Fielding didn’t bother correcting the man. There was no need to bring up Esme’s kidnapping, unless she wanted to do so herself.
“Now, then, what can I do for both of you?” the older man asked.
Fielding could still see the nervous man from that day in Solomon’s, but Mr. Nichols was doing an admirable job of hiding his anxiety for the time being. No doubt that was for Esme’s benefit. Evidently the man wanted to hide his fear as Esme wanted to hide her bracelet. Still, it was hard to miss the older man’s twitching hands and sweaty brow.
“Phillip,” Esme began, “please call me Esme now that we’ve met in person.” She sat on the edge of her seat, careful to keep her right wrist and the band hidden. “In my readings I’ve come across reference to a Biedermann’s Diary. Have you heard of it?”
The cat had settled on the older man’s shoulder. “Biedermann’s Diary,” Mr. Nichols repeated. “Well, now, that does sound familiar.” He scratched his chin. “Let me think. Perhaps I’ll take a peek in my own notes.” He grabbed several small books from a nearby secretary and flipped through them. “I’ve seen the name, know I have. I only have to find it.” He moved to a second book and stopped flipping pages halfway through. “Ah, yes, here we are.”
Esme smiled at Fielding, her excitement shining brightly in her eyes. Were he not the man he was, he could see how easy it would be to join in that enthusiasm. Esme’s passion was contagious. But Fielding was immune.
Mr. Nichols’s chubby finger pressed against the text as if he were holding the words on the page. “Biedermann, a German scholar of Pandora’s box who moved to London about forty years ago.” He kept skimming his finger down the journal. “Yes, yes, he was in possession of the only copy of an ancient text regarding the legend, and his life’s work was translating it.” He looked up at Esme. “Thus the diary detailing his efforts.”
The man went back to the book. “Evidently Biedermann died a couple of years ago,” he read, “and all of his belongings, including his diary, were donated.” He turned the page, the paper scraping across his shirt. “To the museum.”
“Which museum?” Fielding asked.
Mr. Nichols looked up. “Why, the British Museum. Evidently Biedermann had quite a collection, and his nephew, who inherited it all, had no use for his uncle’s research and didn’t want to pay to have the books shipped back to Germany. A couple of months ago he simply gave it to the museum.”
“So the diary should be there as well?” Fielding asked.
“I suppose.” He frowned. “Although I wouldn’t think it would be on display. If I had to guess, I’d say they probably have translators working to complete Biedermann’s work before they put the original text and its translation in the exhibits.”
“But they don’t allow patrons to see items that are not on display,” Esme said. “How could we view it?”
Mr. Nichols shrugged. “I suppose you could go in after hours and take a peek.” He smiled broadly.
“Break into the museum?” Esme shrieked. “Absolutely not. We couldn’t.” She shook her head. “No, there must be another way to . . .” But Esme didn’t finish her thought. She eyed Fielding cautiously.
“Another way to access the diary,” Mr. Nichols said. “No, I don’t suppose there is. You could try to set up an appointment with the curator, but the new one they recently hired is an addle-brained twit.”
Mr. Nichols continued complaining about the museum curator, but Fielding wasn’t listening. He’d brought the box with them, upon Esme’s request, only because he’d given her the benefit of the doubt that her scholar friend might be able to help them. Fielding had hoped the man would be able to take one look at the box and immediately figure out how to remove those bloody bracelets. Then, when they’d arrived here and Fielding had seen that it was in fact Mr. Nichols, he’d had second thoughts.
Despite not wanting to keep Solomon’s abreast of his every move in this situation, and despite not trusting Solomon’s, Fielding could not deny that Mr. Nichols might be able to help them. Help Esme. She was ready to rid herself of the curse, and Fielding couldn’t blame her.
He leaned forward and held out the bag to Mr. Nichols. “We found it.”
Mr. Nichols stopped speaking and eyed Fielding in confusion. Then recognition lit his aging face. “The box?” Mr. Nichols’s eyes rounded and quite instantly filled with tears. “Oh, sweet heaven.” He pulled the box out of the bag and for several moments simply stared at it. “You succeeded, boy!”
“Not completely,” Fielding corrected. The cat circled Fielding’s legs, purring loudly.
But Mr. Nichols was too involved in examining the box to make note of Fielding’s words. The man ran his hand reverently over the top of the box. Closely, he examined every side, following the engravings with his fingertips.
Fielding nudged Esme.
She sighed but nodded. “If one wanted to rid themselves of a curse, how could one do such a thing?” Esme ventured.
“Oh, curses—such nasty things.” He laughed at his own joke, then unfolded a pair of spectacles and perched them on his nose. “Now, then, what sort of curse are we talking about? The sort you find on the outside of a mummy’s tomb? Or perhaps one that releases a biblical plague?” He paused and looked up from the box, “Oh, dear, this is about the box, isn’t it? I’m so daft. Someone has opened it, then?”
“The Raven’s men,” Fielding said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Esme relax.
“What has happened?” Mr. Nichols asked.
“Nothing,” Fielding said.
“As of yet that we know of,” Esme corrected, “but certainly it is affecting them. It appears the box holds cursed bracelets, and the wearer of a bracelet becomes the victim of its curse. We know that both of the Raven’s men reached into the box, and each received a bracelet for their efforts.”
“Indeed?” Nichols reluctantly set down the box and moved to his worn desk. He opened a massive book and began to skim through several pages. “So a curse that afflicts the individual. Those are tricky, I can tell you that.”