Chapter Fifteen
Marcus stood near the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantel, the other pressed flat against the small of his back.
The fire had been allowed to dwindle, casting little warmth, but he barely noticed.
His mind ran through every possibility Edmund had laid before them.
Criminals masquerading as scholars, gathering at events such as his for no other purpose than theft.
Not one isolated act, but a calculated campaign. He exhaled slowly.
Behind him, Catherine worked with quiet focus.
The desk had become a battlefield of parchment and ink, every sheet marked with notations, annotations, and the urgent hand of late-night purpose.
She reached for another page, aligning it with the stack she had already arranged with methodical precision.
It was a silent declaration of intent and order, even in crisis.
Marcus turned and studied her in the dim lamplight. Her face was composed, though fatigue clung to her features. The lines of concentration between her brows had deepened as she wrote, sorted, and reassembled the evidence into something they might yet decipher.
“I do not know how you can work so steadily with such madness about us,” he said.
She looked up, her expression calm, apart from fatigue and concern in her eyes.
“Because it must be done,” she said. “We cannot allow this to go unchallenged.”
He nodded, crossing to her side. Their shoulders nearly touched as they leaned over the same document. She reached across him to retrieve a separate sheet, her shoulder brushing against his sleeve. The contact was brief, but his breath caught.
She pulled back at once and continued with her task, though he saw the slight tremor in her hand.
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured.
Marcus shook his head at once.
“There is nothing to pardon,” he said quickly.
Catherine blushed, but she merely nodded.
The moment passed yet lingered. Marcus found himself watching the careful movements of her hands, the order she brought to chaos.
He recognised her system of categorising evidence by subject, correlating dates, and tracking inconsistencies in guest behaviour and movement.
It was not unlike his own method of study.
But where his thoughts often tangled in urgency, hers brought clarity.
She glanced up and caught his gaze. Her cheeks coloured, and she lowered her eyes again.
“You have devised a remarkably efficient structure,” he said.
Catherine nodded, as if the explanation was plain.
“It seemed the only way forward,” she said.
He moved to sit across from her, picking up one of Edmund’s notes, which he had ultimately left with them. He scanned the page, then another.
“This account here,” he said, tapping the paper. “The man in Dover who hosted a private showing of his antiquities. A brooch vanished under similar circumstances.”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I cross-referenced that with the name listed at the bottom. It is Harold’s former colleague at Cambridge. He was among the guests.”
Marcus sat back.
“It may yet be coincidence,” he said—though inwardly he struggled to believe anything mere chance at present.
“Perhaps. But if that colleague left Cambridge under questionable circumstances…” she began.
Marcus understood immediately.
“And now reappears in connection with Harold, whose own history is curiously elusive,” he said, finishing her thought.
She nodded once.
“Then we have something more than conjecture,” she said.
He stared at her across the desk.
“You astonish me with your shrewd, composed logic,” he said.
She smiled faintly.
“That is most kind of you to say,” she said.
Marcus shook his head slowly.
“It is not kindness,” he said. “It is simple fact.”
Catherine flushed again, but this time, her gaze did not linger. She went back to her work, and Marcus turned his attention back to his own.
They worked for another hour, papers passing between them in silence except for the scratch of quill on parchment and the occasional murmur of realisation.
As the clock on the mantel struck the half-hour, Catherine rubbed her temples.
“We should pause,” Marcus said; deep concern for his wife’s well-being suddenly sprouting.
“No,” she said. “This is too important.”
He looked at her, his mind briefly forgetting forgery and criminal networks. He saw only the woman before him, drawn with purpose and resolve, undiminished by the exhaustion that was slowly setting in.
“Are you certain?” he asked. “I can send for tea and cakes—or perhaps biscuits and a little wine.”
His wife shook her head with a soft smile.
“I am certain,” she said. “There will be time enough for that when we have finished for the night.”
Marcus smiled despite his frustration at the situation at hand and his concern for her.
“I do not know what I would have done without support such as yours,” he said.
She met his eyes again. Her gaze was steady as ever, but there was also something else there that looked a little like the way he was beginning to feel around her. He was so lost in analysing the look in her eyes that he almost missed her speaking.
“You would have done as you always do,” she said. “Persevered.”
He shook his head.
“Not like this,” he said. “Not with such clarity. You see patterns where others see only confusion. You bring order when the rest of us bring speculation. When we first met, I sought balance and steadiness for my home, for myself. What I have found is equal to my own right hand.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. Her eyes dropped to the document between them, and she smoothed the edge of the parchment with great care.
“You speak as though it were heroism,” she said.
Marcus shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said, enthralled with how remarkable she was and how fortunate he was to have her with him. “It is something rarer.”
She did not look up, and Marcus feared he had spoken too boldly. The notion was seemingly confirmed when she finally did reply.
“We must decide how much to share,” she said. “It will not be long before our guests start to notice that the atmosphere has shifted. We must figure out something to tell.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“Yes,” he said, “and to whom we shall tell it.”
Catherine frowned thoughtfully.
“I suppose we could always plead a reception of bad news,” she said. “It is not entirely false, as I should say this is indeed terrible news. And it would be something we could tell everyone, until we discern who might be trustworthy.”
Marcus stared at his bride, his awe returning anew. Was there no issue she could not solve?
“I think that is a wonderful idea,” he said. “Why do we not go have a meal and rest for the evening. There will be time to continue our investigation after some rest tomorrow.
Catherine nodded, slowly rising from her seat.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said.
She looked at him as if she would speak again, but instead turned and gathered the compiled documents into a stack. They moved toward the door together. But as she reached for the handle, she paused.
“Marcus,” she said.
He turned to her.
“Yes?” he asked.
Her expression was unreadable.
“Nothing,” she said after a pause. “Nothing except… thank you.”
He did not reply. Part of him thought he did not need to. Instead, he gave her a slow nod of acknowledgement as he opened the door for her, stepping aside. She passed through it, and he followed, both of them stepping into a house that now held more questions than answers.
***
The following morning, the breakfast room brimmed with the quiet clatter of porcelain and the low hum of intellectual discourse.
Catherine moved between the sideboard and the table with a composed smile, observing the assembled guests as they engaged in conversation.
The presentations of the previous day had left the group invigorated, and the morning air carried with it a certain liveliness that masked the gravity of what only a few among them now knew.
Harold sat near the window, his manner untroubled and affable as always.
He poured himself a second cup of coffee while listening to William’s detailed account of several Roman military artefacts catalogued the day before.
William, unaware of any suspicion, gestured with enthusiastic precision, describing the unique curvature of a sword hilt and the apparent origin of its metallurgy.
“Fascinating,” Harold said. “I have had the good fortune to study similar examples in a number of private collections across the country. One begins to develop a sense, after a time, for which pieces are worth special attention.”
Catherine, seated beside Marcus and across from Alexander, lifted her teacup but did not drink. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Marcus, who had gone still at Harold’s comment.
The implication was unmistakable. Harold’s familiarity did not stem merely from study. It was the knowledge of a man who assessed pieces not as history, but as assets. But was it a knowledge he used merely due to a personal opinion, or was it part of a darker design in a chain of thefts?
“What do you look for?” William asked, genuinely curious. “I find the dating of weaponry among the most elusive of tasks.”
Harold smiled over his cup.
“Portability,” he said. “Durability. Rarity. One must consider which items are likely to remain intact when removed from their original settings and which are most attractive to prospective buyers. Naturally, that sort of assessment is purely theoretical.”
The glance he cast toward Catherine was brief but knowing. She felt the faintest prickle at the base of her neck.
Alexander leaned closer, speaking softly.
“That did not sound theoretical,” he said.
Marcus nodded once.
“No,” he said. “It sounded like a merchant’s offer.”
Catherine shook her head so slightly that only those on either side of her noticed.
“Or a challenge,” she murmured.
She set down her cup. Her thoughts raced. If Harold was growing confident enough to speak so openly, then he no longer feared exposure. Or worse, he believed any suspicion was too late to matter.
She rose smoothly from her chair.
“The weather is most obliging this morning,” she said, forcing as much cheer and nonchalance into her words as she could muster.
“Might I suggest we examine the ruins on the eastern grounds before the sun climbs too high? The stones are most evocative in the morning light, and the view is especially fine this time of year.”
The suggestion met with quick enthusiasm.
James declared he had not yet had a proper look at the site, and Sophia brightened at the prospect of studying the layout in situ.
Even Charles, who rarely indulged in anything not directly related to written record, nodded his approval with eager eyes.
Edmund said nothing, but Catherine caught the look of sharp calculation in his eyes.
Within the hour, the group made their way across the gently sloping lawn toward the low remains of the Roman foundations.
Trees framed the site to the north and east, while open fields rolled away in the opposite direction.
Tables had already been set under a canvas awning nearby, offering cool lemonade and small pastries.
The atmosphere was cheerful, even festive, though Catherine never allowed her attention to stray far from Harold.
He walked with Sophia at first, charming her with anecdotes about Roman roads and the tragic misidentification of early Saxon brooches.
But as the party reached the edge of the stonework, he drifted toward the outer boundary, his gaze sweeping the area not with the interest of a scholar, but the alertness of a man intently cataloguing something.
Catherine knew they still did not have enough proof to focus so much suspicion on him. But with everything they now knew, it was difficult to attribute everything that had plagued her about the man to anything else.
“Remarkably well-preserved,” Harold said. He spoke just loudly enough for several to hear. “One could work here quite undisturbed, I imagine. No foot traffic, no idle passersby. It would be quite the place for uninterrupted excavation.”
Catherine turned toward him, the breeze catching the edge of her shawl.
“Indeed,” she said. “Though we have always found the value lies in collaborative effort, rather than isolated study.”
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?