Page 42 of The Stolen Queen

He rubbed his chin with one hand. “Well, I suggest you contact the Egyptian Museum first. If you’re right, it’s their theft to follow up with. Not yours.”

“We both know the Egyptian Museum is having trouble just keeping the lights on these days. I’m not sure what kind of resources they have on hand to start this kind of inquiry.”

He didn’t disagree. “So you’re going to lead the charge? Why?”

“Because I knew the two men personally. Quite well.”

“Tell me more.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. “I was in Egypt with my husband, a man named Henry Smith. The last I saw the collar, it had fallen out of a suitcase that Henry was carrying, onto the deck of a ship that was about to sink into the Nile. He stuffed it into one of his pockets. I had no idea it was even in his possession at the time.”

Now she had Mr. Woods’s full attention. “I see. What happened to Henry, if I may ask?”

“He was presumed dead, drowned. I assumed the collar was lost as well.”

“But here it is.”

“You can imagine my surprise.”

“You say ‘presumed dead,’ Miss Cross. Do you think there’s a chance he survived?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know what to think.” But she wasn’t thinkingof Henry; she was thinking of Layla. The not knowing was the worst of all. Not knowing where Layla’s tiny body had ended up, what terrifying impressions might have gone through her mind. The fact that their last touch was fraught with fear and panic. She coughed, erasing the dark thoughts under the guise of clearing her throat. “Henry’s body was never found. But I don’t know anything for sure. I was in the hospital for several weeks after, so I don’t know what happened.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Mr. Woods was still and quiet.

“Thank you, it was many years ago. But I have to know why the broad collar resurfaced, and who it belongs to. Do you understand?”

“You think your husband might still be alive, that somehow he escaped with the stolen goods?”

“It’s important I find that out.” No doubt Mr. Woods thought her a distraught widow, which was better than knowing she was a destroyed mother. As long as he looked into it.

“Unfortunately, Henry Smith is a very common name, and as this occurred many decades ago, I don’t think there’s much for me to go on.”

“What about making Mr. Lavigne disclose the name of the current owner? You could work backward from whomever that is, follow the chain of custody.”

“There’s no reason for Mr. Lavigne to tell me that information. It would only lead to a headache for him, and besides, he’s signed a contract.”

“Is it legal if the goods are stolen?”

“Now we’re back to square one.”

He was right.

She paused. “There’s another name, an associate of my husband’s who was on the ship with us. At the time, Henry said it was his suitcase.”

“What’s the name?” Mr. Woods picked up a pen.

“Leon,” she answered. “Leon Pitcairn.”

Charlotte studied her reflection in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. She had chosen to wear a vintage black georgette gown to this year’s Met Gala, one she’d first seen in the window of a Greenwich Village thrift store twenty years ago and that luckily still fit. It wasn’t on trend, by any means, with tulip sleeves and an unfashionable lack of embellishment, but Charlotte had always liked the way it gently draped around her hips, providing a subtle sense of curves to her thin frame.

Mark stepped up behind her and slipped his hands around her waist.

“You look ravishing.”

She turned around and adjusted his bow tie. “You clean up well yourself.”

The plan was to meet Helen and her husband for drinks at an East Side bar an hour before the gala officially began, partly to engage in some pre-gala gossip, as well as provide lubrication for what was sure to be a long night ahead.

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