Read Online Aunt Dimity's Good Deed by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Atherton
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breathlessly, so relieved by the ensuing silence that a moment passed before I realized I’d opened the wrong door.
I was standing in what appeared to be a storeroom. Drapes had been drawn tightly over the windows, and wooden crates had been piled along one wall. Opposite the stacked crates stood a plain wooden table, an old gray office chair on wheels, and a bookcase filled with auction catalogues and colorful volumes on art and art history. An open crate had been left on the floor beneath the table, surrounded by the crumpled balls of yellowed newspaper that had apparently been used as packing material.
The wooden table held a green-shaded brass reading lamp—the sole source of illumination—as well as a fountain pen and an index-card file, but I noticed none of those things at first. My attention was focused wholly on one object, a gleaming, golden object I’d never thought to see outside the walls of a museum.
It was about fifteen inches tall, in the shape of a cross, with a graceful, flaring base that allowed it to stand upright on the table. Its surface was covered with a complex interlace pattern—of Celtic origin, I thought—and at its center, where the arms met, there was a large, circular rock crystal surrounded by a fluted, gem-encrusted sunburst. The bejeweled sunburst seemed to capture all of the light from the reading lamp and throw it in a dancing, sparkling stream in my direction. I moved toward it, entranced.
It was a reliquary, I was certain, a glorious, sacred vessel created to hold what my old boss, Stan Finderman, irreverently referred to as “Crusader trophies”: a sliver of the True Cross, a lock of some saint’s holy hair—I’d seen one once in Ireland that had been built to hold Saint Lachtin’s entire arm. Some reliquaries were made of ivory, others of fantastically carved stone, but the one that stood before me was made of gold.
It was not pristine. Many of the sunburst’s precious stones were missing, and the arms were gouged in places, but its purity of line gave it an appeal far beyond its obvious monetary value. I couldn’t resist the urge to touch it, to pick it up and turn it beneath the lamp, to watch the play of light along its flligreed surface, the spark of fire in its glittering gems. I wondered who had made it, who had owned it, and how it had come to rest here, in a shabby pillbox of a house in southwest Surrey. With a sudden thrill, I wondered if each crate stacked against the far wall was filled with similar treasures. If Gerald sold one a year, it would keep his bank account bulging till kingdom come.
I was still holding the reliquary, still turning it in the light, when the door opened behind me and a deep, rich voice said softly, “Ah, there you are.”
My grip on the reliquary tightened so convulsively that I cut my little finger on the sunburst’s fluted edge. The sharp pain cleared my head, and I put the gleaming cross back on the table.
“Forgive me,” I said, turning to face Gerald. “I—I didn’t mean to pry. I got the doors mixed up, and then I saw the reliquary and somehow I—”
“Of course.” Gerald shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing that might happen to anyone. Besides, it seems to be my day for inquisitive visitors. I’m afraid I had to physically restrain your young charge from going upstairs to search the bedrooms.”
“Oh, Lord ...” I groaned, bowing my head and raising a hand to my forehead, thoroughly embarrassed.
“No matter,” Gerald said, walking toward me. “She’s in the back parlor now, under my housekeeper’s watchful eye. Shall we—” He broke off. “Good heavens, Miss Shepherd, you’ve injured yourself.” And before I could protest or draw back, he took hold of my wrist and gently pulled my hand toward him.
“Serves me right,” I said, with an unsteady laugh. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Tush,” said Gerald. In one graceful movement, he pulled his spectacles from his shirt pocket and put them on,
I was standing in what appeared to be a storeroom. Drapes had been drawn tightly over the windows, and wooden crates had been piled along one wall. Opposite the stacked crates stood a plain wooden table, an old gray office chair on wheels, and a bookcase filled with auction catalogues and colorful volumes on art and art history. An open crate had been left on the floor beneath the table, surrounded by the crumpled balls of yellowed newspaper that had apparently been used as packing material.
The wooden table held a green-shaded brass reading lamp—the sole source of illumination—as well as a fountain pen and an index-card file, but I noticed none of those things at first. My attention was focused wholly on one object, a gleaming, golden object I’d never thought to see outside the walls of a museum.
It was about fifteen inches tall, in the shape of a cross, with a graceful, flaring base that allowed it to stand upright on the table. Its surface was covered with a complex interlace pattern—of Celtic origin, I thought—and at its center, where the arms met, there was a large, circular rock crystal surrounded by a fluted, gem-encrusted sunburst. The bejeweled sunburst seemed to capture all of the light from the reading lamp and throw it in a dancing, sparkling stream in my direction. I moved toward it, entranced.
It was a reliquary, I was certain, a glorious, sacred vessel created to hold what my old boss, Stan Finderman, irreverently referred to as “Crusader trophies”: a sliver of the True Cross, a lock of some saint’s holy hair—I’d seen one once in Ireland that had been built to hold Saint Lachtin’s entire arm. Some reliquaries were made of ivory, others of fantastically carved stone, but the one that stood before me was made of gold.
It was not pristine. Many of the sunburst’s precious stones were missing, and the arms were gouged in places, but its purity of line gave it an appeal far beyond its obvious monetary value. I couldn’t resist the urge to touch it, to pick it up and turn it beneath the lamp, to watch the play of light along its flligreed surface, the spark of fire in its glittering gems. I wondered who had made it, who had owned it, and how it had come to rest here, in a shabby pillbox of a house in southwest Surrey. With a sudden thrill, I wondered if each crate stacked against the far wall was filled with similar treasures. If Gerald sold one a year, it would keep his bank account bulging till kingdom come.
I was still holding the reliquary, still turning it in the light, when the door opened behind me and a deep, rich voice said softly, “Ah, there you are.”
My grip on the reliquary tightened so convulsively that I cut my little finger on the sunburst’s fluted edge. The sharp pain cleared my head, and I put the gleaming cross back on the table.
“Forgive me,” I said, turning to face Gerald. “I—I didn’t mean to pry. I got the doors mixed up, and then I saw the reliquary and somehow I—”
“Of course.” Gerald shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing that might happen to anyone. Besides, it seems to be my day for inquisitive visitors. I’m afraid I had to physically restrain your young charge from going upstairs to search the bedrooms.”
“Oh, Lord ...” I groaned, bowing my head and raising a hand to my forehead, thoroughly embarrassed.
“No matter,” Gerald said, walking toward me. “She’s in the back parlor now, under my housekeeper’s watchful eye. Shall we—” He broke off. “Good heavens, Miss Shepherd, you’ve injured yourself.” And before I could protest or draw back, he took hold of my wrist and gently pulled my hand toward him.
“Serves me right,” I said, with an unsteady laugh. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Tush,” said Gerald. In one graceful movement, he pulled his spectacles from his shirt pocket and put them on,
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