Page 75 of The Unassuming Curator

Henry walked in. Eight men were seated on either side of a large rectangular table. At one end sat Lord Claridge; at the other end sat Fernsby.

“My lords, gentlemen.” Henry bowed and then immediately wished he hadn’t. The room tipped, and the faces swam. He sensed Townsend stepping up beside him.

“Steady, Buckland,” he muttered, placing a hand on his elbow.

It was the grounding he needed. Clearing his throat, Henry gave his vision a moment to clear and began again. “Please forgive my late arrival. I was detained by a rather violent encounter with my colleague Mr. Fernsby.”

He turned slowly so that he was facing his erstwhile friend. Fernsby’s fingers were splayed on the table, his palms pressed against its surface as if he were preparing to propel himself out of the chair. His pale face accentuated the dark bruise running along the right side of his jaw, but he was as impeccably and brightly dressed as always.

“You are come too late, Buckland.” Fernsby was the first to speak, his eyes flashing a toxic combination of fear and derision. “The board has just voted to put me in as the new museum director.”

“I daresay they will reconsider their vote when they hear what I have to say.”

Claridge rose to his feet, his cheeks flushed. “I had not thought you a gentleman of such inferior comportment, Buckland. You have considerable gall showing up an hour after the appointed time in such a shoddy state and throwing threats at your colleague.”

“If those of you in the haut ton are truly so fixated with the inappropriateness of a gentleman’s soiled clothing and lack of punctuality that you would not even think to ask what prompted those things, you are as narrow-minded as so many poets and essayists claim. Indeed, you deserve to have a gaudy, amoral criminal as the museum director, and I formally submit my resignation.”

It was the longest speech Henry had ever heard Townsend give outside a lecture on a piece of literature, and it left the remaining occupants of the room staring at him in stunned silence.

Fernsby was the first to recover. “It appears that your insular existence has finally caused you to crack, Townsend. You have my deepest sympathies.”

Claridge glared at Fernsby, but Southbeck rose to his feet.

“If I may take the floor, Claridge?” Southbeck said.

“Granted,” the chair said.

“Before any more accusations or resignations are made, I should like to ask Mr. Buckland to explain himself further.”

“With pleasure, my lord.” It was exactly the opening Henry needed, and he seized it. “For the sake of brevity, I shall limit myself to the events of the last twenty-four hours, for they are the ones of most import to you.

“Last evening, I discovered a valuable artifact in the bottom of my satchel. Although I had not placed it there, I recognized it immediately as part of a set I had unloaded a few hours earlier from one of the crates sent to the museum by Mr. Watts. My alarm at finding the piece in my possession and outside the accessions room was quickly followed by determination to replace it immediately. Regardless of the lateness of the hour, I returned to the museum only to find Mr. Fernsby there, making use of the darkness to exchange a prized painting on the wall for one of his own. I accused him of creating and selling forgeries, and we came to blows.

“A hit to the head against the marble flooring rendered me unconscious. I awoke this morning, gagged, tied hand and foot, and trapped within one of the crates so recently come from the South Seas. I was discovered not long ago and came directly here.”

“That is preposterous!” Fernsby was on his feet.

“I agree,” Henry said. “Preposterous, deceiving, and unlawful.”

“Where’s the proof of all this?” Mr. Hibbard, the gentleman seated beside Southbeck, yelled.

“Hear, hear.” The gentleman across from him called out, and suddenly, everyone was shouting at once.

“Silence!” Lord Claridge bellowed.

The ruckus calmed, but Fernsby did not resume his seat. His muscles tense, he watched the chair warily.

“One at a time, we shall each ask a question of Mr. Buckland, Mr. Townsend, or Mr. Fernsby,” Claridge said. “Southbeck, you may start us off.”

Emily reached the end of the passage, pivoted, and started back the way she had come. She had walked the length of the long, narrow room twice already. The first time, she had studied the intricate pattern on the exotic rug and attempted to block out the sound of rising voices in the room Henry and Mr. Townsend had entered. The second time, she had paused to admire the view from each window, secretly hoping to also catch a glimpse of a hackney cab dropping off at least one Bow Street runner. Not one carriage had passed by, so this time, she turned her attention to the opposite wall and concentrated on the paintings.

The first two were pastoral scenes. The third portrayed a foxhunt.

“What can possibly be taking so long?” Aunt Millward had chosen to remain seated by the door and was straining to hear what was occurring in the other room now that the men’s voices had lowered. “Mr. Fernsby should have been escorted out by now.”

“The longer the wait, the greater the chance that Mr. Toole will arrive,” Emily said. It was the only consoling thought she could muster, and she clung to it.

Another glance through the nearest window showed no traffic on the other side of the stone wall, so she returned to her forced study of the paintings. The next canvas showed a flock of doves in flight. Emily counted the birds. It was only marginally better than counting minutes. She continued a few more steps. This painting showed a bowl of fruit. She stared at the masterfully recreated apple—the one she’d once thought was a Genet Moyle and later had thought appeared more like a D’Arcy Spice—and a gaping pit formed in her stomach. She did not know if this was a replica or if Lord Southbeck had purchased the original, but she was quite sure that Lord Southbeck was unaware that either he or the museum was displaying a forgery.