“You ought to leave London,” I said to Denis as Gibbons shut the door and took up a place beside it. Another ruffian had been positioned near the windows. “It must be hell to live like this.”
Denis, who was seated at the writing table perusing a paper, did not glance up. “I see no reason I should flee. I will prevail sooner or later.”
“You are confident.”
Denis at last laid down the page and pinned me with eyes that had grown even icier in the last days. “Tell me, if someone threatened to turn you and your family out of your grand house on South Audley Street, would you go? Or if they were bent on chasing your father-in-law off his land, would you blame him for staying on?”
“Of course not.” Donata’s relations had once been keen on getting hold of her son’s estate, and I’d had them ejected. “Those are their homes.”
“And this is mine. It is not simply a house to me, but a symbol of all I have achieved. The boy who slept in a dung cart is not about to give up his soft bed now.”
“I do understand. But you can always return when it is over.”
Denis’s gaze held disdain. “You do not understand at all. If I flee London, it means I fear him, and then I am done for. Creasey is nothing to me. Will be nothing. I will win, Lacey, in the end.”
His assuredness was unnerving.
“Very well, I will cease arguing with you. I am here at Brewster’s insistence, though why he could not come to you with the information himself, I am not certain.”
“Because you’re honest, guv,” Brewster said beside me. “Everyone believes you.”
“I am not certain that is praise,” I said. “However, it might be important.”
I told Denis of my visit to Fitzgerald, the optical illusion box, and Brewster’s certainty that it was an extremely valuable antique. I added Seabrook’s information of Fitzgerald’s receipt and what he’d paid for it.
Denis listened, Brewster and I remaining on our feet, as there was nowhere to sit. Denis frowned when I finished, the terrifying coldness in his eyes receding as interest replaced it.
“Mr. Brewster was quite correct. The boxes are rare and worth far more than the man paid for it. Fitzgerald’s story of finding it on St. Maarten is unconvincing. What reason did he have for sailing there?”
“He was traveling through the islands, he said, but he did not say why. Perhaps looking for some way to make his fortune.”
“If he sells this box he purchased so cheaply, he will.”
“Could it be a forgery?” I suggested. “Perhaps that is why the Dutch fellow let it go so easily. Duping a foolish Englishman out of three hundred guineas.”
Denis shook his head. “Even a forgery would be a masterwork. The boxes were painted with amazing precision, so that they could be viewed from several angles and yet have a perfect image each time. They were very fashionable in their day, but few survive. Once their popularity waned, those who inherited them did not understand them, and they were broken up or let go to ruin or forgotten. Such things are being discovered again—Bonaparte brought to light much artwork as he rode through Europe, robbing every city of its treasures for his museum.”
“Some of that has been returned,” I said. Or so Grenville, who kept himself informed of that sort of thing, had told me.
“Not all of it. Some owners had weak claims, or so it was said, and the art still resides in Paris. Or it is avowed that an artworkdidgo back to its former owner but has disappeared instead. This could be one such piece.”
“The customs officials were satisfied with Fitzgerald’s papers for it.”
“Papers are easily forged. I would not be surprised if this Dutchman in reduced circumstances letting go an heirloom is a fabrication.”
“Seems much trouble for bringing home one curiosity,” I reflected.
“Unless this is not the only artwork he brought,” Denis said calmly. “Perhaps it is the one he let the customs officials see, allowing them to seize it and check its provenance before returning it to him for the duty he paid. Mr. Fitzgerald has showed himself to be an affable if not overly bright collector, ready to help. If the rest of the cache is found, the magistrates will be more inclined to believe Fitzgerald when he expresses astonishment and declares it has nothing to do with him.”
“Good Lord.” My hand tightened on my walking stick. “If that is true, he is a very good actor. You certainly paint innocuous events as highly suspicious.”
“Because my suspicions are usually correct. Such a ploy is one that an agent of mine might use—though Mr. Fitzgerald isnotone of my agents. Until today, I’d never heard of the man. Depend upon it, he has brought in a hoard, and this is but the tip of it.”
“When would he have done so?” I ran my hand through my damp hair. “Are you saying the entire time he lived in the Antilles, he’d been hunting artwork and shipping it home?”
“He might not have spent all his time there. Your friend, Major Eden, knew him only slightly, though the major lived four years on Antigua. You said Fitzgerald was unruly in his youth. Perhaps he was not as reconciled to being sent away as he has told you. A wealthy man’s son could have easily traveled, especially during the chaos of the Revolution, the wars that followed, and Bonaparte’s downfall, and found plenty to filch in Paris.”
“Or he could have a hand in the cargo that’s disappearing from the docks,” I said, thinking hard. “Perhaps he ships his artwork disguised as more mundane items and then takes them once they are stored away.”
