Page 8 of A Little Bit Dangerous
As Mr Chance was not an errant knight come to solve her problems, he returned to the matter at hand. “Based on other sketches I’ve seen, this funeral figurine is of similar proportions.”
Isabella picked up the pencil and began making a rough sketch of the piece, noting the elements they believed made it genuine. “The wig is the correct shape and length. Some fakes fail to mimic the tomb owner’s mummified remains.”
“You’re skilled with a pencil.” Mr Chance’s claret smooth voice stole her attention, his compliment catching her off guard. “Did you take lessons at the seminary?”
Isabella snorted. “The only thing I learnt at the seminary was how to outwit a crook. I doubt the tutors at Cambridge took a fee for forcing their students to marry.”
“Having forgone a formal education, I wouldn’t know.”
Darn it! She had forgotten about that. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve never met a decent man who studied at Cambridge. And I’m told the food is foul.”
The corners of Mr Chance’s mouth twitched. It was as close to a smile as she was likely to muster. “Worse than spoiled fish?” he teased.
She nodded. “Spoiled fish nibbled by rats. That’s not all. At night, they drag you out of bed and shove your face in a bucket of excrement.”
The glint of amusement in his eyes held her captivated. “It makes the pokey room above Mrs Maloney’s bookshop seem idyllic.” And yet, the thread of pain in his voice was unmistakable.
“Hardships make us stronger. You’re a survivor, Mr Chance. I’d rather wear that medal than one gained in a spelling contest.”
He stared at her for a heartbeat too long. “By the sounds of it, Miss Lawton, you should wear the Gold Cross.”
This sudden camaraderie was surprising. Like opposing sides meeting on the battlefield during a brief cease-fire, both realised they had more in common than they’d initially thought.
“Perhaps one day we might compare scars, sir. In the hope they might eventually heal.” She spoke metaphorically, yet his gaze roamed over her figure.
Men often looked at her as if she were a sumptuous piece of pie. It always turned her stomach. With Mr Chance, she felt a strange pang of excitement.
“Well, we would not get a medal for concentration,” she joked. “We seem to stray from the task far too easily. And I do need to get paid.”
Mr Chance frowned. “How can you be so jovial when you’re starving? Lawton might return at any moment and toss you out onto the street.”
Because if she didn’t laugh, she would cry, and tears were as helpful as a sponge poker. “Sadness consumes energy I can ill afford. Spending the day sobbing in bed won’t help put food in my belly.” Her mother had been fit for nothing after a heated argument with the conte. “Surely you adopted the same attitude when sleeping on the streets.”
His eyes glazed like he’d become lost in a daydream. Yet she knew whatever he envisioned had the makings of a nightmare.
“We should resume our studies before Daventry returns,” he said, avoiding further discussion on the subject. “It’s fair to say we can find no physical evidence to suggest the ancient ushabti is fake.”
“The figure is holding farming tools, which fits with what we know.” One needed a means of feeding oneself in the afterlife. Some forgers made the mistake of thinking a person needed jewels when dead.
They continued to examine the item before moving to the documents proving provenance. There were pages of diary entries detailing the dig, evidence found when surveying sites and intricate maps of the area.
Mr Chance inspected the Grand Vizier’s seal, and Isabella offered him a magnifying glass from the drawer so he might consider it closely.
“Without visiting Cairo, there’s no way to prove that’s the Vizier’s signature and seal,” she said. Mr Brown would not fund a lengthy trip abroad.
Mr Chance met her gaze, and the dratted fluttering in her chest began again. “If someone is bold enough to forge the Vizier’s signature and ensure the artefact looks genuine, then he has more to lose than money. How much did the museum pay for the ushabti?”
Isabella found the consignment sheet and the invoice. She stared at the figures on the pages, wondering if there might be a clerical error. “The museum paid thirty pounds for the ushabti. I would have expected ten times that amount for one with the Vizier’s seal.”
Mr Chance gave a curious hum. “Over the years, I’ve learnt to trust my instincts. This might be a genuine artefact or an excellent forgery. But a feeling in my gut says there’s much more to this than meets the eye.”
Keen to play devil’s advocate, she said, “The Society of Antiquaries might have hired archaeologists to bring pieces home for study. It would explain why they sold them to the museum for a bargain price.” Acquiring knowledge was more important than monetary gain.
“Men interested in culture and science do not forge a vizier’s signature.”
“It could be genuine.”
“If the Grand Vizier was amassing funds to wage war, he would have demanded a much higher price.” He placed the figurine on the desk. “Are we expected to believe he had nothing in his private collection to sell?”
