“Mon dieu,” Nicolas breathes. “Nowthatis a timepiece worth a thousand pounds.”
It’s a clock. The note on the case describes it as a desk clock, but it would look equally at home on a woman’s vanity table... if that woman happened to be a queen. The clock is red tortoiseshell with gold gilt. A glass door on the front reveals the clock face, and the door itself has twelve tiny roundels, each with an astrological sign. In each corner of the clock box is a phase of the moon with a tiny scene depicting a similar phase of life: a new moon with an infant and so on.
The description card says the clock is notable not only for its value and design but for its remarkable history. It once belonged to Maria Theresa of Spain, queen consort to France’s King Louis XIV. There, it had been stolen by a lady-in-waiting. After that, it was rumored to have surfaced several times before it wound up in Scotland in the early part of the eighteenth century, where it was purchased by a speculator, who planned to sell it back to the French Crown... only to have it stolen on the way to London.
Stolen by a highwayman, believed to be the legendary Dick Turpin. After Turpin was hanged, the clock wasn’t found among his stashes. It stayed missing until the museum opened, when it was donated. Upon discovering the clock’s history, the museum offered to return it to France, but France didn’t want it, alleging the object was...
“Cursed,” I whisper.
“Hmm,” Nicolas says.
I elbow him. “At least pretend it is a possibility. For the sake of imagination.”
“Cursed.” He gives an exaggerated shudder. “Perhaps we ought not to stand so close.”
“That is better.” I eye the clock again. “The young man was attempting to steal this. He seemed confused that he could not. Given his attire, I believe he came from around the time it was rumored to have been in the possession of Dick Turpin.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Nicolas says.
“Only the most famous highwayman in history.”
“Most famousEnglishhighwayman, inEnglishhistory.”
“Is there a more famous one in Martinique history?”
“We do not have highwaymen.”
“Because it is an English term. Therefore, I was not being biased when I said he was the most famous.”
“Never heard of him.”
I sigh, and I start to explain when footsteps sound. We both duck behind a display. A woman passes, doing a sweep for tarrying visitors.
“I want to find the young man,” I say. “See what he was up to.”
“I do not believe I am stopping you,crécerelle, nor doing anything so dull as suggesting we ought to leave because it is apparently time for us to leave.”
I smile at him. “Then let us search in secret and hope we are not caught.”
We are caught.Caught so quickly that I burn with the humiliation of it. Apparently, there are mechanical eyes in the museum, things called “security cameras.” I know what cameras are—I am from a time when they existed—but only vaguely understand ones that takemovingpictures.
Having been to the 1950s, I’ve seen a television. But the idea that you can use such devices to monitor a building never occurred to me. It is terribly clever, though, and even if it’s also rather inconvenient, I acknowledge the right of the museum to escort us off the premises. At least they did so very kindly, when Nicolas did all the talking and portrayed us as visitors from Martinique who misinterpreted the English announcement.
We stand outside the museum, and I gaze back at it through the gathering darkness.
“We will search for the ghost tomorrow,” Nicolas says.
I nod.
His arm goes around me, tugging me out of the cold and into the shelter offered by the fence. “You are troubled,crécerelle?”
I hesitate and then shake my head. “Only curious.”
When he does not reply, my cheeks heat. “Yes, a little troubled. I did not want to sound silly.”
“It is not silly to be concerned for a ghost that seems confused. One can be curious and concerned at the same time.”
I give a small smile. “In pursuit of altruism and answers?”