Page 43 of The Stolen Queen

The phone rang and Mark grabbed the receiver from the bedside table. Charlotte assumed it was Mark’s ex-wife again. She’d called twice a day since Lori had arrived in New York, although Lori rarely wanted to speak with her. When she did, her answers were short and curt, bordering on rude, which made Charlotte both relieved and annoyed: relieved that Charlotte wasn’t the only person Lori treated that way, and annoyed that Lori was able to get away with it in the first place.

But instead of yelling for Lori, Mark handed the receiver to Charlotte.

“It’s for you.”

She lifted it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Miss Cross, it’s Tenny Woods.”

Charlotte’s heart began to pound. He wouldn’t have rung her at this hour, at home, unless he had something to report. For a second, she regretted going to see him. Did she really want to know the answer to what had gone on all those years ago? Why dig up the past now?

Mark was studying her closely. She couldn’t have this conversation in front of him.

Charlotte told Mr. Woods to hold for a moment. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said to Mark.

He grabbed his cuff links from the bureau, adjusted the baby photo of Lori so it was even with the other framed photos around it, and closed the door behind him.

“Yes, Mr. Woods, I’m here.”

“Please, call me Tenny.”

“Very well, please call me Charlotte. What did you find out?” she said, barely breathing.

“The identity of whoever recently loaned the antiquities to the Met is tightly sealed. The best I could get was that the items are owned by a husband and wife.”

“No names, no nationalities?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She was disappointed but not surprised. Most serious collectors tended to be private, operating on the principle of mutual discretion between buyer and seller, with the goal of owning a rare piece of history. The obnoxious collectors—the ones who splashed their names across multiple galleries—were usually angling for something less refined, like trying to buy goodwill for their progeny or acceptance into the inner circles of a social elite that would never have them.

“Well, thank you for looking into it. Let me know how much I owe you for your time.”

“That’s not all, though.”

Charlotte closed her eyes tight and waited.

“Back in 1937, there were Egyptian warrants out for the arrests of Henry Smith and Leon Pitcairn on charges of smuggling.”

“What? Are you sure?” Even though all the evidence—the secretive talks with Leon, the suitcase filled with antiquities—now added up, she still couldn’t believe Henry would have been capable of such a thing.

“The warrant was dated November of that year.”

The same month they fled.

“Henry Smith was never located, but the other man was. Leon Pitcairn.”

Charlotte’s mouth went dry. “You’re sure? The same Leon Pitcairn?”

“I believe so. The Egyptian authorities caught up with him a few years later, and he spent some time in prison in Cairo.”

“Is he still alive?”

“He is.”

“Where?”

“Luxor, Egypt. He’s a guide in the Valley of the Kings.”

---