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“Grecian pottery was not my preference, you know,” Edward says, accepting without hesitation the brandy Sir William offers over the leather-topped desk. While his body is clean from this morning his mind still reels from what it has seen, and though the clock has only just struck one Edward has no qualms about drinking something far stronger than tea.

“No?” Hamilton says, seating himself opposite. “What was?”

“In truth, no particular thing. I read excessively when I was younger, anything I could get my hands on. But the idea of understanding the past through the artefacts left behind... It thrilled me. Still does.”

Sir William smiles. “You have the heart of a true antiquarian, Mr. Lawrence. My love of antiquities will always be for the ones of Mediterranean origin. I find the myth and mystery of it all quite enchanting.”

The conversation has steered to Edward’s reason for coming altogether too swiftly. He thinks of Tibb’s word—cursed—takes a deep sip of the brandy to calm his nerves. It sears, strong and hot, down his throat, and Edward raises his fist to cover a cough.

Hamilton chuckles. “Sixteen forty-nine. A strong year.” He raises his own glass. “Did you know that in ancient Greece people used brandy as both an antiseptic and an anesthetic? There are accounts of Arab alchemists in the seventh and eighth centuries experimenting with distilling grapes and other fruits to create medicinal spirits.”

“I did not,” Edward says, voice catching in his throat. His eyes water.

“A history lesson for you, then. But you are not here for an account of distilled spirits.” Sir William’s face grows serious. “What did you discover?”

For some minutes Edward relays the events of the night before and this morning—Hermes’ death, the discovery of the Coombe brothers’ bodies in the loft, the papers he found in the stove, the code-like missive directing Edward to Puddle Dock. He recounts the conversation with Jonas Tibb in as much detail as possible, and Hamilton listens in silence the whole time, a long finger pressed against the bow of his mouth. When Edward concludes his account, Sir William frowns deeply before taking a long sip of his drink.

“But this Tibb said nothing about where the Coombes took these shipments when they arrived in London?”

“No, but since I found so many pieces in the shop’s basement—”

Sir William shakes his head. “The shop is by no means the only place these pieces went. Hezekiah must have been trading them somewhere else; he wouldn’t risk selling them in his home. Have you not heard the expression, ‘Do not foul one’s own nest’?”

Edward nods.

“You see, then. And you’re sure Tibb said nothing else?”

“I’m afraid not. As he adamantly made clear, he was paid not to ask questions.”

“And you thought him trustworthy?”

“I believe so, yes. He seemed a simple man.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows rise.

“What I mean is, simple in his needs. You should have seen the place,” Edward adds. “He didn’t want trouble. The trade he holds—as distasteful as we might find it—is a necessary one to be sure, but I can imagine it provides him with barely enough to live on. The money Hezekiah laid out would have made quite a bit of difference to him.”

And then Edward is struck with a thought. If Hezekiah is brought to task Tibb’s pockets will soon grow empty, and that will all be Edward’s fault.

“Then we are at an impasse,” Sir William says now. “If we cannot find out where Hezekiah is illicitly trading or discover witnesses to his crimes, then we will struggle to prove any foul play on his behalf. A pity those papers you found were useless. What little you could discern from them is no help without the context. Impossible to interpret.” Hamilton sucks his teeth. “What I would give to have Hezekiah in jail. He’s always been a wily bastard.”

Together, they drink. This time the brandy goes down a little easier.

“Tibb said,” Edward begins, hesitant, “that Coombe was convinced the pithos is cursed.”

Sir William sends him a dry look over the rim of his glass. “The essence of antiquarianism is a focus on the empirical evidence of the past. It’s perhaps best encapsulated in the motto adopted by Sir Richard Hoare—we speak from facts, not theory.”

“He sounds like Gough,” Edward says.

Hamilton inclines his head. “There are many who share their views. It does no good to dwell on such things when facts stare us in the face. We, as human beings, can invariably be split into two types: those who believe in magic, and those who do not. Can an object really have power over man? Or is it only coincidence that bad things happen around such an object?”

“I personally feel that the line between coincidence and fate is very thin,” Edward says stubbornly, and Sir William sits back in his chair.

“Please, Mr. Lawrence, do not make me think less of you.”

“Did you not just say that you found myth and mystery enticing?”

“Yes, but the idea of it, nothing more. Reality is often rooted in myth. Helen, Dora’s mother, did not believe in the myth of Pandora’s Box but that did not mean the box itself didn’t exist in some form or other, which is what she set out to prove.” Hamilton seems to see the frustration building in Edward, and the diplomat gives him a kindly smile. “Coombe believed the pithos to be cursed. I do not. The pithos did not cause the shipwreck. Bad weather did. Nor did the pithos cause the dig site to collapse all those years before. Hezekiah did. And Hezekiah was ruled not by an ancient piece of pottery but by greed, pure and simple.”