The Bone House (31 page)

The calendar turned over another leaf, and one morning George Gower, the estranged cousin of the earl, came knocking on the door in the company of his wife, Branca; a Peckham bailiff; and a solicitor in a top hat and black frock coat. Archie received them in the earl’s sitting room.

“The hand-over of property will not be delayed,” intoned the lawyer imperiously. “We will be taking immediate possession. It would be most helpful if you were to collect your personal possessions and vacate the premises at your earliest convenience.”

Archie, who had braced himself for this moment, was nevertheless stunned by the abruptness of the eviction and the coldness of the greed on display. When he found his voice, he said, “I have had an inventory prepared, if you would care to—”

“We will make our own inventory, thank you,” the lawyer sniffed. “In any case, you will vacate the premises by three o’clock this afternoon. The bailiff here will be pleased to help you gather your things. He will accompany you now to ensure that you do not inadvertently remove any articles not belonging to you and to which you are not entitled.”

“Your foresight is admirable.” Archie offered a grim smile to the new tenants. “How you must have longed for this day and prayed for its coming.”

“Silencie a sua lingua!”
snarled the woman, her potent Portuguese temper quick and hot. “You are not family. You have nothing to say.”

“Indeed,” Archie agreed. “I assure you that I have no wish to remain in your odious presence a moment longer than necessary.”

“Now, see here, you—” sputtered George Gower. “You bounder!”

But Archie was already moving towards the door and departed without another word. “Summon Beachcroft,” he told the earl’s valet. “Then pack your things and, if I were you, I might spare a thought to the days ahead—if you know what I mean.”

The valet nodded. “It is in hand, sir.”

“You may instruct the rest of the staff to do the same.”

“Very good, sir.”

While the new owners began totting up the silver, Archie went to his rooms and began to pack his things. He was joined a few minutes later by the bailiff—a suspicious oaf who insisted on examining everything Archie put into his cases until Archie suggested, “Perhaps it would be best if you packed for me; then you could give your keepers a precise inventory of what I have taken.”

“Never you mind my job,” muttered the man. “Get on with you.”

Beachcroft, the earl’s solicitor, arrived with a copy of Lord Gower’s will just as Archie was placing his cases in the foyer. In the presence of the inheritors and their lawyer, he read out the relevant portion of the earl’s last will and testament, which explicitly stated that Archibald Burley was given leave to choose any five objects from the earl’s extensive collection of exotic artefacts.

“
Any
five objects he so desires,” stressed Walter Beachcroft, “without let or hindrance.”

When Archie took his leave a short while later it was, much to the relief of the new owners, with five small dusty antiques of negligible interest. Had George and Branca known the true value of the items Archie selected, fits of apoplexy would have ensued all around. As it was, their ignorance allowed them some measure of insulation from the stinging reality. Taken together, the objects Archie chose amounted to a very tidy sum that would allow him to set up in the antiquities trade.

Nor was that all.

In truth, the far greater portion of Archie’s now-considerable fortune was already safely stashed in six large tea chests that had been safely deposited in the vaults of Lloyd’s Bank, and another delivered with his cases to King’s Cross Station a week earlier. After his summary eviction from Lord Gower’s London residence, Archie paid his mother a visit and bade her farewell, leaving her with a Lloyd’s Bank book for an account containing five hundred pounds in her name. Then he kissed her good-bye and caught the evening boat-train to the continent. Visits to Paris, Cologne, Vienna, and Rome were followed by more lengthy sojourns in Prague, Constantinople, Jerusalem, and Cairo. At each stop along the way he acquired
objets d’art
and exotica that would form the basis of a collection of almost legendary proportions to tantalise the jaded palates of London’s elite collectors.

Archie’s only contact with England during his sojourn abroad was in the form of a letter from Beachcroft, the solicitor, informing him that the earl’s estate had been sold to a sugar magnate. George and Branca Gower had taken their fortune and returned to Lisbon, where, presumably, they would live out their days in comfort and ease at the expense of their late relation.

On the second anniversary of the Earl of Sutherland’s death, an extremely dashing tycoon answering to the name Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, arrived in London. The dark, distinguished young lord took an apartment in an expansive Kensington Garden mansion. In the weeks and months to follow, the wealthier citizens of the metropolis would be buzzing about the rare and exquisite antiques this knowledgeable and well-spoken gentleman could produce from his seemingly inexhaustible store. Tales circulated about the earl’s extensive connections with the aristocracy of Old Europe and the royal palaces of the Middle East, which were the principal sources for the wondrous items he traded. These objects did not come cheaply.

Certainly, the fine rings, bracelets, and necklaces; jewelled pendants, statuettes, daggers, and diadems; carved reliefs from attic friezes and pediments; intricately decorated red-and-black amphorae, bowls, lamps, beakers, and urns, and all the rest carried breathtaking price tags. But then where else could one obtain such superb specimens?

“Beauty is all too often fleeting in this world,” Lord Burleigh was wont to remark. “I live only for one thing—and that is the pursuit of beauty that outlasts the ages.”

This sentiment, and much else about the young aristocrat, mightily impressed his clientele, which now included a growing number of marriageable young women. As word of the eligible bachelor of Sutherland spread, his wealth grew—and grew in the telling—until he could not attend an evening performance at Covent Garden or the Proms without attracting a bevy of beautifully groomed and gowned young things. The situation did not go unnoticed. As one mildly envious onlooker was heard to opine, “I say, the Earl of Sutherland must love his gardening.”

“How so, Mortimer?”

“Why, to be surrounded by such a profusion of ravishing flowers he must work those beds like a very slave.”

“Quite.”

The young earl himself appeared to enjoy the feminine attention, yet remained slightly aloof from it, maintaining an air of mild amusement at his own apparent availability. And, while he displayed no favouritism in his choice of companions, being seen in public with a different beauty every night, there was one who began to emerge from the pack: a willowy, blonde lovely named Phillipa Harvey-Jones, daughter and sole surviving heir of prominent industrialist Reginald Harvey-Jones, a man in the chase for a knighthood if ever there was one. Reggie, as he was known to friends and admirers, enjoyed the reputation as a bruisingly tough businessman whose only pleasure in life was doting on his daughter.

Naturally, when her name began to be linked with the dashing Burleigh’s, it roused Reggie’s considerable interest. Within minutes of their first meeting, he cut right to the point. “Your money, sir. Where did you get it?”

“Beg your pardon?” Archelaeus raised his eyebrows.

“We are men of the world,” Reg told him. “Let’s not be coy—especially where money is concerned. We both know it is nothing to do with character. At best it is only an arbitrary indicator of a man’s place in the world.” He fixed the young lord with a narrow, uncompromising gaze. “So, how much have you got, anyway?”

“Difficult to say,” replied Burleigh, easily sliding into a tone of confidentiality, “what with the northern properties, the southern holdings, and the London house. Most of that belongs to the family, of course.” Archie had long ago learned to play on Londoners’ innate ignorance of Scotland generally and its gentry in particular.

“Just your private assets, then—your own private accounts—how much do you command personally?”

“Oh, I should say around ten thousand.”

“Not bad.”

“Annually,” Burleigh added, almost apologetically.

“I am impressed.” Harvey-Jones gave him a look of renewed respect. “That is twice as much as my income, and I work hard for what I get.”

“I am certain that you do,” agreed the young lord mildly. “My own work is more in the way of a leisure pursuit.”

“A hobby, sir?”

“Something of the sort.” The young gentleman allowed himself a sigh. “Still, one must fill the empty hours as best one can.”

“If you were married,” suggested the industrialist, “you would find other ways to fill those hours.”

“I daresay.”

“What is more, you would soon have fewer of them to fill!”

“Daddy,” chirped a warm feminine voice, “you are completely monopolising our host with your chatter.” She affected a frown of disapproval. “You aren’t talking about money again, are you? Tell me you’re not.”

“Furthest thing from my mind, Pippa dear.” Reggie gave his golden-haired daughter a peck on the cheek. “We were just now speaking of hobbies and avocations. The earl here complains of too much time on his hands. I told him he wants a wife.”

“Daddy!” Phillipa gasped, horrified, embarrassed, and excited all at once. She glanced at Burleigh to gauge his reaction to this bold affront to his dignity. “Oh, do please forgive my father. He can be such a rascal sometimes.”

“Yes, forgive me,” echoed Reggie. “I did not enjoy the benefit of the good upbringing my daughter had. But there it is. A man needs a wife. Well, sir, what do you say?”

“I say,” answered Burleigh slowly, holding Phillipa in his gaze as he spoke, “that happiness, like wealth, means nothing unless there is someone to share it.”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” hooted Reggie.

“Oh, Daddy, do behave.” Laying a hand on the impeccable black sleeve of Burleigh’s dinner jacket, Phillipa said, “I assure you, my lord, it is a sentiment I share.”

“Then perhaps you will do me the honour of sitting beside me at dinner tonight, so we can discuss it at the greater length it deserves.” Burleigh took her hand from his sleeve, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “That is,” he said with a glance to Reggie, “if your father can be persuaded to let you out of his sight for the space of an hour.”

“A calamity, sir, but I shall bear up somehow.” He waved them away. “Run along! You young folk go and enjoy yourselves.”

“Shall we?” Burleigh offered his arm, which the lady graciously accepted, and the two strolled off across the marble vestibule towards the great hall. Later they would be seen again and again in one another’s company—so much so that people began to expect it. They became an item of interest in the elevated reaches of high society and were treated as a courting couple—which certainly appeared to be the case—though whenever anyone ventured to ask, the question was lightly brushed aside with a laugh and an assurance of mutual friendship.

If that response was intended to stop the tongues from wagging, it effected the opposite result. The gossipmongers of the aristocracy spoke with ever more certainty of an imminent announcement of betrothal.

Alas, those expecting an early invitation to a gala wedding were disappointed. Summer came and went, gave way to autumn, and though the courtship continued, no matrimonial announcement was made. Those close to the earl intimated that the young gentleman’s travelling schedule made such arrangements difficult at present; his various business pursuits dictated a return to the Middle East and quite possibly the Orient. Be that as it may, speculation remained high for a wedding the following spring as soon as the earl arrived back in the city from his travels.

But the young gentleman did not return—not the following spring, or the next. Then, when the diligent flow of his letters to his darling Phillipa abruptly stopped, the fire of speculation flamed in new and unexpected directions. As time went on, opinion began to harden that some dire fate had befallen him. Though the manner of his demise remained unconfirmed, imagination supplied no end of likely disasters: Burleigh’s ship had sunk on its return voyage; he had fallen among thieves; the earl had been abducted and was being held for ransom; he had been caught in the crossfire of some local strife and been rendered a casualty of war; he had gone native in Arabia; the young man languished in a foreign prison on false charges . . . or any other explanation that occurred to the toilers at the rumour mill.

In fact, it would be three years entire before Archelaeus Burleigh returned to England. The reason for his absence and what had happened to him during his travels were never disclosed; no word of explanation for his delay was ever breathed aloud. But the man who returned to London was not the same man who left the city almost four years before.

In the belly of the young lord was a new and insatiable hunger. Knowledge, the more arcane the better, was now his consuming passion. He was not to be seen without a book in his hand, and when he wasn’t reading, he was making notes in one of a growing succession of journals, which he kept under lock and key in his desk. The ballroom of his spacious mansion was gutted by an army of carpenters; they lined the walls with a double tier of shelves, which soon began filling with obscure and archaic tomes. That architectural transformation served to underscore the simple fact that the wealthy young man had become an indefatigable scholar.