Chapter Fourteen
The door to the library closed with a soft but final sound, the click of the latch striking Marcus like an insult. He did not speak. He merely stood before the alcove, his hands clasped rigidly behind his back, staring at the place where the Roman ring had once rested.
The absence was offensive in its quietness. No broken glass. No disturbance to betray the crime. Just a hollow gap, subtle and sickening.
He drew a breath through his nose. The air held nothing but the familiar scent of books and dust and old velvet, and still it felt somehow altered.
“You are certain it was not moved?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
His wife nodded gravely.
“Quite certain,” Catherine said beside him. Her voice was steady, though he could see the tension in her frame, the paleness in her face.
She stepped forward, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of the shelf where the ring had been displayed. “It was the forty-seventh entry. Gold, Roman, first or second century. Carnelian intaglio. Reclining hound. The label remains. The piece is gone.”
Marcus exhaled slowly. He had catalogued the ring himself when he acquired it.
It had belonged to a private collector in Bath who believed it to be of little scholarly interest. Marcus knew better.
The artistry of the carving, the wear patterns consistent with military burial, the provenance confirmed weeks later.
It had been one of the collection’s most distinctive treasures.
Now it was gone.
He turned from the display, his jaw set.
“And the adjacent pieces?” he asked as dread built within him.
Catherine nodded again, turning his stomach to ice.
“Subtly adjusted,” she said. “Enough to disguise the absence. But I know the spacing. I know what I placed where.”
Of course she does, he thought, chiding himself. Her records are immaculate. I watched her compose the master ledger by candlelight, her handwriting precise, her columns exact. There could be no mistake. How could I dare to question her, however benign the doubt?
Marcus struggled to find a reply, but his thoughts were soon disrupted. Footsteps approached, brisk but quiet. Marcus turned as Alexander appeared in the doorway with Rosalind just behind him. At the sight of Marcus’s rigid posture and Catherine’s stricken expression, Alexander paused.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “But I could not help noticing Catherine’s urgency. Has something occurred?”
Marcus glanced at Catherine. She gave a single nod.
“Close the door, if you please,” Marcus said.
Rosalind did so at once, turning immediately toward Marcus and Catherine with earnest interest in her features.
“You are both to swear absolute discretion,” Marcus said without preamble. “What I am about to say must go no further than this room.”
Alexander stepped closer, his expression darkening.
“You have my word,” he said with a solemn nod.
Rosalind stepped forward, putting a gentle hand on Alexander’s shoulder.
“And mine,” she said softly.
Marcus nodded once. If he could not trust his dearest friend and his cousin-in-law, there was no one in the world he could trust. None other than Catherine, he silently amended, barely acknowledging the thought.
“A piece has been stolen,” he said. “From this room. From my private collection.”
There was a stunned pause. Alexander’s brows drew together.
“Stolen?” he asked, his incredulity immediate and genuine. “When? How?”
Marcus turned to his wife, meeting her eyes with a slight inclination of his head.
“Sometime between last evening and this afternoon,” she said. “The ring was present when I verified the inventory after the morning presentations.”
Rosalind’s eyes widened.
“And you are certain it was not misplaced?” she asked.
Marcus glanced at Catherine, whose lip began to tremble.
“Yes,” he said. “The piece had no reason to be moved. It was not part of the rotating table set. It remained in that alcove throughout the exhibition period. Its absence has been disguised, not explained.”
Alexander exhaled slowly, folding his arms.
“Then someone among us is no scholar,” he said.
Marcus looked back at the empty shelf.
“No,” he said. “They are something else entirely.”
Catherine straightened, her composure rallying.
“What shall we do?” she asked.
Marcus turned back to the group, his mind already calculating the implications.
“We must speak to no one else,” he said. “Not yet. If the culprit suspects discovery, they may conceal the evidence or attempt flight. We shall keep our suspicions close. Quiet observation may reveal more than confrontation.”
Alexander nodded.
“We will help,” he said.
Marcus nodded, noting the way Alexander stood a little too close to Rosalind and his fingers flexed idly toward her hand, as if longing to grasp it.
It was a warm sentiment he felt between the two of them.
But right then, duty was more pressing than any potential budding relationship between the pair to Marcus.
Rosalind stepped forward.
“Might it be one of the guests who came only for the day?” she asked.
Marcus shook his head.
“Unlikely. Those who came only for the day were admitted solely to the presentations. They were not permitted among the exhibits or into the catalogue rooms. Only the resident scholars and their companions had such access.”
Catherine’s lips tightened.
“Then the pool of suspects is small,” she said, her disappointment evident as she spoke.
Too small, he thought coldly. These were people he had trusted.
He had welcomed them into his home and offered the hospitality of his life’s work.
To learn that one of them had so readily betrayed his trust and eagerness to share scholastic pursuits among peers filled him with an anger that was only rivalled by the sadness he felt.
How could such esteemed colleagues do something so terrible?
“I will review the attendance logs and catalogue access,” he said. “Every participant signed the examination sheets. We shall cross-reference observations.”
Alexander glanced toward the door.
“Shall we carry on as though nothing were amiss?” he asked.
Marcus sighed and nodded.
“We must,” he said. “At least until we know more. I know it will not be easy—for it is hard to conceal such disquiet—but if we are to unmask the culprit, we must give no sign that anything has been observed.”
Catherine looked up at him, her eyes steady.
“We will succeed in keeping this quiet,” she said with a confidence that gave Marcus a small bit of comfort. “And we will find the missing piece.”
Marcus gave a short nod, though he felt no such certainty. All he knew was that something sacred had been violated. And he would not rest until the transgression had been answered.
He remained by the display case, his posture unyielding, though his arms now hung loose at his sides. The tension had not left him. It merely pressed inward, heavy and hollow. He turned toward Catherine, who sat with one hand still resting on the table, her expression grave but steady.
Rosalind and Alexander exchanged worried glances, neither speaking, but both waiting.
A knock struck the library door, abrupt and sharp.
Marcus lifted his head, as did everyone else in the room.
No one spoke as they exchanged pale-faced glances.
Whoever was on the other side of the door was not supposed to know what was transpiring.
Yet without the time to compose themselves, Marcus knew it would be as plain as snow in wintertime in their expressions.
Before anyone could answer the knock, Edmund entered.
The door swung open with unnecessary force, then closed just as abruptly behind him.
His hair was dishevelled, his collar uneven, and his waistcoat bore a crease as though he had dressed in haste.
He removed his spectacles and polished them against the edge of his coat, though his hands trembled visibly.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, his voice pitched low. “I must speak with you—privately.”
Marcus looked around the table. Catherine had already risen, her countenance sharpened with wary attention. Yet Marcus raised a hand, gently but decisively bidding her remain. She quickly complied, though her eyes stayed fixed upon Edmund.
“Catherine is my wife,” he said flatly. “What concerns me under this roof concerns her also.”
Edmund hesitated for a moment. Marcus silently gestured for Alexander and Rosalind to leave, which they did without remark. Only once the door closed behind them did he speak again.
“Very well,” he said. He reached inside his coat and withdrew a leather folder. He opened it with care, then passed the contents to Marcus. “This is my official identification.”
Marcus examined the papers. The seal was unmistakable, the signature equally so. Edmund watched his reaction; his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“You are not merely an academic,” Marcus said with surprise.
Edmund shook his head.
“No,” he said. “And I regret the concealment, though I trust you will permit me to explain.”
Marcus nodded.
“Go on,” he said, trying to keep the terseness out of his words.
Clearing his throat, Edmund steadied himself.
“I am seconded to an investigative branch operating under the Home Office,” he said. “For some months, I have pursued an operation that preys upon private collections of antiquities—most often those lent or exposed during scholarly gatherings.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Criminals disguised as scholars?” he asked.
Edmund nodded solemnly.
“Some are scholars,” Edmund said quietly.
“At least in appearance. Others pose as assistants or use false credentials. Their methods are precise, their objectives singular. They gain access to valuable collections, evaluate targets during scholarly review, then replace individual items with expert forgeries.”
Marcus sat down slowly. How odd that such a man should be in our midst at precisely the same time an item from my collection goes missing, he thought, not without some suspicion.
“And you believe that has—that is, that it will happen here?” he asked.
Edmund frowned.
“Has something occurred?” he asked, suddenly more passionate and attentive than Marcus had seen him yet.
Marcus glanced at Catherine. They held gazes for a moment before nodding in unison. Briefly, Marcus summarised what they knew of the missing Roman piece. Edmund listened, his expression growing graver with each word Marcus spoke.
“I regret to tell you that it fits the pattern exactly,” he said, looking from Marcus to Catherine. “Highly portable, easily replaced, and valuable enough to fetch attention on the black market. I had hoped to complete my investigation before any damage was done, but I was mistaken.”
Marcus folded his arms. Was it possible that the timing of both the investigation and the theft was a coincidence? Or had he just revealed their knowledge of the missing piece to the perpetrator after all?
“Who could it be?” he asked, almost demanding.
Edmund’s brow furrowed. He did not answer immediately.
“I cannot name suspects without further evidence,” he said.
“There are many here who I believe plausible culprits. Many possess the requisite knowledge. Some present documentation of meticulous appearance, though it is ever derived at second hand. I have observed closely, but as yet nothing has proved conclusive.”
Marcus nodded as understanding struck him at last. The way Edmund watched Harold so closely and lingered nearby whenever Harold was moving about rooms must have been because he considered him a suspect.
He did not want to press the man to divulge any sensitive information before due time.
However, it was his home, and something had already gone missing. Did he not have the right to know?
Catherine leaned forward.
“You knew something was amiss when you arrived,” she said, not needing to ask the question. “That is why you hovered near the library so often, and why you asked specific questions about provenance and documentation methods.”
Edmund nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.
“Yes,” he said. “I have been tracing this network for over a year. Several thefts have occurred under identical circumstances. The true pieces are removed, clever facsimiles set in their stead, and the deception often goes unnoticed until collections are re-examined months later.”
Marcus’s hand closed over the edge of the desk.
“And how long do we have before such a loss is beyond recovery?” he asked.
Edmund shook his head.
“That depends,” he said. “If we act swiftly, we may still recover the stolen item. I have a contact in London who has been following certain figures. The ring may be passed along in the next few days if not intercepted.”
Marcus exchanged a look with Catherine.
“You have someone in mind,” he said.
Edmund’s shoulders fell slightly.
“I do,” he said. “In truth, more than one. But I have not proof enough to accuse, and should they suspect discovery, they would vanish before we could act. Such people are well practised in escape.”
Marcus took a deep breath.
“What do you propose we do?” he asked.
Edmund looked at Catherine, then went back to Marcus.
“We must proceed with care,” he said. “Access to the collection must be curtailed at once—no further unsupervised hours with the artefacts. Speak of the missing ring to no one, not yet. Let me work quietly. If fortune favours, I shall secure the evidence required for a formal charge.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“You will have my full cooperation,” he said.
Catherine spoke next.
“And mine,” she said solemnly.
Edmund closed the leather folder and replaced it in his coat.
“Then I must set to work,” he said. “And once again, I beg pardon for the deception. But it was necessary. I never intended your gathering to suffer harm.”
Marcus shook his head, inclining slightly to the man he now understood to be a covert investigator.
“There is no need for apology,” he replied quietly. “I comprehend the necessity of secrecy. Come—let us consider what may be done to unmask the culprit.”