Bronwyn Scott - A Thoroughly Compromised Lady

‘ Buena, señorita. Name a price, and it shall be yours.’

He seemed far too eager to get rid of her after the demanding note requiring an immediate meeting.

‘I would prefer to see the rest of the contents,’ Dulci said, proceeding to empty the crate and offering an exposition on each piece she extracted. ‘This is likely to be an amulet, this would be a metate , they used it for grinding seeds…’ She spoke absently, more to herself than for the edification of Señor Vasquez.

Dulci dusted off her hands and surveyed the artefacts, seven in all. She was cognisant of the fact that Señor Vasquez had checked his watch twice while she’d unloaded the crate. He was clearly expecting someone else, or perhaps hoping to avoid the expected visitor. The collection was certainly splendid, but, while it was exciting to her, she had not forgot the urgency of Vasquez’s summons. ‘Is this everything?’

‘All but this final item.’ Vasquez handed her a worn leather book the size of a journal.

She eyed him speculatively. ‘Saving the best for last?’

Vasquez placed a hand over his heart. ‘I seek only to please you, señorita. I know how much you like to read. Look here, there’s even a few maps, very detailed.’

Dulci thumbed the pages, noting the drawings of strange plants and places. ‘An explorer’s journal? Perhaps a missionary’s log?’ Dulci asked. It was written in English and she immediately thought of Jack. The journal would make a fine gift for him, a remembrance of his own work in that region a few years back. Not that he deserved such a gift after last night, she reminded herself.

‘I can only guess, señorita. My English is not good enough for reading,’ Vasquez hedged. ‘I am a mere importer.’

Dulci was instantly suspicious. There was nothing ‘mere’ about Vasquez. The Spaniard was rich, his wealth made from the lucre of Spanish interests in South America. ‘How did you come by this book?’

Vasquez shrugged gallantly. ‘It was in the same crate as the statue. It was on the last ship. I unpacked it and thought of you, that is all.’

Nothing was ever that straightforward. When it was, it was time to start asking the hard questions. ‘Are the artefacts stolen?’ Dulci cocked her head to one side in an assessing tilt. She’d done business with Vasquez before. He’d proven to be a reliable contact, visiting London twice a year from Spain. Still, something didn’t seem quite right.

‘Of course not, I am a legitimate importer. Such chicanery would damage my reputation,’ Vasquez argued, putting on an offended air at the suggestion.

‘If they’re not stolen, then why the urgency? We had an appointment tomorrow morning. What difference can a day make?’

‘Ah, yes, señorita , please forgive me for worrying you. I must leave for home on the morning tide instead of leaving later in the week as I had planned. It is a personal matter. I did not want to leave without meeting with you.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘There are others who were interested in the artefacts. I am to meet with them tonight. But I confess I wanted you to have first pick.’

Dulci nodded, her concern ebbing slightly in the wake of his explanation. The man was a consummate salesman. No doubt he’d arranged all this to increase his price. Urgency was a well-proven ploy for adding spice to a negotiation. ‘I’ll pay one hundred pounds for the crate and the journal.’

‘One hundred pounds? Madre de dios , but I could not part with them for such a sum.’ He protested neatly. ‘Surely you understand, señorita , the effort to transport such goods across the Atlantic and bring them to London?’

Dulci’s tone was brisk. ‘Surely you understand, I am in no mood to haggle like a fishwife in the market. I am late for a much-anticipated lecture and you are fully cognisant of the fairness of my price.’

‘Because you are my favourite, I will indulge you.’ Vasquez relented with an exaggerated shrug. ‘A hundred pounds, señorita .’

Dulci gave a curt nod. ‘Deliver the crate to my town house promptly and you’ll receive instructions for payment. If you are quick, you’ll have no trouble getting your money before you sail. As always, señor , it is a pleasure.’

Vasquez bent over her hand. ‘The pleasure is most assuredly mine.’

The pretty señorita had barely exited the building before he began rapidly packing up the artefacts. The sooner this crate was out of his hands, the better. He had not told her any lies: the artefacts were not stolen and he did have an urgent personal need to sail tomorrow—he valued his health. Having those artefacts found in his possession would endanger that health greatly.

It had recently come to his notice through his vast networks that someone highly placed in the Venezuelan government wanted them in deadly earnest. The artefacts didn’t look particularly dangerous or valuable, just stone and wood carvings, most of them done with a crude skill at best.

It didn’t matter. They could have been jewel studded and he’d still have wanted to be rid of them. Originally, he’d thought to make a tidy profit on them, but whoever wanted them had not wanted to purchase them. There’d been no interest in a business transaction. Whatever the reason, these items had not been meant to be seen by

others. The possessor of these artefacts, for reasons he could not ascertain, was as good as dead. The artefacts were out of his hands now. He was safe. He’d been careful to erase any mention of them in his ship’s manifesto and if his London warehouse was searched, they would find nothing that traced the artefacts back to him. He didn’t worry overmuch about the artefacts being discovered in the eccentric Señorita Wycroft’s possession. If the artefacts couldn’t be traced to him, they couldn’t be traced to her. He supposed it was entirely possible the objects could be found through other avenues, but that would be a random happenstance completely out of his control. In all probability, the artefacts and whatever they hid would fall into obscurity, displayed inside a nice glass curio case in the señorita ’s town house. His ethical conscience, such as it was, was clear. Señor Vasquez closed the lid on the crate and breathed a much-desired sigh of relief.

Calisto Ortiz aimed a frustrated kick at an empty packing crate and swore in a fluid torrent of Spanish for all to hear. There was inept and then there was outright incompetence. His men had bungled the job again. How hard was it to retrieve a map no one knew existed? Yet his men had failed to recover it in Venezuela after the map-maker had mistakenly packed it with his other archaeological finds for shipping back to Spain. Here in London, the map had slipped from their grasp a second time. After having tracked it to an importer named Vasquez, Ortiz had thought his work was nearly done. He simply had to run Vasquez to ground and claim the map. But he was too late. The warehouse was deserted, but only freshly so. The crates were empty and bore the markings of Spanish freight. They also looked new, lacking the dirt and gouges that often accompanied crates over time.

Calisto Ortiz barked out new orders to his men. ‘Search the docks, maybe the ship hasn’t sailed yet. Search the taverns and inns for Vasquez too.’

The men rushed to do his bidding, leaving him alone in the warehouse. Calisto upended a crate and sat down upon it, heaving a sigh. He cared less about finding the ship than he did about finding Vasquez. Vasquez was fast becoming a valuable link in this game for two reasons. The first reason was of a practical nature. If he didn’t find Vasquez and hence the map, it would mean the map was loose in London. The search would take on a needle-in-the-haystack quality.