grandparents. They communicated almost solely through her, you know, and the way she… bore tales back and forth escalated rather than eased disputes, I thought.” He shrugged. “So I would take anything she says with… a grain of salt at least.”
“You lived with your grandparents?” Charlotte remembered he had said something like that.
“Only when I was very young. Later, we visited only at the Christmas holidays. My father could never bring himself to refuse the invitation.”
“Then you can’t really know, can you?” How could he conceive what it was like to be a young woman trapped in a household where she was continually terrorized and belittled? Charlotte suppressed a shiver.
He conceded the point with a stiff nod. Charlotte sipped her lukewarm tea. Once again, the silence stretched. They had wandered into a conversation much deeper than social chitchat, and Charlotte wasn’t sure how to find her way out. Sir Alexander started to speak, and she leaned forward. He said nothing. She lifted her cup again. He set his down with a chink.
“Perhaps we should…”
“I wonder if…?”
They spoke at the same moment, then each paused politely—not to say desperately. Simultaneously, they each added, “Please.” Charlotte had never been more grateful for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
“I have completed my examination, provisionally.” Gerald Mortensen had a small notebook in hand. “I fear it is not good news.”
“Please sit down,” said Charlotte. “Will you have a cup of tea?”
Mortensen waved this aside. “No, thank you.” He didn’t sit either. “My preliminary assessment, which I do not believe will change appreciably upon further consideration, is that this collection is chiefly forgeries. Or, to be more charitable, modern reproductions. Some are quite good copies. But worth very little, of course. There are one or two pieces that the museum might be interested in acquiring.” He raised an eyebrow.
“My husband’s will does not allow any sales,” said Charlotte, tight-lipped.
“Ah.” Mortensen tore one sheet from the notebook and closed it.
“So, if my uncle paid large amounts for these items…?” began Sir Alexander.
“He was duped. Sadly, there are many unscrupulous ‘dealers’ only too ready to cheat those who do not seek expert advice.” Mortensen sniffed.
“This wouldn’t make a good, small museum, then?” Charlotte said. “His collection, I mean?”
He looked at her; a charitable person might have called the gaze pitying. “If the British Museum received a lot such as this, almost all of it would be discarded.” He handed the notebook page to Sir Alexander. “These are the authentic items. I have used the numbers from the displays to identify them.”
“Thank you.”
“I must be going,” said Mortensen. With a small bow, and no further courtesies, he left the room.
“All that money thrown away.” It burst from Charlotte as she struggled to take it in. From Hanks’ comments, she’d expected to hear that some of Henry’s purchases were unwise. But this was too much. He had taken nearly her entire inheritance and reduced it to rubbish.
“In dealings with criminals, basically. We should talk to his man of business. What was his name—Seaton? I allowed him to disappear without…”
“Hasn’t Hanks already talked to everyone? What can we learn that he has not?”
“He was a danger to them. They would say as little as possible in his presence. I might pose as a collector, a source of money.”
“We already know that they cheat. You think one will confess to murder?” Charlotte couldn’t curb her impatience. What was the use? The money was gone, and shockingly, in this moment, she didn’t much care who had killed Henry. She could have cheerfully strangled him herself.
“I don’t know that Hanks saw Seaton. I will inquire. Also, he had asked to go through my uncle’s room. I put him off but perhaps now…”
“It’s locked, and we can’t find a key.” Charlotte had discovered this when rearranging the furnishings, and had not yet dealt with it. “Henry didn’t carry house keys around with him. He liked being let in by a servant. But we cannot find those keys either.”
“What?”
She looked away. “Henry kept his bedchamber locked.” Sir Alexander stared at her, no doubt speculating.
She’d been avoiding the room as if it didn’t exist, as if she could erase the past by leaving it out of her new household arrangements. “Holcombe had a key. He took the maid in when she cleaned.”
“But… you did not…?”
Charlotte turned away from his gaze. “I have never set foot in Henry’s room. He did not wish me to.”
Sir Alexander looked stunned. “Was my uncle completely mad?”