six items, and three of those had lines drawn through them. The six were: Mansell Gamage, Sefton-on-Sea, Wern Derries, Much Markle Crosses, Black Mixen Tump, and Capel-y-Fin. They were place names-employing odd, old- timey words-and certainly none that Wilhelmina had ever heard before. The first three on the list had been crossed out-apparently considered and then discarded for whatever reasons the list maker had deemed appropriate. But why? Even as she considered the question, it occurred to her that if Kit and his great-grandfather were searching for her and, obviously, leaving messages for her in likely places, this might be a list of such places. The inclusion of Sefton clinched it in her opinion. The three crossed out were places already visited and, presumably, where messages had been left. The last three, then, were next on the list.
The thought that they were worried about her and looking for her made her smile. Bless ’em, she thought. But they were not to know what she had been up to since she and Kit had parted company. The situation had changed, and she certainly did not need rescuing.
Mina returned to the letter and list once more and noticed something else: beside three of the place names was a tiny equal sign, a simple = as found in mathematical equations-written in lighter pencil as one might make when thinking on paper. Taking these additions into account, the list read Mansell Gamage = China… Wern Derries = Ireland… Black Mixen Tump = Egypt…
“How very interesting,” she said to herself, tucking the note away. Rising from the bench, she went back to the Old Ship and inquired of Molly whether there might be a carriage or coach she could hire to take her to London. “Anything at all, really,” she added. “I don’t mind.”
“Mail coach comes through at six,” the barmaid replied. “Going up t’London from Plymouth. It stops here for the driver to wet his whistle. Be in London by morning.”
“Splendid,” said Wilhelmina. “I’ll just wait outside.”
“Suit ye’self, m’lady,” said Molly, resuming her work of lining up clean jars for the evening’s custom.
Mina returned to her bench in the sun to await her transport and determine how to make best use of her new information. By the time the mail coach arrived in a clatter of hooves, trailing plumes of dust, Wilhelmina had a new plan firmly in mind.
Sorry, Cosimo, she said as the carriage came rattling down the street, but I’ve got a better idea.
CHAPTER 17
Burleigh’s fortuitous return to London after his disappearance in Italy meant different things to different people. To the winsome young socialite, Phillipa Harvey-Jones, his long-suffering fiancee, it meant heartbreak when the young lord eventually called off the wedding; to his clients, it meant a veritable treasure trove of rare and precious objets d’art, each more wondrous than the last; to his bank manager, it meant joy unbounded as the earl’s fortunes increased, swelling his coffers by leaps and bounds. For now that he had discovered ley travel, Burleigh was secretly employing his remarkable ability to amass a fortune through the acquisition of rare and precious artefacts. What better place to acquire invaluable antiques than directly from antiquity? His lordship’s early experiments with ley travel swiftly gave way to an all-consuming obsession; thus, he no longer had time for Phillipa. Who could blame him? If his newfound ability to leap into parallel worlds could result in something so mundane as obtaining expensive knickknacks to sell to a hungry clientele in latenineteenth-century London, what else could it do? Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, was on a quest to find out.
“Lord Burleigh,” intoned His Lordship’s valet, “forgive the intrusion.”
“What is it, Swain?”
“A letter has arrived from Sotheby’s.” The gentleman’s gentleman extended a small silver tray with a cream- coloured envelope addressed to the Earl of Sutherland. There was no stamp; it had been hand delivered. “I thought you would rather be apprised sooner than later, sir.”
“To be sure.” Burleigh took the envelope and, while the servant waited, he opened it and scanned the few lines. Then, placing the letter and envelope on the table beside him, he rose. “Inform Dawkin to ready the carriage. I am going out.”
“Very good, sir.”
Within the hour Burleigh was sitting in the office of Mr. Gerald Catchmole, the principal broker at Sotheby’s auction house. He had been offered whiskey and a cigar, but declined owing to the hour of the day, accepting tea instead. While waiting for the tea, they chatted about the dismal lack of quality among the items currently coming out of the Levant. “We are obliged to auction them, of course,” sniffed Catchmole, “but it does go somewhat against the grain.”
“Not that your average punter knows the difference,” replied Burleigh. “You make your commission all the same, I daresay.”
“But you do know the difference, my lord,” asserted Catchmole in an ingratiating tone. “Which is why I contacted you as soon as this came in.” There was a knock on the door, and a middle-aged woman entered with a tray of tea things. “You may pour, Mrs. Rudd,” instructed the broker. “And leave the tray, if you please. We’ll help ourselves.”
She poured, handed out the cups, then withdrew without a word. When she had gone, Catchmole took a sip from his cup, then set it aside. “I thought you should be the first to see this,” he said, rising. He crossed to his desk, retrieved a wooden cigar box, and passed it to Burleigh. “Have a look.”
Lord Burleigh took the box and opened the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were three small objects: an Egyptian scarab, a small statue of a woman in a long, multitiered skirt holding two writhing snakes, and a carved cameo of a man with a laurel wreath. They were, in fact, exactly the kind of objects currently in fashion, imitations of which were flooding the antiques market throughout Europe just then.
Burleigh glanced up at the broker. “Yes?”
“Take a closer look,” invited Catchmole with a smile.
Balancing the box on his knee, the earl picked up the statue. It was about six inches high and painted with painstaking skill; the woman’s eyes were large and open wide, her dark hair piled in an elaborate braided style, and the snakes she held in either hand curled up around her arms, their mouths open. The tiny statue had been painted green, and her long, high-waisted skirt was blue and green striped. The figurine had been glazed to a fine standard.
“I see what you mean,” said Burleigh softly. “Sixteenth century BC-the Minoan snake goddess votive figure. Extraordinary preservation. It looks as if it could have been made yesterday. Was it?” Raising his eyebrows, he glanced up at the broker, who merely indicated the next piece.
Burleigh picked up the scarab. It was crafted from a single flawless piece of lapis lazuli of deepest blue, and the carving was exquisite, the hieroglyphs fresh and clean; a cartouche contained the name Nebmaatra. On the underside, a tiny carved eye surmounting a rod and flail identified the maker. His lordship’s brow wrinkled in thought.
“Neb-Ma’at-Ra,” he mused, sounding the name aloud as he tried to place it. “Upon my word,” he gasped, glancing up at Catchmole, who was watching with interest. “This is from the royal workshop of Amenhotep-the pharaoh’s own craftsmen.”
“I knew you would be impressed,” chortled Catchmole, nodding and smiling. “If anyone can tell gold from glister it is yourself, Lord Burleigh.”
“Where did you get these?” Burleigh demanded. He flipped down the lid of the box. It was an ordinary wooden container for a middling brand of cigars-a crude carrier for such treasure.
“May I direct his lordship’s attention to the remaining piece?”
Burleigh flipped open the lid and lifted out the tiny stone cameo. Like the scarab, it was an elegant and finely worked piece of deep red carnelian. The profile was of a man wearing the laurel leaf crown of a Roman emperor. There was no doubt but that it had once been owned by an ancient citizen of great wealth and, no doubt, taste. There was an inscription on the backside: G.J.C.A.
Burleigh stared at it. “Extraordinary,” he breathed. “Caesar Augustus?”
“None other-or so I am told by Searle-Wilson. Our resident classicist assures me there cannot be more than a
