‘That’s a pretty harsh assessment,’ I said, frustration burning inside my chest. I thought back to the Flemish tapestries and nightgowns project. I’d assumed at the time that the Dean had been the one pushing for the promotion of Liam’s scholarship over mine. But what if it was Liam? Even the way he was standing right now bothered me: arms crossed, blocking my view of the dress in its archival sarcophagus, acting as if I was an assistant who needed to seek his permission to see it, not a peer whose years of experience and scholarship rivalled his own. A few years ago I might have taken the easy route, letting him have his way so as not to make a scene. But years of dealing with male archivists and museum directors who thought they knew everything had inured me to this type of intimidation. Besides, the dress didn’t belong to Liam any more than it belonged to me or the divers or anyone else.

‘The members of the historical society aren’t like that,’ I said. ‘They could have broken the story already, but decided to wait so they could find out if the dress could be loaned for a few weeks. I don’t think it’s an unreasonable request. You’ll just have to let the university know there’s been a delay. They’ll still get the story. It might be even better than the one you’ve sold them.’

We stared at each other for a long moment, neither of us willing to bend. If Sara hadn’t coughed gently to remind us she was in the room, I suspect the stand-off might have gone on indefinitely.

‘Fine,’ Liam said, at last. He turned back to the computer and pulled up another of Avril’s photographs and busied himself scribbling in a notepad.

I reiterated I’d like to see the dress, that I had a few queries about the seamed pocket that had once held the Dutch tears. ‘I read the notes you sent over this morning about the chemical analysis of the seams,’ I said. ‘The majority of them appear to be French-made, constructed with that precious gold thread. But the secret pocket was sewn on separately in an altogether different yarn. The stitches are crooked and the plain crimson thread makes it look like a wisp of arterial blood. In any case, it was the chemicals in that seam that intrigued me. Don’t you think the presence of harsh lye suggests the owner of the thread was familiar with washing methods of the day? I can’t imagine Catharina would have known how to clean her own clothes, so I think we can safely assume Anna owned the dress, even if she never wore it herself.’