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Running his fingers through his hair, Henry surveyed the chaos. He couldn’t think about how long it would take to organize everything. At present, it was impossible for him to reach the door without vaulting at least two boxes.

“What do you think these are, Buckland?” Fernsby stood behind the nearest table, studying two wooden statues that stood about three feet high. The creatures—whatever they were—had large eyes and mouths with grotesquely long tongues.

“Idols, perhaps,” Henry said.

Fernsby nodded thoughtfully. “These are similar, but they have stones in the foreheads.” He picked up one of five miniature versions of a similar creature.

Henry climbed over one of the crates and studied the intricately carved pieces. Most of the weapons, headdresses, woven baskets, feathered capes, and handcrafted bowls littering the table were larger. They drew the eye because of their size and unfamiliar style. Polished to a shine, these smaller pieces spoke of the creator’s meticulous care.

“They look to be a set,” Henry said.

Fernsby lifted another. “Each one bears a stone of a different color.”

Henry studied them more carefully. One stone was opaque white. If he had to guess, he’d say it was an opal. Another stone was green. Jade, perhaps. The other three were so similar in color to the wood, it was hard to make them out.

“What do you think the stones are?” Henry fished.

“That’s your area, not mine,” Fernsby said. “If I had to guess, opal, jade, ruby, carnelian, and garnet. Given where they’ve come from, one of them could be an agate.”

“True.”

“Which do you think would be the most valuable?”

Henry picked up the closest one. Why were there so many red gemstones? They were almost as prevalent as red flowers.

“It’s hard to tell without a thorough examination,” he said, “but generally, rubies are considered one of the rarest stones.”

Rapid footsteps sounded on the landing. Henry set the figurine back on the table and turned to see Townsend burst through the door.

“It’s missing!” he said.

Given the current state of the room, Henry could have said the same of his sanity and all sense of order. But he didn’t think that was what Townsend was referring to.

“What’s missing?” he asked.

“A print from an etching by William Blake.”

Henry tensed. “From Lord Grenville’s collection?”

“Of course,” Townsend barked. “Where else would it be from? I had it sitting atop the fellow’s poetry.”

“In here or in the manuscript saloon?” Henry asked.

“Here. Both.” Townsend mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. “I thought I had it on the table downstairs, but now I cannot be sure.”

Henry surveyed the accessions room, his heart sinking. If the print was here, it could take days to uncover it. If it wasn’t . . . He would not consider that possibility. Townsend’s distress was a sufficient clue that the paper was too valuable to lose.

“We won’t find anything here until we’ve returned the room to some semblance of order,” Henry said. “I’ll come with you to the manuscript saloon, and we’ll check there one more time.”

“You won’t find it.” Townsend mopped his brow again, his agitation mounting. “I’ve searched countless times.”

Henry clambered over the nearest crate, but before he could go any farther, another set of footsteps reached them. There was a firm rap on the half-open door, and Claridge walked in.

“Good day, gentlemen.” Scarcely sparing the chaos a second glance, the chair did not wait for a response. “Rutherford told me that I might find you here. I apologize for not arriving sooner. The last couple of days have been somewhat hectic.”

If Claridge was hoping to escape commotion, he had come to the wrong place.

“The arrival of the Roselle was bound to do that,” Fernsby said.