“And jewelry,” Mrs. Villiers said. “Wallace loved fine jewelry.”
She obviously hadn’t shared that interest. Except for a small heart-shaped locket around her neck, she wore no jewelry of any kind.
“We have a tiered commission structure,” I said. “The higher the sale price, the lower the percentage.” In the description column I wrote Chinese Húnpíng Jar, Han dynasty, approx. 16” high and 11” wide. Value to be determined. “Now, if it’s all right, I’ll take a few photographs. That way you can take the jar home until I’ve arranged for an expert to examine it.”
“No. I want you to keep it.”
“All right—if you’re sure.” I turned the consignment form toward her and handed her my pen. “Read through the contract carefully. The payment terms are in the final paragraph. Print your name, address, and telephone number there, and sign at the bottom.”
While Mrs. Villiers examined the contract, I used my cell phone to snap several images. I couldn’t believe our good fortune. I felt like pinching myself. Finally, laying the jar carefully on its side, I took a shot of the unglazed bottom.
Mrs. Villiers turned over the final page. Placing her index finger at the top, she drew it down slowly, stopping briefly at the final paragraph. At the bottom, she printed out her information and added her signature.
Mrs. Evelyn Villiers
Hapthorn Lodge, Hollow Lane
Little Gosling, Suffolk
She’d included a phone number. Her signature was a squiggly line.
Standing, Mrs. Villiers smoothed her skirt and gathered her handbag and the now-empty carryall. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“My pleasure.” I held out my hand, and she took it. “I’ll put a copy of the contract in the mail. And I’ll telephone you when I’ve arranged for the appraisal.”
“I’d prefer to take the contract now.” Was there a slight challenge in her voice?
“Of course.” I’d rather have had Ivor sign the contract, but I knew he trusted my judgment. I signed, adding “Subject to Appraisal,” and handed her the top copy. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I never answer the telephone. Text me at this number, and I’ll contact you.” Picking up the pen I’d provided, she scribbled a different number at the bottom of the contract.
Something floated in the air—a vague uneasiness. Why didn’t Mrs. Villiers answer her phone? To avoid telemarketers?
I stood at the front window and watched her cross the High Street and turn left toward the river. She scurried past the shops—shoulders hunched, head bent—until she disappeared down a side street. Had she driven herself, or was someone waiting for her?
That was the least of my questions about Mrs. Evelyn Villiers.
I checked my watch. If I left immediately, I could be at The Willows by eleven thirty.
Time to break the good news to Ivor.
Chapter Two
The Willows, a private convalescent facility about forty minutes east of Long Barston, sat at the end of a tree-shaded drive. I found one of the designated visitor spots and parked my leased Mini Cooper—midnight black with built-in sat nav and automatic transmission. The rambling, red-brick Victorian house looked every bit as impressive as the photograph on the glossy brochure I’d seen the previous December when I had accompanied Ivor to his presurgery consultation in Ipswich.
“Perfect alternative for someone in your circumstances,” Ivor’s surgeon had said. He’d unfolded the brochure and pointed a well-manicured finger at photos of spacious private suites, smiling nurses, and a glass-walled dining room. “Assuming you can afford it, of course.”
Ivor could afford it—just. The twelve-thousand-pound fee would wipe out his savings, but with no wife or children to care for him at home, and with a residence ill-suited for someone recovering from bilateral hip-replacement surgery, he had no alternatives. He would recover in the hospital for five days, then transfer to The Willows. The surgeon had suggested a two- to three-week stay, after which Ivor could return to his flat above the shop, navigating its uneven floors; narrow, twisting staircase; and high porcelain tub with the help of occasional NHS-provided home care. In the meantime, I would manage his antiquities business. After the previous December, when Ivor had sacrificed an ancient glass head of the Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaten to help me track down a ruthless killer, the least I could do was keep his antiquities business afloat during his recuperation.
This was my third visit to The Willows. The first was the day before his scheduled surgery, when Ivor and I had presented ourselves for a tour led by a brisk young woman who’d identified herself as secretary to the deputy hospital administrator. The house had been a cottage hospital until 1996, she told us, when its remaining patients were transferred to the newly renovated NHS facility in Ipswich and the property sold to a private medical practice. Besides residential post-op rehabilitation, The Willows offered outpatient physiotherapy and, in a separate wing, temporary respite care for dementia patients.
The sun reflected off the tall windows. Shielding my eyes, I squinted at the ivy-clad exterior. A peaked central porch was flanked by wide bays framed in glossy, white-painted trim. On the left, a coach house had been converted into administrative offices. On the right, a low brick wall led to a stand of beech trees, leafy shrubs, and a small rose garden. A nurse in a crisp white uniform and navy wool cape maneuvered a wheelchair-bound patient toward the garden. The effect was purposely retro, conjuring images of “the way things were” before soaring costs, an aging population, and a shortage of qualified doctors made timely, personalized medical care no more than a memory.
Inside, the reception room had the look
