The Shooting Season - Isobel Starling Page 0,14
carrying trays with selections of root vegetables in silver serving bowls. Rennie laid the platter in front of his Lordship and seemingly delight to take on the task; Euan stood, made theater of sharpening his carving knife, then skewered the meat with a large fork, and carved slabs of steaming beef enough for the whole party. Watching as he sawed at the roasted flesh with such gusto, he reminded me of his father. Lord Percy had taken great pleasure in carving up his hunting trophies, mounting the heads and telling a tale of each kill.
The late Lord Ardmillan’s private collection was displayed in the attic rooms. We were led up stone steps by Mr. Rennie, Euan, and the solicitor each holding an oil lantern to light the way. The thick timber door was unlocked and Euan shouldered it open. The attic was frigidly cold and drafty, even though a roaring fire was lit at the iron hearth. Ms. McGovern harrumphed and complained sourly,
“We’ll all catch the death of cold if we spend too long in here!” The vast attic room had been prepared for us. Candelabra were lit in readiness for our arrival and a line of velvet cushioned chairs that had seen better days were laid out opposite an extended trestle table. We sat, all a little tipsy from our dinner drinks, and shivered.
“I believe Ms. McGovern vas correct. I wish also I had brought my greatcoat and fur hat. How long vill zis take, it is frightfully cold, Lord Euan.” Mr. Engles complained, his teeth chattering.
The trestle table at the head of the room was covered by a length of moth-eaten black velvet but lumps and bumps were visible beneath. The wall behind the table was also shrouded.
“On the table, I have laid out thirty items from my father’s personal collection. His ten most prized canvases are behind on the wall. You may come and peruse the items but please do not touch without asking.” Euan warned.
“If you have any questions Mr. Buchanan has the particulars for each item. Think about how much you are prepared to pay, for the fine art and the antiquities are unique and each comes with the provenance of how it was obtained written in my father’s hand.”
One-by-one we stood and by lantern light solicitor Mr. Buchanan and butler, Mr. Rennie oversaw viewing to ensure nothing was manhandled or went missing. The table was laden with gems, statuary, art, books, and gold enough to make the heart of any serious collector flutter with anticipation. I saw at once that the story was true! I saw the legendary gold and gem-encrusted Tiger’s head finial with ruby eyes that once ornamented the throne of the Tipu Sultan in Mysore, India. So, Lord Ardmillan had taken it as spoils of war during the plunder of the palace at the fall of Seringapatam. The diamonds, rubies, and emeralds that decorated the face of the Tiger were worth a king's ransom and I would be intrigued as to whom here had the funds to afford such a prize. I saw Mr. Cecil’s eyes light up at seeing the jewel-encrusted Tigers head, and Mr. Engles ducked closer to the object, a magnifier held to his right eye. He perused the item intensely.
“You have provenance, ja?”
“Yes, Mr. Buchanan will provide the buyer of each item with the full story of how it was obtained in my father’s hand.” Euan restated.
There was only one item I was interested in, and to my horror, it was not on the table. I looked up at Euan, and my brows furrowed in confusion. If I had made the journey all the way here to the West Highlands in the dead of winter and what I wanted was not for sale I would be outraged.
“Where is it? Where is the Staff?” I demanded.
Euan grinned widely. He knew exactly what I wanted and had played a jest on me. He turned, strode away and unlocked a side door and then entered another smaller room. Moments later he returned. Euan held a casket box that had been inlaid with a beautiful flowing design in rosewood and ebony. At a guess, the box had once held a very expensive bottle of wine. He came to stand beside me, unlatched the silver clasp and opened the lid, and there, displayed on a bed of red velvet laid The Staff of Asklepios, named after the Greek God of Medicine and Healing. I could not hold in an audible gasp as