“Enchanté,” he crooned as he took Lady Catriona’s hand, and Elias, not easily incited to violence, wanted to slap him upside the head.
Faced with two charged males, one posturing, one brooding, Lady Catriona didn’t seem to know where to look, and so she was staring right between them with a pained expression. Behind her, MacKenzie crossed her arms over her chest. Imagine bringing apricots into this situation, said Elias’s sideways glance, and Nassim pulled up his shoulders in a shrug.
The Ashmolean was located nearby, a short walk up the street to the Lamb and Flag public house where Elias planned to have lunch with Nassim, then a few minutes down the Lamb and Flag passage, which brought them to Parks Road. The museum was held in the contemporary neo-gothic style on the outside.
“It was built for the natural historical artifacts from the first Ashmolean on Broad Street, when that became too small,” Lady Catriona explained when they entered. Their voices echoed in the empty hallway. “Currently, it’s also a temporary home for private collections waiting to be classified.”
Both Nassim and Elias dipped back their heads to take in the sweeping construction of glass and pointy iron arches of the main hall. The towering cast-iron pillars were fashioned into tree canopies on top, and the vertical, airy architecture seemed more suited for a cathedral than an exhibition room.
“Impressive,” Elias admitted.
“The pieces in the original collection were donated to the university in 1677,” Lady Catriona said, “by a namesake of yours, Mr. Elias Ashmole.”
Her tone had been matter-of-fact, but as they looked at each other, they both appeared to realize the same thing: that she had his Christian name on her mind enough to draw this connection, and that she had just blithely announced it to three people. A dull pink color crept over her face.
“I just thought it was curious,” she said.
“It is,” Elias said generously. “Perhaps it’s destiny that I’m here.”
“Ha ha. This way to the curator’s office—oh dear.” She had almost walked into one of the surrounding stone columns.
MacKenzie muttered something under her breath.
Elias thought it best to fall back a little. Nassim cut him a bemused look. Destiny? he mouthed. Shut up, Elias gestured back.
The curator was a quiet, balding man of middle age who thankfully asked few questions about Elias’s qualifications. He gave Elias a map of the premises and a university badge to wear on his lapel, and he explained the importance of the ledger at the reception for signing in and out. Afterward, Lady Catriona took them to a side chamber at the very back of the museum.
“Here you are,” she said, and swung the door open wide. “Mr. Leighton’s collections.”
Elias remained rooted to the spot in the doorsill. His mind processed the scene before him in fits and jumps.
Behind him, Nassim verbalized what he felt: “Ya imme, shou heda!”
Indeed, what was this mess. The room was windowless except for a large domed skylight, through which the sun beamed down in a broad shaft like a stage lamp. Two marble sculptures loomed in the light: twin heads of bulls, thousands of years old, monuments to the ancient Phoenician gods. Each marble was the height and breadth of a small horse. Behind the bulls, against the wall, piles of smaller artifacts jostled for space on long shelves.
Elias turned to Lady Catriona. “How were these bulls transferred into this room?”
“Hm, I believe with horse carts from the railway station,” she said. “Then they must have laid tracks from the museum’s back entrance to this chamber and used a manually propelled handcart. That’s how they usually transport the big pieces inside.”
“Ingenious,” Elias said smoothly.
“Similar pieces are stored around the museum, so the proximity greatly facilitates any cross-referencing exercises.”
“Sensible.”
“Do you require any further assistance?” She looked hopeful that he wouldn’t.
He declined, and she and her chaperone took their leave.
After the door had closed, Elias and Nassim locked eyes.
“Damn,” Nassim said. “They are bloody big.”
Elias nodded. “They are sizable.”
“How will you take them?”
“Take them,” Elias repeated. “Inshallah, they shall go out the same way they came in.”
Nassim made an annoyed gesture. “You want to lay railway tracks across this floor? No one would notice?”
“Nassim.”
“Tell me you have a plan to take them if need be.”
Elias bit his bottom lip in a warning. “Shout louder, will you.”
“So, if the Englishman refuses, you . . . will just come back with empty hands?” Nassim’s eyes looked ready to pop from their sockets.
Elias moved his hand up and down. “My dear. Don’t speak bad things into existence before I even have an introduction to the man.”
“Ha.”
“I ask Wester Ross for an introduction. Then I meet Mr. Leighton. Depending on the outcome, we think about how to proceed. That is the plan.”
Nassim hissed. “I bet he will say he had a license. License, what license—give a filthy official enough baksheesh and you have a license; it doesn’t give the Englishman the right to take these and put them into this stinky museum.”
“We shall see about that.”
“What’s there to see? They are ours, enough!”
“The ownership of an item after three thousand years isn’t always clear,” Elias pointed out. “Everyone involved in commissioning, making, and purchasing it, is dead. My sponsors merely own the land where these were taken.”
Nassim stared at him for a long moment. “Fine,” he finally said. “You want to say these things.”
“It is what they will say.”
“But what is very clear is that these”—Nassim glared at the bulls—“are neither Ottoman, nor English. Also, don’t pretend you haven’t done it before.”
“Have done what before?”
Nassim’s voice dropped low. “Smuggled such things.”