Page 72 of The Unassuming Curator

The words were a little slurred, but far more recognizable.

“Would you like more?”

He shook his head and then winced. “Not yet.”

She set the pitcher on the floor. “Are you well enough to tell us what happened?”

“When I returned to the museum last night, Fernsby was here, exchanging priceless artwork for forged paintings.”

Rutherford muttered a curse. “Mr. Fernsby did this to you?”

“He’s obviously a lot stronger than I gave him credit for.” Henry winced as he swallowed, and Emily lifted the pitcher to his mouth again.

“I have seen the kind of desperation that leads men to do terrible things manifest in a burst of extraordinary strength,” Aunt Millward said.

Emily waited for Henry to take a few more sips of water before lowering the pitcher.

“I don’t know what Mr. Fernsby’s end goal is,” she said, “but leaving you for dead in a crate suggests that he’d rather you not be part of it.”

“He wants to be the director of the British Museum,” Henry said.

“That would make it far easier to maintain a clandestine forgery business,” Aunt Millward said. “You became expendable the moment you stumbled upon that.”

Henry grimaced. “I daresay he intended to leave me here for dead. Why else would he nail the crate lid closed? It would be easy enough to have the dock workers come back to carry away that crate with the others needing to be burned. We’ve been known to fill crates with damaged goods and refuse before. They wouldn’t question the extra weight.”

The pitcher in Emily’s hands trembled as she visualized the dreadful scenario Henry described.

“Mr. Fernsby must be stopped,” Aunt Millward said.

“What time is it?” Henry asked.

Rutherford reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a pocket watch. “Quarter past one.”

“The board of trustees meeting.” Henry pushed himself onto unsteady feet. “I must go. They must hear what Fernsby is about.”

He teetered, and Rutherford grabbed his arm. “Are you certain that is wise, sir? You’re coming off a serious injury.”

“I have no time or energy to argue, Rutherford.” He looked to Aunt Millward. “Is your carriage outside?”

“It is, and if Rutherford will help you into it, Emily and I will take you to the meeting at Lord Southbeck’s house.”

Aunt Millward started for the door, but she had scarcely circumvented the crate when Mr. Townsend appeared in the doorway, a menacing scowl on his face. “What the blazes is going on?” he said. “A young lady running wild through the museum. No porter assisting guests in the entrance hall. Unticketed visitors in the accessions room. A missing curator . . .” His voice trailed off as he focused on Henry. “Buckland? You look as though you’ve recently escaped a brawl in the Rookeries.”

“You’re not far off,” Henry said, reaching for Emily’s hand and taking his first shaky steps toward the door with Rutherford at his other side. “If you want the details, you’ll have to ride with us to Southbeck’s house.”

“You’re going there in that condition?”

“I’m going there to prevent the man who put me in this condition from being made director,” Henry said.

Mr. Townsend’s jaw tightened. “I’ll come,” he said, stepping aside so they could all exit the room.

Somehow, Henry made it down the grand staircase, across the entrance hall, down the steps, and into Aunt Millward’s carriage without collapsing. Rutherford’s physical support was invaluable, but having Emily at his side helped him block out the pain associated with every movement. He was alive, and she was with him. For now, that was all that mattered.

“You have my deepest thanks, Rutherford,” he said as the porter hurriedly backed away from the carriage to allow Townsend entry.

“I dismissed my tour early, Rutherford,” the curator said, climbing in as quickly as his aging joints allowed. “There are two more scheduled. Offer those who come later today the museum’s regrets, and have them reschedule, would you?”

“Yes, Mr. Townsend.”