He was positive.
I asked him again, just to be sure; to make sure I had not misunderstood him. He was adamant. The woman in the house, the one who gave him the box was the same woman in the photograph. A little older, for sure, but definitely her. He was not mistaken. He had a very good eye for faces, he told me.
It didn't make sense. I handed him the box and told him, "stay here."
I had to make sure the house was secure.
Conducting a thorough search of an empty house is one of the easiest things in the world. Every room was empty and every cupboard in every empty room was similarly empty. There were no wardrobes in any of the bedrooms for anyone to secrete themselves in and no other furniture to hide behind. The house was, in essence, an empty shell and was therefore, devoid of life. I still had to check though.
Walking through the emptiness was disconcerting, inasmuch as I half-expected to be confronted by some spectral form reaching out towards me, or the disembodied, semi-transparent visage of the woman in the portrait looming out of the shadows at me. I saw nothing. Not even the wispy shadows that had plagued me in the house during the last few days. I heard nothing either.
Once I was certain I was totally alone I began backtracking towards the main entrance, closing each of the doors behind me. I must confess, the living room - that permanently cold, eerie place - I only peered into, even so I was adamant that nothing remained in it as I finally closed the door on that too. I set the burglar alarm and backing out into the more welcoming light of day locked the front door and let out a sigh, which, I do not mind admitting, was one of relief.
Matthew was staring at me sheepishly, his face a little more florid than it was before. It puzzled me, so I enquired if anything was wrong.
"No, nothing," he said smiling, indicating to me, who had known him a long time, that he wasn't being entirely honest. I let it go though, because, like myself, he had just had an experience which could be described as being not exactly normal, however I will draw the line - at this stage - at saying, paranormal. So I imagined, he too merely wanted to leave the house far behind him. Our job, ostensibly, was done. It was time to reap the rewards.
The box, I kept. It was placed under the drivers seat, contents intact and it remained there as we unloaded and off-loaded the contents of the van at various locations around the city, including the local auction house. With Matthew assisting we made very short work of the normally back-breaking practice and it was obvious to us both that we'd be finished well before 4pm.
The last stop was my lock-up, a large storage room annexed to the shop where I would take my time to research each of the more interesting pieces before deciding what prices to put on them. I would do that for everything, everything that is, except the box. It was my intention to go through every scrap of paper it contained, study every photograph and then... Then, I would hand it over to the estate agent for him to deliver it up to the solicitor so that it could be returned to the last remaining relative of Alice Freemantle.
Matthew waited until the last piece was carefully stowed away before making a move. I appreciated his dedication and diligence and rewarded it with a grateful smile and two twenties.
"You sure?"
I nodded. "There'll be another bonus once I start to shift this lot. In the meantime, thanks for the help and have a drink on me. Merry Christmas."
He grasped hold of my hand and pumped it vigorously, "Thanks a lot. Merry Christmas to you too."
We did not exchange cards. Not many antique dealers bothered anymore, instead we simply exchanged pleasantries directed towards wishing each other the compliments of the season. Yet, there was something else... Matthew seemed reluctant to leave.
I had noticed something earlier when I had returned from locking up the house too. He had a peculiar look on his face, as though he wanted to say something but was unable to, perhaps even afraid to, which was absurd because he had nothing to fear from me and there was little that he could say that I would be offended by.
"What's wrong?" I asked cautiously.
"Nothing." He grinned sheepishly, but it did not fool me and I think he sensed that too because he suddenly sighed and added, "Who was the old bird in the photo?"
What could I tell him? The truth? That, if he was certain that the person who had handed him the box was the same woman in the photograph then he had conversed with the dead? That he had been given a gift by a ghost? Was that possible? More to the point how would he react, being like myself, incredibly superstitious? What was it they said about receiving gifts from the spirit world..?
I put the thoughts out of my mind. They did not sound rational or sane in my head, so I imagined they would seem to be even more bizarre to him. Matthew did deserve an answer however... In the end I decided on an altogether easier option, though it meant lying to him, which as a trait I detested in myself more than I did in others, but felt that I had very little other choice.
"She's the sister of the woman who gave you the box, the one who lives next door."
"Really?" He shook his head slowly. "To be honest she fucking freaked me out, creeping up on me like that. It was like she appeared out of nowhere and her hands..!"
He stopped. I wanted him to continue and so prompted him a little more forcefully than I would normally of considered doing. "What about them? What about her hands?"
"They were so fucking cold." He simulated a shiver (though to be honest, it may not have been simulated at all, it was hard to tell) "Why don't they turn their fucking central heating on in the winter. It's mental."
I did not pass comment and realising that our conversation on the subject could not realistically go any further he raised a hand, once again expressed his best wishes for me over the Christmas period and moved towards the door. "See you next year then."
"Sure," I waved him off. "Thanks for all your help today." And with that he was off, to spend his wages (and his bonus no doubt) on a very fine bottle of single malt whisky for himself and a meagre present for his wife with whatever was left. Shortly after there was a roar as his van moved off and then there was nothing but the silence of my store and the occasional creak as the new furniture settled into its new surroundings.
It was the last time I ever saw him alive.
Several hours later, as the long winter evening darkness began to reclaim the murkier corners of the lock-up and threatened to engulf whatever fading light remained, I retrieved the box and by the pale yellow artificial glow of my desk lamp began to examine it more carefully.
It was a writing slope, possibly late Victorian, though more likely Edwardian, in a dark, burnished mahogany; veneered obviously. The corners of the box were shouldered in brass as was the escutcheon and the decorative inset name plate on the top of the piece. Once opened, the box, cut at an acute angle, created a slope suitable for the purpose for which it was designed and was covered in a luxurious gold embellished crimson Moroccan leather.
Writing slopes like this always had several hidden compartments which could be reached by sliding a small locking latch at the edges of the slope. It was within the lower (hidden) compartment that the bulk of the letters - beautifully tied up with a thin red silk ribbon - and the photograph of Alice Freemantle were located. I took them out and placed them carefully on the desk next to the box. Next I checked the top compartment and found only a small, folded piece of vellum bearing an almost illegible scrawling handwritten message. I put that with the other documents.
The better boxes had other more secretive drawers secured by a long brass pin disguised as a screw head, though this particular one did not. It did however have a true secret compartment, designed to conceal the most precious of items - especially passionate love letters or valuables - from curious or prying eyes, located beneath the pen tray. Having had several such items in my possession over the years it was simply a matter of trial and error, pulling on each of the dividing walls in turn, before a spring-loaded panel shot open to reveal its contents...
There were three envelopes, folded neatly into slim rectangles, two of which had apparently never been opened, each bearing a heavy wax seal on the reverse and one that had been opened, though empty and addressed simply to: 'My sweet Alice'.
Discarding the opened packet, I placed the other two on the bundle of correspondence with the intention of opening them and reading whatever was written within, but it was getting steadily darker and the lamp was insufficient to illuminate much more than the smallest section of my already cluttered desk. I forced myself up out of the chair and made a resolution to investigate the letters further the first thing in the morning.
I was unprepared for what I found in them.
