Author’s notes: This story was written for the first ever Jix Authors’ Secret Santa Gift Fic Exchange. The original recipient was Mary C and it was written to fulfill her requirements. More notes at the end. Merry Christmas, everyone!
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly,” sang Honey softly, as she bustled around her new living room. “Brian, can you hand me that box of ornaments, please?”
Her husband complied with a smile. In the six years of their marriage, he had rarely seen her so happy. Amazing what giving her a house of her own has done, he mused. Maybe we shouldn’t have waited so long.
Across the room, Honey was sorting the many boxes in preparation for decorating the tree. The muted tones of the area rug had disappeared beneath a plethora of delicate glass baubles and glittering ornaments. She stopped singing after reaching the high notes and looked around, seeming perplexed.
“I don’t see my great-grandmother’s ornaments anywhere,” she said, sounding a little fretful. “Could you go up to the attic and see if they’re there? I specially packed them in a big boxed, marked ‘Fragile’ on every side, top and bottom.”
With a nod, Brian left the room and climbed the stairs to the dusty and cluttered attic. When he and Honey had first seen this house, it had reminded them strongly of Mrs. Vanderpoel’s yellow brick home outside Sleepyside. From the outside, the two houses were near-identical. Inside, this house had fared rather worse. It had suffered, over the years, from alternating neglect and unsympathetic renovations. It had been hard work to bring the interior back into a state of tasteful simplicity.
Frowning slightly, Brian looked around for anything resembling the box that his wife had described. The way he remembered it, Mrs. Vanderpoel’s attic was miraculously neat and tidy. This attic, he had to admit, was disgraceful.
Now, where could it have gotten to? he wondered, poking a finger into the nearest pile. I don’t see anything marked ‘Fragile’ anywhere. Sighing with resignation, he began to search.
A discouraging half hour later, he had wandered from the area where he thought they had left their own belongings and into the disorder left by previous owners. He lifted the lid of box after box, hoping against hope that the precious heirlooms would appear.
“Eureka,” he exclaimed softly, as one particularly dusty and nondescript box revealed the treasure. “Here they are.”
Holding the valuables close to his body, he carefully made his way back to the living room. He noticed that, in his absence, Honey had hung garlands along the hallway. She was standing near the front door, her back to him, as she hung a wreath.
“I’ve got them,” he said, smiling to see that she jumped in surprise. “You just didn’t describe the box very well.”
“That’s not it,” said Honey, taking a step towards him after gently closing the door. “I know that they’re in the box I described. I was so careful with them. They’re irreplaceable, you know; made to order for my great-grandfather.”
Brian lifted the dusty lid to display the delicate baubles. Honey took a tentative step forward, her brow creasing in puzzlement. Glimmers of pale glass with delicate white designs peeked from a nest of ancient newspaper.
“This isn’t right, Brian,” she gasped. “I know I didn’t pack them like this. I used proper professional packing materials; I paid a lot of money for the right things, to make sure they were safe. I wouldn’t just shove them in a box with a little bit of paper around them.”
“Well, this is how I found them,” he replied. “You must have.”
“And this box is so dusty,” she continued, as if he had not spoken. “I know that it’s terribly dirty up there, and I’m sorry that I haven’t had time to clean it out properly yet, but we only moved here a month ago and I never had time before that, when we were trying to make the place liveable. My box couldn’t get so dirty in such a short amount of time, could it?”
“I couldn’t find the box you described,” he protested. “However it happened, this must be them.”
“You didn’t look hard enough,” said Honey, stubbornly. “This isn’t my box.”
“Well, I don’t know where it is, then,” Brian replied, in frustration. “It’s not up there. If you don’t believe me, you’d better look for yourself.”
“I will,” she said, stepping past him.
Only a few moments later, she returned with another box. This one was, as she had told him, rather larger and exhaustively marked with the word ‘Fragile.’ There was little surface left that did not bear the legend in either red or black ink, or as a bright label.
“Here is my box,” said Honey, triumphantly. “Just as I described.”
Brian smiled to see the teasing glint in her eyes. His domestic blindness was something that she loved to poke fun at, whenever the opportunity arose. It warmed his heart to know that she felt comfortable enough to tease him.
Reaching the living room, Honey slowly lifted the lid of the box. Inside, packed meticulously in the most technical manner that Brian had ever seen, were the heirloom ornaments. With gentle fingers, Honey freed one from its layers of wrappings and attached it securely to the tree.
“There,” she said, her voice filled with satisfaction. “Now I can finish up in here.”
“And what will I do with these ones?” he asked, holding up one of the ornaments he had found. “They look just the same.”
For the first time, Honey really looked at the two sets together. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open for a moment, before she regained her control and pulled it shut. With a stunned expression, she looked back and forth from one to the other.
“But these are supposed to be one of a kind,” she murmured. “Mother always told me that they were. She said that her grandfather had them designed for his wife for a gift. They were supposed to be the only set like them in the whole world. There can’t be another set.”
“They look so similar,” said Brian, gently. “Is it possible that the set was split at some point? Perhaps between two siblings?”
“I don’t think so,” Honey said, slowly. “Mother told me that the tradition is for them to be handed to the eldest daughter on the occasion of her marriage. My grandmother and mother both have only one sibling, so it doesn’t really seem likely. I’d better call Mother and check, though.”
The telephone receiver was in her hand and she had begun to dial when another thought occurred to her. “They won’t be home,” she said, brows creased in frustration. “Tonight is the company Christmas party and Mother is hosting. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
She sank onto the sofa and let her chin rest in her hands. Brian could not help but smile at the picture she made. Many times, over the years, his sister had been accused of insatiable curiosity. What most people never noticed was that Honey sometimes suffered from it, too. The difference was that Honey usually hid hers much better.
“Maybe there’s another way to find out,” he suggested, sitting next to her. “This is an old Dutch house. Maybe Mrs. Vanderpoel knew the people who lived here.”
Honey brightened immediately. “You’re right,” she said, hopping up. “I’ll call her right away.”
Some time later, she returned with a sheet of paper in hand and a puzzled look on her face. “I love Mrs. Vanderpoel to bits,” she said, “but she makes less than no sense, sometimes.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She knew the original owners of the house,” Honey continued and glanced down at the page on which she had made notes. “She said something like, ‘Of course, child. Your house was originally owned by the family of my dear sister-in-law’s second husband’s cousin. I knew them well.’”
Brian laughed at his wife’s impression and asked, “Isn’t that clear enough?”
“No!” she cried. “As soon as she said ‘sister-in-law,’ I started thinking of Trixie and the thought of her ever having a second husband is just too weird to contemplate. Then, of course, I started wondering whether she really was a sister-in-law still, if she’d remarried, or if Mrs. Vanderpoel should really have said ‘the family of my dear brother’s widow’s second husband’s cousin,’ which, of course, sounds even worse!”
“You’re making this much more complicated than it needs to be,” said Brian, chuckling. “For one thing, I’m fairly sure that Mrs. Vanderpoel’s brother is still alive. Forget your picture of Trixie as your brother’s wife and think of her as your husband’s sister. Then, just maybe, it will all make sense.”
A look passed across Honey’s face, filled with too many emotions to categorize. “Are you teasing me, Brian Belden?” she asked, sitting next to him on the sofa and running a slender finger along his thigh.
He took a deep breath before answering, “Would I tease you, Mrs. Belden?”
“I’m not sure that you should,” she replied, with just the shadow of a smile. “It might be a dangerous occupation. I am a detective, you know, and I know where you live.”
“I think I might be willing to take the risk,” he said. With one hand, he began to brush the hair away from her face in preparation for kissing her, but she suddenly stood and walked across the room.
“I still have decorating to do,” she said, with an angelic smile. “And, I still have a little mystery to solve. You need to keep your mind on the job at hand, Brian.”
Groaning inwardly, but strangely pleased with the turn that the evening was taking, Brian straightened himself and gave his wife his full attention.
“As I was saying, before you took us off on that tangent,” she smiled, returning to the Christmas tree, “Mrs. Vanderpoel not only knew the people who lived here, but provided me with their life stories, practically. As far as I can tell, there’s absolutely no connection with my family whatsoever. None of them were ever in domestic service--”
“Just as well, considering the state this house was in when we bought it,” Brian interjected.
“--or lived, or worked anywhere near the area my mother’s family comes from,” she continued. “At the time that the ornaments were made, the man of the house was a furniture maker. His son died in the Second World War and there weren’t any other children, so the house was inherited by a nephew. Mrs. Vanderpoel didn’t approve of him at all! By the sound of him, he never did an honest day’s work in his life and ended up being jailed for trying to rob a bank.”
“Trying?” asked her husband.
Honey stood back from the tree to admire the effect, or check the symmetry, Brian wasn’t sure which. With a satisfied nod, she returned to her task and took up the story once again.
“He didn’t even get any money,” she said, smiling. “He was so inept that he bungled the whole thing and had to run away. He died in jail, apparently, after only serving a few weeks of his sentence. After that, the house went to another relative and he was a little better. He was a used car salesman and was the cousin that Mrs. Vanderpoel was talking about. He lived here until he was 97, then he had to go into a nursing home. After he died, his relatives sold the house to us.”
“It doesn’t sound very promising,” said Brian, with a small frown. “None of those people sound like they would have any kind of link with your mother’s family.” He tried to picture Honey’s prim grandmother talking to a used car salesman, but could not conjure up the image.
“They don’t sound like they’d have a connection with the artist who made the ornaments, either,” Honey replied with a sigh. “I must admit that for the moment I’m completely stumped.” She took another step back from the tree and smiled. “How does that look?”
“Beautiful,” said Brian, looking at his wife.
“The tree,” she corrected, using a finger under his chin to shift his gaze. “Not me.”
“You’re both beautiful,” he whispered, “but I like you better.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she teased, looping her arms around his neck.
“That’s what I was hoping,” he replied.
The following morning, just as she had intended, Honey called her mother for more information on the ornaments. The Wheeler household was a bustle of activity, as it often was when both Matthew and Madeleine were at home.
“I’m glad you called, Honey,” her mother said, once greetings had been exchanged. “I wanted to let you know that Aunt Margaret will be here this afternoon for a visit and that you and Brian are both invited for afternoon tea.”
“Oh! What a wonderful coincidence,” Honey exclaimed, remembering that Aunt Margaret was her maternal grandmother’s younger sister. “Mother, I have some questions about great-grandmother’s ornaments. Last night, Brian found a set that is almost identical in our attic.”
“That’s impossible!” cried Madeleine. “My mother was most insistent that they were the only ones like them in the world. When Aunt Margaret arrives, she will tell you same thing.”
“I was hoping that she might be able to tell me more than that,” her daughter replied. “I really want to know where this second set has come from.”
“Bring them with you,” said Madeleine. “I’d like to see them.”
“I will, Mother,” said Honey. “I’ll see you at afternoon tea.”
At the appointed hour, Honey and Brian arrived at Manor House to find everything in readiness. Crisp linen tablecloths and sparkling silverware were set out on the table, along with platters of tiny delicacies. Seated in an upright chair, looking dignified and serene, was Honey’s great aunt.
“Aunt Margaret! How nice it is to see you!” cried Honey, crossing the room quickly. “You remember my husband Brian, don’t you?”
“Of course, dear,” replied the old lady, kissing the air next to her niece’s cheek. “I hope you are both well?”
For the next few minutes, pleasantries were exchanged while they waited for the remainder of the guests. A look of consternation crossed Aunt Margaret’s face as a wave of sound penetrated the house. Honey and Brian exchanged an amused look. In a moment or two, it seemed, Jim and Trixie would enter the room with their two small and boisterous sons.
“Good afternoon, everyone. Sorry we’re a little late,” said Jim, looking flustered, as he arrived.
Matthew drew them into the room with a word or two, taking the smaller boy from his son’s arms. With deliberation, he chose a straight chair for Trixie and offered her a supporting arm as she settled her heavily pregnant frame.
Brian was torn between amusement and disgust at the look displayed on the older lady’s face. It was, he knew, less socially acceptable in decades past for a visibly pregnant woman to appear in public. Further to that, in most of the upper social circles, it was unthinkable to bring small children into such a situation, but Matthew and Madeleine Wheeler were passionate about their grandchildren and wasted no opportunity to see them. I hope she loosens up when the boys go upstairs in a few minutes, he thought, otherwise Honey won’t get anything out of her!
Fortunately for the investigation, Miss Trask arrived shortly afterwards to take charge of the youngsters. After a final cuddle for each grandparent, she whisked them upstairs to a specially fitted playroom and their own afternoon snack. Downstairs, the adults settled to their own refreshments.
“It’s such a wonderful coincidence that you’re here,” said Honey to her aunt, as they both sipped their drinks. “I made a discovery last night that has me completely puzzled and I was hoping that you would be able to shed some light on the subject.” With a minimum of fuss, Honey began to describe her find.
“Impossible!” said her aunt, when the narrative concluded. “They are absolutely unique. My father paid good money to ensure the fact.”
Across the table, Trixie’s eyes shone with suppressed excitement. Here, her face seemed to say, was a mystery that could involve no possible danger and, therefore, no one could object to her involvement in, while in her present condition.
“I’d like to show them to you later,” Honey continued. “They look so similar that I’m at a loss to explain them.”
“I wondered,” said Brian, “whether the set might have been split at one point.”
“Impossible,” repeated the old lady. “My father commissioned the ornaments in 1933, when my sister and I were quite small. Mother was feeling rather less than festive that year; her brother, who had fought in France during the war, had finally succumbed to his injuries. Times were hard and, while we still had plenty, there were many people who were in need.
“Father wanted to give her something unique, so he searched for an artisan worthy of the task. I believe that the man who made the ornaments was working in a factory. Father once told me that he had to pay the owner for the man’s time, as well as pay the man himself.”
“They must have cost a fortune,” Honey murmured.
“I’m sure they did,” agreed her great aunt. “Mother was very touched. I was very small at the time, but I still remember how happy she was to receive them. She was always proud to have them hang on our tree and your grandmother and I were forbidden to go near them.
“When your grandmother married, Mother gave them to her, on the condition that each generation they would be passed down to the eldest daughter when she married. So, you see, there is no chance that the set could have been split. I’m quite certain, also, that Father never gave any to any other person. They were a special gift for Mother, designed particularly for her.”
Brian watched as shadows of emotion crossed his wife’s face. After so many years, he had become adept at reading her mood and he noted that she was now deep in thought. This is why she and Trixie make such a good team, he thought, with pride. Honey is the deep thinker; she stops and considers before making a move.
“Do you recognise any of the names on this list?” Honey asked, producing a neatly written reproduction of the names that Mrs. Vanderpoel had supplied. “These are relatives of the previous owners of our house,” she explained.
“No,” Aunt Margaret replied, after a long pause. “They are Dutch names? We did have a Dutch girl as nursery maid for a short time, but I don’t remember ever hearing her surname. We called her Anna.”
The slightest of frowns settled on Honey’s face, before her aunt continued, “I shall look in my father’s records when I get home. No matter how short a time they were employed, he always kept meticulous records of all employees. I shall write to you with the answer. May I take this list?”
Receiving permission, along with Honey’s profuse thanks, she tucked it into her handbag and the conversation turned to other matters.
“I think I’ll go and visit with the boys,” said Matthew, as Celia entered to clear the table. “Jim? Brian?”
The three men made a quick exit, leaving the four women alone. Madeleine smiled.
“Shall we sit somewhere more comfortable?” she invited. “Honey, would you like to get the ornaments?”
Honey did as suggested, returning just in time to hear Trixie grumble about needing someone to help her out of the comfortable chair. She suppressed a smile at this now-familiar complaint and gently set the box on a convenient table.
“This is just how Brian found them,” she explained. “You’ll notice that the box is plain cardboard – no clue there – and that the newspaper they’re wrapped in is a New York paper from November of 1933.”
“Hasn’t been exposed to too much light,” said Trixie, having asked for and been handed some of the paper wrapping. “It would be much more yellow and brittle, otherwise.”
“They’re really very similar to the real thing, aren’t they?” murmured Madeleine, far more interested in the ornaments than their wrappings. “Every bit as beautiful.”
“Very similar,” agreed her aunt, examining one closely, “however, not identical.”
“What have you noticed, Aunt Margaret?” asked Honey, trying to suppress the excitement in her voice, but feeling that she had failed.
“Do you see this ornamentation here?” she asked, indicating a point on the underside. “You see that there are some initials worked into the design? On the real ornaments, it should read ‘RMC’ - my late uncle’s initials. On this one, it is ‘RNC’.”
“This one, also,” said Madeleine. “Perhaps these were made first and then replaced when the mistake was discovered.”
“But why didn’t the man just fix these?” asked Trixie, still examining the newspaper.
“Because they’re etched,” said Honey. “That’s not paint, it’s actual etching in the glass. That’s why they’re in such good condition after all this time. A lot of painted ornaments from that era look pretty shabby, now. I did some research this morning and I never saw anything like these ones.”
“They went completely against the fashion,” agreed her great aunt. “My mother loved them, though, even more so because they were so unusual.”
“So, now we have a reason why there were two sets,” mused Honey, “but not for how they got into my attic.”
“And that’s the real puzzle,” added Trixie.
That evening, settled comfortably in Honey and Brian’s living room, the two went over the situation in detail with Trixie. The duplicate ornaments sat on the coffee table in front of them, while the heirloom set shone in the lights of the tree.
“So, what have we got to work with?” asked Trixie, trying to find a comfortable position.
Brian smiled gently as his wife enumerated the points on her fingers. He was more than happy to take a back seat in this discussion.
“Well, to begin with, there’s no obvious link between my family and the previous owners of the house. There might be something in the Dutch nursery maid, but Mrs. Vanderpoel told me that none of the family belonging to this house were in domestic service.
“There’s no obvious person who might be connected with the artist who made them, either. There didn’t seem to be anyone closely connected with the owner at the time the ornaments were made, either.”
“How long afterwards did that person live here?” asked Trixie.
“Well, I’m not sure,” said Honey, consulting her notes. “Mrs. Vanderpoel told me that the man’s son died in the Second World War, and that there were no other children, so I guess the man must have outlived his son.”
“Probably at least ten years, then,” said Trixie. “Eight, at the very least. What do you think about these wrappings? They practically have to be the original ones, by the date of the paper, but I don’t think they look like they were used over and over again. They might have been up in the attic here since they were new, which would narrow things down a lot.”
“You think that he just wrapped them up and put them away and forgot about them?” asked Honey. Her brow creased slightly as she digested that idea. “What if the person who had them did that, but they got into the attic here sometime later?”
“Go and spoil my simplification of the problem,” Trixie grumbled. “You agree, though, that the most likely person is the one who lived here in 1933?”
“Yes,” said Honey. “But then, I’ve thought so all along. The nephew who died in jail doesn’t sound like the kind of man to have this sort of ornament and the used car salesman relative doesn’t, either. He’s the one who made such a terrible mess of the place that it took us months to get it clean enough to live in.”
Brian smiled to see the look of disdain on his wife’s face. Looking back, he was still amazed that she had been able to see past the dust and grime, the unsympathetic renovations and the general disrepair of the place. Her vision of what the house could be had meant hard work, but it had certainly been worth the effort.
“So, our avenues of investigation are,” began Trixie, waving Honey to a pen and paper, “the family of the previous owners, the nursery maid called Anna, the style of the ornaments as a clue to their maker and…”
“And?” asked Honey. “I don’t see any other avenues at the moment. We don’t know enough about the man who made them to directly investigate him effectively.”
“You’re right,” replied her sister-in-law. “So, where do we start?”
“With Mrs. Vanderpoel’s dear sister-in-law’s brother’s cousin’s uncles’ friend, or whoever he was, of course,” said Honey with a giggle.
“You mean, her sister-in-law’s second husband’s cousin,” corrected Brian, smiling.
“I was close,” she shrugged. “I think I might write him a letter, though. Mrs. Vanderpoel mentioned that he’s rather deaf. And I’ll do some further research, too. I can get on with it while we’re waiting for the replies.”
“Just great,” grumbled Trixie. “Aside from the research, we’ll be waiting on two letters. I hate the postal system.”
“Patience never was your strong point,” laughed Brian.
The first reply to arrive was the one from Aunt Margaret. Honey’s face broke into a grin when she discovered it in the box, not even waiting to get inside before tearing it open. As she read, however, her face fell. Well, that’s one avenue completely closed, she told herself with a sigh. At least it was one of the weaker possibilities.
According to the letter, her great aunt had checked exhaustively through her father’s employment records, but found no mention of the names on the list. Anna, the nursery maid, had been dismissed after only a few months. A chance discovery had led to the fact that the name she had given was not her own and that she was not Dutch, as she had claimed.
Furthermore, her employment had occurred the year after the ornaments had been made. There seemed to be no possible connection between the family who owned the house and Honey’s own family. The connection must be to the unknown artisan. And how we’ll find that, I have no idea, she thought.
The second reply took a further week and a half to reach her. With a pounding heart, Honey slowly pulled the enclosure from the envelope and held her breath while she read:
‘Dear Mrs. Belden,
‘I am sorry to tell you that I know of no living members of that family. My cousin Frank, who had the house immediately before you, was related to me on his mother’s side. The house came from his father’s side of the family. Even so, to the best of my knowledge, none of the family is still living.
‘When he passed away, the property was divided between myself and three other cousins, all on his mother’s side. I am sure that if there were nearer relatives living, or any at all on his father’s side, they would have had a share. There was no feud that I knew of.
‘I have asked my cousins and none of them know any more.
(signed)
‘Bram Van Houten’
Honey’s head slumped against the kitchen table, where she sat, until she could no longer read the words. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Brian, beside her, was looking on in concern.
“It’s over and I’m completely stuck,” she said, her voice muffled. She lifted her head and tried to act like an adult. “I’m very disappointed,” she admitted.
“Is it really over?” he asked, his voice gentle and soft. “Didn’t you still have one avenue of research left?”
“Yes, but the least likely to produce results,” she said. “Brian, I’ve gone over every inch of that attic and all I’ve found is dust and dirt and old junk. I’ve looked at every possible connection and have come up with nothing. I’ve spent hours researching the topic, looking for a clue as to who might have made them and I’ve drawn a complete blank. If I was doing this for a client, I’d be recommending that they accept that it’s not possible to know. This is one mystery that will just have to remain a mystery.”
“What about museums and universities?” persisted Brian. “Somewhere, there has to be an expert you can consult.”
“I’ve visited a lot of museums lately,” she reminded him, referring to the research she had undertaken. “I never saw anything like them.” She looked up at him and saw the encouragement on his face. “I’ll give it one more shot,” she said, softly.
“Good,” he whispered. “I don’t like to see you unhappy.”
Within hours, Honey had compiled a list of email addresses covering a large number of museums, galleries and educational institutions. She composed a short letter of enquiry, detailing the subject she was interested in and a brief summary of the history of the heirlooms. With rather less hope than at any other point in the investigation, she clicked ‘Send’ and put the matter out of her mind.
I probably won’t get a single response, she thought. I’ll do something completely different to take my mind off it.
Half an hour later, while immersed in her favourite recipe website, she noticed the ‘New Mail’ sound and absent-mindedly clicked on the button to download. When it had finished, she was amazed to see that it was a response to her enquiry.
It might be a rude ‘don’t send this sort of thing to me’ message, she told herself, as she found her hand shaking. The mouse skittered across the screen and eventually settled on the the right spot. The message opened and Honey’s heart was suddenly in her mouth. It’s a positive reply!
She skimmed through the message quickly, discovering that the writer, a university professor, was currently writing a book and thought that perhaps her ornaments might explain a puzzling incident in the life of an artist he had researched. The email ended with a request for more information and, if possible, photographs of the ornaments.
A smile spread across her face as she attached the files of her notes and some photographs she had already taken and, after typing a short covering letter, sent them. As impossible as it had seemed this afternoon, the solution was now tantalizingly close.
A few days later, Honey travelled into New York City, destined for an appointment with the professor. She carried with her the duplicate set of ornaments, now carefully wrapped, along with their original container and a vast quantity of notes. Her arms were aching by the time she reached the door on which the man’s name was inscribed. Shifting her burden carefully, she raised a hand and knocked. The door was opened by a handsome man in his late thirties.
“Ms. Belden?” he asked, before she could say a word. “Come in, come in. I’m Andrew Keating. Please take a seat.”
Honey soon found herself in a chair opposite a messy desk, her various packages unloaded onto the top of a nearby filing cabinet and the desk itself.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she began.
“Not at all,” the professor replied. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. Would it be too forward of me to ask to see the ornaments right away?”
Honey smiled and opened the package on the table. “Only if you won’t consider it too forward for me to ask whether you know who it was that made them.”
The man carefully removed a glass orb from the box and examined it under a strong light and a magnifier. For several minutes, he was silent in his concentration. With enormous patience, he slowly rotated the ball until he had viewed every part.
“Arthur Robinson,” he finally declared, triumphantly. “This is a most wonderful find!” He spent the next few moments apparently overwhelmed by the discovery, before finally remembering his guest. “You see,” he explained, “on every known example of his work, he put this mark… you can see it here, near where the hanger touches the glass. It’s like his signature.”
“Is there any clue as to how these ones ended up in my attic?” Honey asked, trying not to frown at the idea of beginning the research all over again, this time with a name like Robinson. “It doesn’t seem at all likely that Mr. Robinson was related to the owners of my house.”
“Yes, certainly,” Professor Keating replied, pulling a box towards him. “I have Mr. Robinson’s diaries here.” He rifled through the box, finally pulling out a small, leather-bound book with a bright orange bookmark protruding from the top. “Read the page that’s marked.”
Honey took the offered book and opened to find an entry for November 7th, 1933. Her eyebrows rose slightly as she read the short entry:
‘Have made a terrible mistake. Misread N for M in ED’s order. Must do all again. Cannot bear to destroy after so many hours work. This commission will ruin me.’
“Turn the page,” the professor suggested with a smile.
‘November 8th, 1933,
‘Made the sale of my life last night! Joe took the ornaments from me for double the cost of the glass. Have to work day and night to finish on time, but there’ll be food on the table. Hate to think of him getting them melted down, but can’t afford otherwise.’
“I know, from earlier in the diary,” he told her, “that ‘Joe’ was a Dutchman who worked in the same factory as Arthur Robinson. His name wasn’t Joe, but the men called him that for simplicity.”
“ED would be my great grandfather, Edward Dent,” added Honey, eyes shining with excitement. “Joe must have been the furniture maker that owned my house. I have his name here… Jaap Van Den Broucke. I guess they chose ‘Joe’ for him because his name started with J, even if it wasn’t pronounced that way. Even the wrappings correlate - the newspaper they were wrapped in was dated November 6th, 1933, which would be the day before’s at the time they were sold.” She sighed in satisfaction. “Thank you so much for solving this problem for me, professor.”
“My pleasure,” he replied. “There’s just one more thing that I’d like to ask you - or, two things, actually.” At her nod, he continued, “Firstly, I’d like to have these and the other set professionally photographed. Then, after my book comes out, I’d like you to consider loaning these for display to one of the museums.”
For a long moment, Honey thought deeply. “I don’t want the heirloom set to leave my house,” she said, finally. “If you can arrange for the work to be done there, under my supervision, you have a deal on the photography. As for the museum, it would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you, Ms. Belden,” he said, quite solemnly. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Seasons had passed and Christmas was once again on the way when Honey received a surprise package in the mail. It was large, firm and quite heavy for its size and it bore an unfamiliar return address. She took it into the kitchen and dropped it onto the table before going to her room to change. A few minutes later, she returned to make short work of the wrappings.
A slow smile crossed her face. The book was a large hardback with a stylish dust jacket and glossy pages. A quick glance through the contents page revealed the section of her interest and she turned directly to the page indicated. There, spread before her, were her own ornaments, looking just as beautiful as they did in real life. She was so absorbed in the narrative that followed that she did not hear her husband’s approach.
“What do you have there?” he asked in her ear, making her jump.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she chastised. He successfully dodged the playful slap she sent his way, before leaning back towards her to kiss her cheek. “It’s Professor Keating’s book. Doesn’t it look beautiful?” She flipped back to show him the first page of the chapter, featuring her ornaments.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, looking at Honey.
“You’re incorrigible,” she murmured.
“Encourageable?” he asked, kissing her neck.
“That, too,” she giggled. She reached behind her to run a hand up his thigh. “But I don’t have time for that right now. I want to read the rest of this book.” Honey let out a squeak as she found herself being lifted off the floor and into her husband’s arms. “Brian! You put me right back down again!”
“Leave the book,” he crooned. “Come with me instead.”
“Oh, but the book is so interesting,” she replied, twisting in his arms to look in its direction.
“I’ll show you interesting,” he replied.
“Will you?” she twisted back to look up into his eyes.
“I love you, Honey,” he said, gently kissing her.
“And I love you, Brian,” she replied.
The End
End notes: A big thank you to Steph H for the last minute edit. I probably un-edited it a bit, while transferring to my own site, but I hope it’s not in too bad condition overall. A big thank you also to Terry and Cathymw for organising this event. I’m afraid that none of the people in this story actually exist, but all come from my twisted imagination. Another big thank you to Terry, who hosted this story for an extended time, while I got myself organised.
Please note: Trixie Belden is a registered trademark of Random House Publishing. This site is in no way associated with Random House and no profit is being made from these pages.