“These’ll raise a bob or two.” Vivian plopped into one of a large set of early nineteenth-century dining chairs with ebony-strung backs. Fergus, her constant shadow, curled up on the Persian carpet, his chin resting on his paws.
“What do you think?” Lady Barbara clasped her hands together like a child showing off a cherished art project.
I counted the chairs—fourteen plus one armchair. “They’re stunning,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a second armchair around somewhere, would you?”
“Irreparably damaged years ago.”
“Christmas 1976,” Vivian added. “Someone thought it would be rather amusing to add an explosive charge to one of the Christmas crackers. Lady Melbury toppled right over—smashed the chair to bits. Nearly blew her hand off as well. Of course, she did weigh all of twenty stone.”
Lady Barbara tsked. “Don’t exaggerate, Vivian. It was only second-degree burns.” She looked at me. “Does having only one armchair affect the value of the set?”
“The chairs are Regency—beautifully constructed, in fine condition.” I was trying to be diplomatic, but Lady Barbara deserved the truth. “A complete set of sixteen with both armchairs might be worth thirty or forty thousand pounds. For individual chairs—or in pairs, which is how they’d probably be sold—you might get a thousand for each of the sides, more for the armchair.”
“Oh, dear. Not nearly enough. What about this?” She reached behind her and handed me what appeared to be a tray in a brown flannel silver-cloth bag. “My father called it cinnabar.”
I unzipped the bag and removed a large, red plate, deeply carved in a botanical pattern. It took me a moment to speak. “I’ve never actually seen a piece this fine. People call it cinnabar, but it’s actually lacquerware, an ancient Chinese art form dating back to Neolithic times.”
“This is Neolithic?” Vivian asked.
“No, no—it’s probably sixteenth or seventeenth century. Just look at the detail.”
Lady Barbara and Vivian examined the plate. The entire surface, even under the lip, was carved through the thick resinous lacquer with flowering trees and plants—peonies, chrysanthemum, cherry blossoms, others I couldn’t identify—marked out in meticulously incised detail on a deep amber ground. I turned the plate over. The base was lacquered in dark brown. A series of Chinese characters had been incised along the foot rim.
My fingers began to tingle. My heart picked up speed alarmingly. “This could be an inscription. Or possibly a reign mark, meaning the piece was commissioned by the emperor himself.” I let out a breath. Controlling your breathing isn’t easy when your heart thinks you’re jumping hurdles.
“One of my ancestors served with Lord Elgin during the Second Opium War,” said Lady Barbara. “He brought the plate back to England after the sack of the Old Summer Palace in Beijing.”
Vivian peered at the plate. “Lord Elgin? Wasn’t he the chap who removed all those marble statues and friezes from the Parthenon in Athens?”
“That was his father, the seventh earl,” Lady Barbara said. “Larceny seems to have run in the family.” She opened a drawer and took out a folded piece of paper. “Major Thomas Finchley, in his own handwriting.” She unfolded the paper and handed it to me. The old hand-cut sheet was so fragile the creases had begun to separate.
Saved from the flames at the Imperial Gardens, Yuan Ming Yuan, 20 October 1860, by Sir Thomas Finchley, Major in Her Majesty’s Royal Marines.
A thought struck me. What were the chances of finding two very old, very rare, and extremely valuable Chinese antiquities in the vicinity of one small Suffolk village? I handed it back. “It sounds like he thought he was preserving it for the future.”
Lady Barbara shot me a disapproving look. “We looted everywhere we went, the British—China, India, Egypt, Ethiopia. That’s why I’ve never had the plate on display. Why celebrate the worst in our national history?”
“I’d like to have Ivor take a look. He’ll be able to give us some idea of the value.” I was so hot, I was starting to sweat.
“I’m not sure I feel right, profiting from it.” She fingered the strand of pearls around her neck. “If I didn’t absolutely need the money—”
“Are you well?” Vivian was looking at me with alarm.
“A bit warm at the moment.”
“Ah, the change,” Vivian said knowingly.
I let it go. I’d rather have her think I was menopausal than mad. “Is this what you have to sell?”
“Show her,” Vivian said.
I hadn’t noticed the large shape in the corner of the room. Lady Barbara removed a drop cloth, revealing what turned out to be a multistoried dollhouse on legs.
“Oh,” I said, charmed by the rose-red brick exterior and tiny mullioned windows. “Was it yours?”
“My mother’s first. Made in 1933, after Queen Mary’s dollhouse was exhibited at Wembley. Not nearly so grand, of course.”
I bent down to examine the rooms. The lower floor consisted of a Victorian-style kitchen, butler’s pantry, and laundry. The first floor had a tall-ceilinged drawing room, a gracious dining room, and an oak-paneled library, complete with miniature, leather-bound volumes and a tiny stuffed fox in a glass showcase. The upper floor had two bed chambers and a bath with a water closet and footed copper tub.
“This is Finchley Hall,” I said, amazed. “Look—it’s even got the green velvet serpentine sofas. You can’t sell this, Lady Barbara. It’s part of your childhood, your family history.”
“To whom shall I pass it on?” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll never have grandchildren, you know—or even nieces and nephews. The estate and the Finchley Hoard were important to my family. They wouldn’t care about a girlhood plaything.” She lifted her chin. “I never played with dolls anyway. I preferred science projects. And shooting.”
“Nevertheless.” I straightened. “I can’t let you sell it—not until you’ve exhausted every other possibility.”
Vivian had brought me another object, a lovely silver coffee pot.
“What’s this?”
“That was
