Page 18 of The Devil in Oxford
“It had to do with your friend Lord Amberley.”
“Amberley? The jolly old antiquarian?” I let out a startled laugh. I could not fathom what Julius Harker could have done to cross swords with the kindly old man.
“The same. Harker went to authenticate a set of seven ancient marble sculptures in Amberley’s private collection. They were set to fetch afortunefrom a foreign buyer. Harker had moderately repaired his reputation by this point—at least enough that the open-minded sort would have him do the odd appraisal or acquisition of this or that. Amberley invited Harker out to his country estate to see the marbles. They had been on display there for decades, set into six alcoves along the perimeter of the room and the seventh and most magnificent—an enormous statue of Athena—situated on a plinth in the very center of the hall. It was impressive, even I had to admit to being moved by their beauty and I pride myself in not being swayed by pretty things.”
I’d seen a similar effect on a larger scale at Kedleston Hall on an errand in Derbyshire for Mr. Owen back in February. “Where did the marbles come from?”
“Now that was the question, wasn’t it? Amberley claimed they’d been in the family for over a century, but the buyer wanted confirmation that they were real with fair provenance. Thus, they brought in Harker’s expert opinion.”
I let out another startled laugh. “You mean the buyer wanted reassurance that they weren’t stolen like Elgin’s marbles?”
Reaver flashed me a rare smile, revealing his sole dimple. “Precisely. Though you must know that’s a controversial statement among some.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this newfound knowledge. IlikedLord Amberley. But I’d seen where such feelings had gotten me in the past. Sometimes wolves hide amongst the sheep.
“Who was the buyer?”
“No one knows. Someone with deep pockets, and an uncommonly strict moral compass. Though I suspect you know as well as I do that most collectors are more concerned withwhatthey can acquire rather thanhowthe thing is done.”
The waning winter hours grew short, and the sun had already begun its descent, casting dramatic shadows against the buildings. “What happened, then? It must have caused a great scandal.”
“It did. For within a day of the inspection, Harker proclaimed loudly to all who would listen that Amberley’s marbles were clever forgeries. Oh, he was apologetic—of course—and offered to take them off Amberley’s hands for a fair sum.”
I furrowed my brow. This made no sense. None at all. “Why would he do that for forgeries?”
Reaver lifted a shoulder and shifted the umbrella to make way for a young delivery boy overburdened with parcels. He stepped down off the curb to allow the fellow to pass. “Why did Julius Harker do anything? Perhaps he felt bad for ruining the sale? Perhaps it was the threat of scandal rearing its ugly head again and he wanted to ease it as best he could. What Idoknow is Harker had money trouble and had for years. How he came up with the funds to purchase the marbles—fake or not—is beyond me.”
How does a man with no money buy a collection of marble sculptures? Even forgeries would holdsomevalue. “Was Amberley angry?”
“No. Not at all. Lord Amberley is a genial sort, as you’ve likely noticed. He didn’t need the money, it was more a point of pride. Can you imagine what it would feel like to have been flaunting forgeries for the better part of a decade and then be publicly exposed?” He let out a low whistle.
I’d dealt with my share of antiquarians and knew the sort. They took pride in their reputations and to have it tarnished so publicly—nowthatwas far worse than any other crimes one could be accused of. “But you don’t think Amberley harmed him. If not Amberley, who else would have been angry enough to lock a man in a box and leave him to die?”
Reaver cleared his throat, drumming his fingers along the handle of the umbrella. “Take your pick. Harker dabbled with the wrong sort. Radicals and revolutionaries, the lot of them. If I were you, Miss Vaughn, I would stay as far from this matter as possible. OurdearJulius had some very unpleasant bedfellows, and I am quite certain that whatever happened to him, he likely deserved.”
I took a half step back closer to the curb, my heel slipping off, and I had to shift quickly to regain my balance. His strong hand shot out to steady me.
“I don’t mean to frighten you. It’s only that I knew him before his disgrace, and the man who was killed last night is not the same fellow I once called my friend. He had begun making dangerous acquaintances and had grown more and more erratic—refusing to listen to reason. I only fear for poor Mr. Mueller—it would be a tragedy if he swung for a crime he didn’t commit.”
The distinct shape of the Victorian-era Town Hall was now just across the street, and nestled alongside was the police station.
Reaver frowned, the insouciant dimple disappearing from his cheek. “Please tell me you are not intending to speak with Mr. Mueller…”
I straightened my shoulders. “Very well then, I won’t.”
“Miss Vaughn, let me make it painfully clear to you that youwill not like what you discover. I am very aware of your reputation for amateur detective work—but you are in above your head in this matter. I beg you, leave it to the authorities before anyone else is harmed.”
That firebrand intensity returned to his expression, fierce enough that I almost questioned my own motives.Almost.I blinked in feigned innocence. “Why, Professor Reaver, I have every intention of doing just that.”
CHAPTEREIGHTA Soupçon of Subterfuge
Iran my hands over my rain-dampened hair as I entered the dimly lit police station. The wooden floor was scuffed and tired, though recently cleaned—scrubbed with lye soap to within an inch of its life by some poor charwoman. The scent of the soap still sharp on the air. The electric lights overhead cast a jaundiced glow over the dark oak desk. A long low bench made from the same wood sat alongside the opposite wall. The station itself was empty other than a young constable seated at the desk who looked up at me with his brows raised. For a half second I thought of turning on my heels and leaving.
The thought of setting foot inside a police station made my skin crawl—likely due to my own brief stint in Holloway Prison thanks to Mr. Owen’s penchant for illegal books. The young constable inspected me from over the tall wooden desk. His fair hair was neatly cut and combed. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose, giving him a boyish appearance. He couldn’t have been much over twenty, if that. The same age of those schoolboys following Reaver around the exhibition the previous night, yet their worlds could not be more different. Those boys sat around in their seatsof privilege and comfort jockeying for position and prestige—the only jockeying this fellow did was for a promotion.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked at last, his keen dark eyes watching, uncertain what to make of the strange half-drenched American dripping rainwater on his once-pristine floors.
Right. To the point, Ruby.
