Excerpt: The Narwhal Cup

The first time I held the Narwhal Cup, I almost dropped it. Mrs. Haversham had unwrapped it from packing materials and placed it on the large oak table in her drawing room.

I had taken the usual precautions. I was wearing gloves. I held it with both hands. Yet, when I studied the carefully carved bone surface covered with sea-unicorns and Celtic knots, I couldn't help but remember all the stories about how such a cup was supposed to prevent poisoning. Except for the Duc du Lac, the Monseigneur Claussier, and now, perhaps, the very recently deceased Mr. Haversham. That's when the cup wobbled and threatened to fall right out of my grasp.

Or maybe it was the fourth cup of coffee I had grabbed to keep me alert on three hour drive south from Edinburgh. I still wasn't used to driving on the opposite side of the road.

“Careful there, Miss Robertson. Your accent is American. You do work for the Museum, don't you?”

“Yes, Mrs Haversham. I specialize in medieval curiosities, which this certainly is. I came over to Europe for graduate studies in Paris and simply never went home. It's a pure pleasure to work at the Museum of Edinburgh and I enjoy my work as assistant curator.”

Mrs. Haversham sniffed. Apparently she didn't think much of Americans. Perhaps I should have spread my Parisien accent a little more thickly. “Have you had the cup evaluated before? It is exquisite.” I placed the cup carefully back on the table. “May I photograph it?”

Mrs. Haversham appeared mollified. She nodded.

“You mentioned in your letter the cup has been in your family for a number of years?”

“Some say this cup was one of a pair brought back to England by John Shackleton. One went to the King, George V, as a gift. The other came to my grandmother, then living near London. I have a note from Shackleton, if you'd like to see it.”

“Yes, I'd like to see it very much.”

The cup was tiny, fitting just into the palm of my hand. I placed it on a small pedestal and began shooting. Its intricately carved sea-unicorns balanced incredulously atop the waves, their tails almost a freize around the base of the cup. Their horns dipped into the water, in keeping with the belief that a unicorn's horn could purify any poison. The cup was carved of bone, most likely from tusk of the rare Narwhal, which Shackleton could have found on his expedition to North Hudson Bay. 1914, so long ago, and yet this artifact remained.

Mrs. Haversham returned, a small brown leather portfolio under her arm. “I must ask you not to photograph this, however,” she began. She opened the portfolio and looked at the letter inside. “It was rather difficult for me to call the museum. I would rather keep these objects so important to my family; however, it seems I must let them go.”

I was quiet. I knew my boss, the indefatigable Mr. Ferguson, would die to acquire the arwhal Cup and the letter, and anything else Mrs. Haversham was willing to sell or, better yet, donate. Yet I must follow his instructions to negotiate.

“I appreciate being able to see the Narwhal Cup, Mrs. Haversham. But I 'm not sure how the museum will respond. Having the letter does affirm its provenance.”

She smiled and held out the portfolio. I smiled back. We knew the game we were playing. I glanced at the letter and then sat down. This was authentic. I knew Shackleton's signature, having worked through an afternoon at the National Library of Scotland's collection of his letters. The Queen's Gallery just last year had sponsored a major exhibit by two photographers, Hurley from Shackleton's expedition and Ponting from Scott's failed expedition. The photographs documented a grueling environment in a land where men's beards froze and their teeth shattered. I shivered.

To be continued . . .