibit along with the Inca one. The Egyptian display was third at the moment.
Mr. Johnson seemed delighted by the increase in guests as it made his job more enjoyable. He was reserved in his response to Simon’s question about Stockton. Though he’d said nothing that suggested a problem, neither did he offer a glowing endorsement of the director.
Simon walked through the exhibits on the lower floor, pausing to listen to visitors’ comments as they viewed various displays. He wanted to make a few updates on some and made mental notes about them. Nothing needed to be done immediately, but he didn’t want to let it go overlong.
The more he walked through the museum, the more he realized needed to be done. Cobwebs had taken over a corner of the Egyptian area. Several small statues were laying on their sides in a locked display case in the Incan exhibit. Why weren’t those issues being noted and addressed?
Emerson was at his post, sharing information with visitors. He nodded at Simon with a smile. If Emerson and the other employees didn’t have time to tidy the exhibits, someone should be hired to do so.
Two employees were on each floor to assist visitors. Only one was free, so Simon spoke with him at length. The man said he made certain to walk through the exhibits on his side of the floor as often as possible but hadn’t seen anything amiss.
“Except for the clay pot, of course,” the man added.
“Clay pot?”
“It’s been missing for at least a week now. I mentioned it to Mr. Stockton, but he said it was being cleaned.”
“I see. Thank you.” Simon cursed as he walked away. He didn’t think for a moment that the pot was being cleaned. Were things slowly disappearing from the museum? Why hadn’t Stockton mentioned the clay pot when he’d provided the recent inventory?
He returned to his office, annoyed to find Stockton absent. Just when he’d intended to have a few words with the man, he disappeared. Simon reached in his pocket for the key to his office, only to have the door open beneath his hand. He blinked in surprise, certain he’d locked it when he’d left. Hadn’t he? While he remembered thinking of doing it, he couldn’t say for sure if he had.
He slowly pushed open the door, half expecting to find Stockton searching his desk. But the room stood empty. Once again, Simon wondered if he was becoming so forgetful that he couldn’t be trusted with the simplest task. The thought was very unsettling.
*
“Flowers for you,Miss Norah,” Davies, the butler, announced the following morning as he entered the drawing room where Norah and Lena were doing some needlework.
“How lovely,” Lena said as she looked up from the intricate pattern she was stitching for a pillowtop. “Those look like spring.”
The sight of the bouquet of roses and lilies caused Norah’s stomach to fall. Flowers meant a gentleman had sent them. The only person whose name she’d be excited to see on the card was Simon’s. The thought of him thinking to do something such as that was almost laughable.
“Aren’t they pretty?” Lena frowned at Norah when she didn’t respond.
“Yes. Very much so.” With a sigh, Norah rose and gestured for Davies to set the vase on a nearby table. She couldn’t resist leaning close to draw in their fragrance. She should be more appreciative of them, but they were a sign of complications as far as she was concerned. With no small measure of trepidation, she lifted the card to read it, dismayed to see they were from Viscount Ludham of all people. “How annoying.”
“What is it?” Lena asked.
“Ludham sent them with an apology for interrupting my dance the other night.”
“That’s odd. Why send them now? If he felt that way, he should’ve sent them the following day.”
“Exactly. But why send them at all?”
“He must want to stay in your good graces,” Lena suggested.
“It’s too late.” She shared a look with her sister. “He was never in them.”
“Nor mine. He was sorely disappointed when Marbury and Ella announced their betrothal. I fear he’s still determined to marry one of us.”
Norah sank into her chair once again, glaring at the flowers. “How annoying that he thinks any of us will do. Is it because we are the duke’s granddaughters? Or because we look similar?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know the answer. I would venture to guess he doesn’t know it either.” She smoothed the stitches she’d made, then lifted the needle once again. “I certainly don’t intend to consider him as a suitor, do you?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Then who?” Lena raised her brows up and down suggestively. “Vanbridge?”
