Page 9 of A Little Bit Dangerous
Mr Chance had a point.
Relatives might bury the deceased with up to a hundred figures in a tomb. There was nothing rare or original about this one.
“Did Mr Daventry say why the curator suspects these are forgeries?” Her employer had been quite vague when discussing the task. A desperate woman knew not to ask questions.
Mr Chance sighed. “No. Daventry seems reluctant to reveal his source. Until an hour ago, I knew next to nothing about the case.”
Interesting. The man wore a diamond stick pin and did not need money. What prompted him to accept? “And yet you agreed to help him. May I be so bold as to ask why?”
“One tires of routine.”
Boredom had not brought Mr Chance to the museum at dawn. She suspected his motives were far more complex.
But how did one understand a conundrum?
Like a geyser, anger bubbled beneath the surface. One could feel the pressure building, his temper waiting to explode and make every bystander stagger back. Then the atmosphere settled, and one glimpsed the considerate gentleman who stopped to pour a thirsty lady wine.
“You may disagree,” he said, “but I don’t think we’ll find the answers we need by studying artefacts or reams of documents.”
“How else might we determine if this is fake?”
He fell silent for a moment and sat rubbing his firm jaw. “We’ll list those involved in the sale and begin there. I can source information easily. You’ll be surprised what you can learn from men who owe you money.”
Mr Chance seemed keen to forge ahead on his own.
Doubtless he wished to place some distance between them, but she could not afford to lose her salary.
“Mr Daventry said one can find clues in the strangest places. In all fairness, we have only scanned the paperwork. I shall continue to examine the documents while you take the bold approach.”
His shoulders relaxed in relief, though he was polite enough not to sigh. “It makes sense to work separately.”
There was no reason to take offence. Despite a past acquaintance, Mr Chance was a stranger, and she had spent a lifetime being shooed from the room.
So why did her throat tighten?
Why did she feel the twisting ache of disappointment?
“It does.” She took up her pencil to make a list of those involved in the excavation and shipment. “It might take a while. Eat while I scan the documents.”
“I’m not hungry.” That was a lie. His stomach had grumbled twice in the last ten minutes. “You may take my share home. I’ll examine the stone slab while I wait.”
It took effort not to gasp or look him keenly in the eyes and express her gratitude.How kind, she thought of saying. But he would make light of it, suggesting the food would only spoil.
“Mr Brown will probably take it for his supper,” she said, trying to focus on the page of script in front of her. “Mr Clarke and Mr Woodrow from the Society of Antiquaries led the excavation in Amarna and obtained the Vizier’s seal. Sir Henry Warnock studied the area’s geology and supervised the local labourers.”
“Who chartered the ship?”
She glanced up, expecting to find Mr Chance studying the treasure on the trolley, but he was slicing cheese and wrapping it in a napkin.
“Mr Quigley chartered the ship,The Marigold.”
“Did he work on the excavation?”
She shrugged. “I’ll need more time to read the documents. Mr Moses Snell captained the ship. It appears he owns the vessel.”
Mr Chance crossed the room and placed the wrapped food on the desk beside her. “Do you have a list of names I can take with me?”
She glanced at the food parcel, then at the charismatic man who would likely scoff if she drew attention to the gesture. “Yes. Just let me find the name of the cartographer and I’ll—”
