Chapter Forty-Three
Evelyn didn’t like being told what to do. And she really didn’t like it when George Rook was doing the telling.
‘Your typewritten labels are all very charming, but how about we usher in the new era with some more professional-looking ones?’ he suggested, setting a printer down on her desk.
Evelyn gave a sniff and informed him that she’d done her best with the tools at her disposal.
Then George reminded her that the council’s final deadline was only five weeks away.
‘What if they pay you another visit? First impressions count.’
‘Fine,’ she replied and set off to see if the newsagents sold white card for George’s printer. All the way there she fumed. Since when was George Rook with his moth-eaten Barbour jacket and his baggy corduroy trousers an expert on making a good impression?
But once inside the shop, she didn’t make it to the stationery section because there on the counter were the day’s newspapers.
On the front page of The Daily Telegraph she read the headline: Priceless relics returned to British Museum. Cache of rare artefacts abandoned outside museum leaves experts baffled.
Wordlessly, she picked up a paper. This left two remaining on the counter and, in a panic, she snatched those up too, anxious no one else should see the headline. She paid Jacob and, with effort, folded all three newspapers under her arm.
‘Interesting story,’ Jacob remarked, tweaking his fledgling moustache like some hipster Poirot.
‘What?’
‘In the newspaper.’
She opened the wodge of Telegraphs and surveyed the back page. ‘I see nothing untoward,’ she said and walked briskly out of the door.
That Jacob was too sharp for his own good, she thought as she scurried back to the safety of the museum.
‘George,’ she hissed, locking the door behind her. ‘The deed is done.’
She smoothed one of the newspapers out on her desk and together they pored over it.
The story continued on page three, which showed a photograph of a baffled-looking curator looking down at several items laid out on a pristine white cloth.
George got out his magnifying loupe to study it in more detail.
‘Oh, please,’ said Evelyn irritably. ‘Do you need to be so pretentious?’
‘Actually, it’s quite useful,’ George said and passed it to her. Annoyingly, he was right, because with the help of his magnifying glass she could make out an ancient Egyptian funerary urn, a porcelain vase and several Roman coins.
The story was short on facts, but told them all they needed to know.
In the early hours of Tuesday morning, a delivery driver double-parked outside the British Museum and unloaded several boxes onto the pavement. Barry Hotwell, 22, told detectives he believed he was dropping off cleaning supplies.
His delivery unwittingly triggered a security alert, but when the boxes were opened in a controlled environment, officers found they contained ancient artefacts from around the globe.
‘This is a substantial and diverse collection,’ said Sir Nicholas Alaric, Director of the museum.
‘We have a promising lead regarding the source and an investigation is ongoing.’
‘Promising lead indeed,’ Evelyn spluttered. ‘We gave them a letter spelling it out.’
It was a relief that no suspicion had fallen on the delivery driver and she guessed that, by now, the police would have discovered that Frances Parfait was not able to assist them with any enquiries.
It appeared that Samuel had done his job well and Evelyn dared to let the relief seep in.
‘It’s done,’ she laughed. ‘That stuff is out of my life.’
‘It is. And now it’s time for a fresh start for you and your museum,’ George said.
‘If they let us stay,’ she cautioned.
‘But they must. The museum is the best it’s ever been and Della is getting her act together next door. This could be the start of something great.’ He reached out and placed a hand lightly on hers. ‘See it as a second chance, Evelyn. You deserve it.’
She looked down, trying not to notice how close they were standing and the way George’s eyes hadn’t left her face. She could smell his cologne again, that odd combination of freesias and lemon.
‘But I don’t deserve it, do I? I’ve caused so much pain,’ she confessed.
‘I made a poster of objects that could have stayed happily hidden. I let stolen artefacts appear on a website. I exposed at least one love affair and a family secret. And, George, let’s not forget I exposed you as a fraudster – surely you can’t think that was a good thing? ’
She didn’t say it out loud, but the only thing she hadn’t managed to uncover was her own story.
George let go of her hand and she assumed he was contemplating the damage she’d wreaked. But then he started to shake his head.
‘Evelyn, you can’t see it, can you?’
‘What?’
‘The good you’ve done. You’ve brought people together, people who used to just nod at each other. Even if they did stop for a chat, they didn’t always talk properly, about the things that matter.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Most of them certainly never gave me the time of day – or you, I’ll bet.’
She supposed that much was true.
‘The Save Our Museum campaign gave people a reason to work together,’ he continued.
‘They found out things about each other as well as themselves. Yes, some truths must have been hard to accept – Keith didn’t expect to see his father’s affair announced in black and white and Jacob had to be told his family heirloom was painted by yours truly.
But I don’t reckon any of us would want to turn back the clock. ’
Could this be true? In Evelyn’s experience, the truth was something people tried hard to conceal, but George was saying otherwise.
‘Truths are what help us move on, Evelyn. Take me – I’ve wanted to leave my dad’s dodgy dealings in the past for a long time now. Word of that forgery will soon spread and no one will buy a painting from Rook Antiques again, but that’s fine by me.’
It was like one of those optical illusion drawings, Evelyn thought. Did you see a duck or a rabbit? A young woman or an old crone? Had the exhibition been a disaster or the beginning of something better?
‘The things your dad stole are back where he found them. You’ve returned personal keepsakes to the right people, and the museum has a clean slate,’ George told her.
He walked over to the few remaining paintings that hung on the wall.
‘What you need, Evelyn, is another exhibition. Something to make you fall in love with this place all over again. How about an art show?’ he mused.
‘Sorry, George, but even to me that sounds like the most boring exhibition ever.’
‘Oh, I think you might be surprised by how many people would come,’ George added in that smug tone of his she found particularly annoying.
‘Absolutely not. Besides, the last thing I need right now is more surprises,’ she replied.