Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018

Tom gasped in a gratifying way and lowered his voice when he spoke: “It’s her! A sight I thought I’d never see! After all these years! Good Lord! Oh, look — she’s weeping, Ellie. Do you see? What’s that... there... glinting at the inner corners of her eyes?” His hand went out, reaching below the counter for his magnifying glass. Tom is the only man I’ve ever seen using one of these things completely naturally, without feeling the need to make a joke or pretend to be Sherlock Holmes. “Oh, now that’s clever! That’s very striking! Do you know what I think these are?”

“Just what I thought they were, probably. Diamonds. Carefully set in a papier-mâché moulding to look like tears gathering in her big grey eyes. And the rest of the face is beautifully painted.” I tugged some more of the paper away. “The style of the features, the arch of the eyebrows, the delicate touch of rouge on the cheekbone, the twist of hair about the head — it all looks Edwardian to me. Pre-First World War, at any rate. What do you think?”

Impatiently he stripped the remaining cover off, releasing an ancient scent: a cocktail of camphor, cedar-wood, and lilies. He was silent for a very long time, staring in amazement. “I know this lady.” He tore his eyes away long enough to favour me with a speculative glance. “And I’m wondering if you do? May I?”

Tom waited for my nod before he reached into the box, took her gently under the shoulders, and lifted her up.

Anyone passing by the shop and stopping to look in would have been enchanted by the scene, I thought. In an English market square, in a mellow Georgian room stuffed with small treasures gleaming and glittering in the candlelight, a handsome man was laughing up at the image of a lovely girl dressed in the ball gown of a past era. Her dress of subdued gold silk was cut to handkerchief points that fluttered about her slender ankles. On her tiny feet were high-heeled gold kid slippers and, as Tom shook her gently to straighten the folds of her dress, her feet stirred in a dance step. Tom smiled in delight and turned her round to the light. With the sudden movement, her limp right hand swung out and seemed to caress his cheek. Enchanted, he grasped the hand, holding it outstretched in his left. For an uneasy moment I thought the two were about to whirl off together in a waltz.

They were.

Tom has a wonderful baritone voice and he knows it. He also has a fine collection of old music that he sometimes turns on for atmosphere. He knows all the words to all the tunes our grannies sang and he’s a terrible showoff.

“Beautiful dreamer,” he crooned, waltzing her in his arms around a Regency escritoire,

“Wake unto me

Starlight and dewdrops

Are waiting for thee

Sounds of the rude world

Heard in the day

Led by the moonlight

Have all passed away...”

I shivered. The temperature in the shop was always kept rather low, to suit the stock, I remembered, pulling my woolly scarf tighter around my neck. I didn’t quite like the way she was looking at him. And I was startled that I’d had the thought at all. I wished he’d stop.

“She’s a sofa doll,” he said, swirling to a finish. “And a remarkably fine one. Though she needs to do some work on her reverse turn. These things were all the rage in the twenties. But this isn’t one of those run-of-the-mill sofa dolls! Oh no. She’s one of the very earliest, I’d say, judging by the clothing and the facial characteristics. The earliest, perhaps. Yes, she’s Edwardian, as you guessed, Ellie. Look, there’s something I’d like to check out for you. I think you’re in for a nice surprise!”

He handed her to me and I wished I could have thought of a more fitting term than “doll.” She wasn’t a doll. She was four feet high, about two-thirds human scale and a work of art. Her role was to languish along an elegant sofa. A conversation piece. She was never intended to be played with or even handled. Just admired and sighed over. I felt a ridiculous urge to apologise to her for daring to hold her and returned her to the box, propping her up in a sitting position, staring into the room.

The Antique Dealers’ Manual was produced and opened up on the counter, though I was certain that Tom had already identified the mystery woman. Finger on the page and eyes on the doll, he began his account: