“Indeed,” Lawrence said gruffly. “The occasion demands the director of the museum. He may even make you an offer on the spot, Clarke. Bravo.”
It was as if he hadn’t even heard what she’d said. She narrowed her gaze at her father, wishing she could see past his façade into the hidden depths and motivations that made him who he was. That made him ignore her, congratulate his archrival, and insist on inviting an audience.
She wiped her palms on her skirt. “What was so urgent you needed to see me right away?” she asked him.
Lawrence waved a hand. “Not important.”
“Why are you here?”
Seconds ticked by.
“All due respect, Dr. Westlake, but it’s clear the matter can wait,” Mr. Clarke said. “Shall we call Mr. Robinson?”
“Mr. Clarke, this coffin is not what you think it is. I’m willing to bet there’s no mummy inside. Or if there is, it’s not Hatsudora.” She motioned for Mr. Klein to help her remove the lid.
He did. Just as she thought, the coffin was empty. Except for an envelope addressed to Clarke. She handed it to him.
Mr. Clarke’s face paled, then darkened as he read it. “This says that Hatsudora, the mummy, was stolen right out of the coffin before my team packed it for shipping. Why didn’t they send me a telegram, rather than surprise me like this? I’m sorry, Dr. Westlake, I don’t know what to say. I do hope the coffin will still be of some use for you. What a disaster. I can’t understand it.”
“I can.” Removing the letter and telegram from her pocket, she explained how. “This is the finest forgery I’ve ever seen,” she said.
Confusion lined Mr. Clarke’s face, but not horror. She was certain that whatever amount of money he’d paid for this, he’d be all right even if he never recouped a dime. “I don’t understand how this could have happened. My own team...” He muttered in broken phrases as he tried to sort out this elaborate hoax.
Lawrence did not come closer to look for himself. All he looked for, it seemed, was satisfaction. But he did not appear to be surprised. It was as if he had known this would happen.
A glimmer of understanding knocked the breath from her lungs. “You knew, didn’t you?” she whispered, but again, he didn’t hear her. He more than knew. He’d arranged this entire deception. He’d known she was hoping to find Hatsudora ever since she’d shown him Hetsumina’s coffin in November.
Lauren walked toward him, remembering that her every word and his were being recorded. “You called me in to look for forgeries at Mr. St. John’s house last November. You’d already been there cataloging his collection before I got there. Do you remember that?”
“Of course I do, but I don’t see what—”
“I found an alabaster ointment jar to be fake. The hieroglyphs were wrong. Then I learned that jar had been a gift from Mr. Clarke. But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew that before I arrived. In fact, I think you took the real jar out and swapped it with an alabaster jar you—or someone else—carved to look the same. Except for the mistakes in the inscription.”
Mr. Clarke glowered at Lawrence.
“Why would I do such a thing?” he sputtered.
“You hate Mr. Clarke. You’re jealous of his legacy and feel that you’ve been wronged. You were probably jealous of the way Mother wrote about him in her letter.”
Lawrence’s complexion turned ashen.
“Nancy saved the box of letters you left in the fireplace, and I read them. You saw an easy way to taint Mr. Clarke’s name, so you took it. Am I right so far?”
“This is ridiculous.” Lawrence glanced from her to Mr. Klein.
The registrar ducked his head and made to leave as though to give them privacy.
“Stay, Mr. Klein,” Lauren told him. All of this would come out in tomorrow’s newspaper anyway. “I need you to pack this up again, please. I want it out of here.”
He began to comply but in no hurry.
Lauren addressed Lawrence again. “The rumors about Mr. Clarke’s little alabaster-jar forgery didn’t do much to harm him, did they? Then there was that nasty business with the Napoleon House roof burning in his hometown, and you couldn’t stand to be humiliated like that. You could imagine him in his mansion on the shore, laughing at you, along with his set.”
“Dr. Westlake!” Mr. Clarke stopped her. “I did no such thing, Lawrence, I swear. I didn’t even know about a Napoleon House in Newport. I don’t understand what this is about.”
Her father blanched. To be mocked was one thing. To be invisible, for his so-called legacy to go unnoticed, was something altogether different.
Hatred crystalized in Lawrence’s eyes, and the rest of his face hardened, too. “You should have left my wife alone.” He shoved a finger toward Mr. Clarke. “What were you about, visiting her when I wasn’t home?”
