I remembered the controversy in the art world some years earlier when the Chinese National Administration of Cultural Heritage called for a boycott of the auction of an archaic bronze water vessel known as the Tiger Ying, looted from the Summer Palace by a British soldier. The Tiger Ying was purchased for almost six hundred thousand dollars by an anonymous bidder, who promptly donated the vessel to the Chinese government.
The information on the White Lotus Society came near the end of the chapter.
In 1982, China made the repatriation of its cultural heritage a constitutional mandate. Since then, delegations of so-called treasure-hunting teams have been sent out worldwide to identify and reclaim the looted artifacts.
The next sentences really got my attention.
Although never acknowledged by the Chinese government, members of the secret White Lotus Society, named after earlier nationalistic and quasi-religious societies, are reputed to have taken vows to liberate Chinese cultural treasures by any means necessary. Their signature is said to be a white lotus blossom.
By any means necessary. Theft? Murder?
Grabbing my cell phone, I texted Tom: Has the white petal been identified? Let me guess: lotus.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday, May 10
Tom phoned the next morning before I was even out of bed. “All right, what’s this about a lotus?”
I told him what I’d read the night before about the White Lotus Society. “I think they have someone operating in the area.”
“In Suffolk? Why wouldn’t they target a major metropolitan area or one of the wealthier counties like Surrey or Kent?”
“Because right here, in this little corner of rural Suffolk, we happen to have two very fine and extremely rare pieces of Chinese history. That’s what they’re after.” When he didn’t respond, I said, “So, was it a lotus petal?”
“Close. The petal came from a water lily—genetically akin, I’m told, to the lotus plant. And plentiful. Water lilies can be found in every lake, pond, and back-garden water feature in Suffolk. Even Blackwater Lake.”
“So, not having an actual lotus blossom, they used the next best thing.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Point taken—but what if it’s true? What if the White Lotus Society targeted the húnpíng and sent someone to retrieve it?”
“Are you talking about Henry Liu?”
“Not necessarily. It could be anyone who cares about Chinese history and culture—or money. Maybe they hire local thieves. But Henry was on the scene. And he did lie about the time he left the fair, remember? He claims he left at nine, but according to Briony Peacock, he left at eight fifteen.”
“Giving him time to kill Evelyn Villiers and hide the jar before calling the police? How do you account for the fact that there were three sets of footprints?”
I pictured the bloody footprints. “Maybe his son was involved.”
“We thought of that. Cliffe’s team examined James Liu’s shoes—every pair. None matched the prints. Besides, someone drove Evelyn Villiers from Little Gosling to Long Barston. Henry and James were at their tent on the green all afternoon and evening. Well, until they ran out of shrimp rolls, anyway.”
“I’m not accusing anyone. I’m just telling you what I read last night. The white petal is an odd coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I don’t like coincidences.” His breathing had picked up.
“Sounds like you’re running.”
“To my car—late for work. I am glad you told me about the Society, Kate. We’ll follow up.”
“I’m taking the lacquer plate to The Willows later today so Ivor can appraise it.”
“Who knows about it besides you and Lady Barbara?”
“Vivian” (I almost added Fergus but stopped myself in time) “and Ivor. Oh, and the guys from the auction house—the Oakleys and Martin Ingram. They were impressed.”
“Well, don’t mention it to anyone else.” He paused. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Returning to Hapthorn Lodge if Anne Weldon is available. I’d like to finish the inventory as soon as possible.”
“I’m off duty tomorrow. I’ll take you.”
“You’d be bored.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I could watch you work—help if I can. And I’ll bring something for lunch. We can have a picnic in the garden. Walk along the river if there’s time. Talk.”
“About the case?”
“No, idiot. About us.”
I could see his face, the crinkles around his hazel eyes, flecked with green, the way his hair curled slightly around his ears and at the nape of his neck. The tiny scar on his cheek. That half smile with its remarkable ability to turn me to jelly.
My stomach swooped.
I heard his engine start. “Gotta go. When did you say you’re seeing Ertha Green?”
“Sunday.”
“Let me know what she says. And say hello to Ivor.”
Ivor held a magnifying glass to his right eye, examining the Chinese lacquer plate with a keenness that landed somewhere between museum curator and small boy with a new toy.
“Look here, Kate,” he said, handing me the glass. “Can you see the layers where the angle of the carving is slanted? Narrow stripes of red and black. There may be as many as fifty layers here, black lacquer alternating with red.” His cheeks had turned pink. “This plate is the finest example I’ve ever seen of Chinese lacquer carving—absolute peak of the art. What did your parents call the form, hmm?”
Pop quiz. “Cinnabar, because of the red color.”
“Correct. Cinnabar is the color, not the material itself. The material, lacquer, comes from the so-called dragon blood tree, common in southern China. The sap is mixed with minerals—charcoal or iron oxide to produce black; arsenic sulfide to produce yellow; and cinnabar, or mercury sulfide, to produce the favored red color. It’s an amazing material, painted in thin layers on a base material—turned wood, for example, or metal. When dry, it’s resistant to heat and water. Did you know that perfectly preserved lacquer objects have been found in waterlogged Iron Age tombs?”
“I didn’t. Amazing.”
He held up the plate. “Look at the naturalistic rendering of the flowers, the complexity of the design, the harmony of the elements. Magnificent.” He took off his glasses and wiped
