“Such a charming man,” said Lady Barbara. “So clever.”
“Isn’t he just,” agreed Vivian, yanking on her seat belt to loosen it. “A dreamboat.”
“Dreamboat?” Lady Barbara leaned forward. “I’d hardly call him that.”
“Then your eyesight must be worse than I thought. He made me feel quite weak in the knees.”
“Honestly, Viv. I can’t imagine what you mean.”
I was trying not to laugh. “You’re talking about Nigel, Lady Barbara, and Vivian is talking about Martin Ingram.”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” Vivian said huffily.
“At least we’re agreed on the auction.” Lady Barbara smoothed things over as usual. “If I have to keep Finchley Hall going without the National Trust, I know how to turn assets into cash.”
I didn’t bother to argue. First I’d talk to Ivor, then get involved if necessary. The fact that the only object to sell under the estimated value was a Qing dynasty vase was curious.
“Join us for a light supper, Kate?” Lady Barbara asked.
“Wish I could. I have some appointments at the shop. I’ll probably grab something from the Chinese takeaway.”
After dropping both ladies at the Hall, I headed for The Curiosity Cabinet.
Three of the ten clients who wanted their consignments back were scheduled to arrive between six and eight that evening. I parked in the alley and entered through the rear door, quickly disabling the alarm. Each object would be marked “reclaimed by owner” on the computerized inventory, then securely packed up.
At the front desk, I stashed my handbag under the counter and powered up the computer. Most of the consignment clients hadn’t included their consignment number in their communication, so I’d have to find them by name. Unfortunately, Ivor’s listing was by date rather than alphabetical. My biggest problem would be finding the objects in the shop. Ivor knew the location of each item by heart, down to the tiniest ushabti, the turquoise faience funerary figures tucked within the folds of an Egyptian mummy’s linen wrappings. I would have to search.
No time for shrimp rolls and stir-fried pork. I gathered packing materials and began.
An hour later, I’d found exactly one of the items, a soft-paste figure of a cockerel from the French porcelain maker Saint-Cloud. Fortunately that owner was the first to arrive. She accepted the parcel I’d made up and left without even a thank-you.
Having failed to locate the other two items, and feeling more tired and hungry than I liked to admit, I phoned the two remaining clients and asked them to allow me another day.
A meal at the Hall was sounding heavenly.
The wind had picked up, and the sky had darkened alarmingly. Another squall was on the way. Unsettling news, as the river was already at flood level. The shop would be fine—at least I hoped so. We were near the high point of the road sloping from St. Æthelric’s Church down to the river. The Suffolk Rose Tea Room, overlooking the river, had already erected a flood fence around its foundations.
I was about to phone Lady Barbara and ask if it was too late to join them, when I heard knock at the rear door. Please—not another dissatisfied client.
It was Henry Liu. Rain had plastered his dark hair across his forehead. He held a damp cardboard box, covered with a pink bath towel. He was crying.
“Mr. Liu, what’s wrong? Do you need help?”
He stepped into the shop, glancing behind him as if he were being followed. Without a word, he placed the box on the floor and removed the towel.
I gasped. Inside was the húnpíng jar.
“It was James,” he said miserably. “My son is a thief.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Henry Liu looked blankly at me when I told him I was calling the police.
While we waited for Tom and DS Cliffe to arrive, I sat him in one of the campaign chairs and made him a cup of strong tea.
He didn’t touch his tea. He didn’t try to leave. We didn’t talk.
For once, I restrained my curiosity. The police needed to hear his story, fresh from his own lips. Restraining my emotions was more difficult. On the one hand, Henry Liu had risked a lot to return the jar, saving Ivor from the potential loss of his life savings. That was huge. On the other hand, he’d concealed his son’s actions, damaging Ivor’s professional reputation, not to speak of the fact that he’d helped cover up a brutal murder.
My mother’s admonition about jumping to conclusions—or jumping to the wrong ones—came to mind. Okay. I’d listen first. I owed him that much. He’d taken a risk, coming to me. Whatever his story, the húnpíng was back, safe and sound.
Lucy needed to know. I moved out of earshot. Since she didn’t seem to be responding to texts, I left her a voicemail. “Amazing news, Lucy. Call me the minute you get this—even if it’s late.” I was really starting to worry. Where was she, and why wasn’t she answering my calls and messages?
Forty minutes later, Tom and DS Cliffe arrived, Tom in his silver Volvo, the sergeant in a panda car. I dragged two Chinese Chippendale side chairs over, and together we filled the cramped space between the glassed-in display units.
“Does your wife know where you are?” Tom asked. “Do you need to phone her?”
“She knows.” Henry bowed his head. “Our son has brought shame on our family.”
Family shame? Was that all he was worried about? I pictured Evelyn Villiers, clutching her belly, the spreading red stain, the blood dripping through her fingers.
I found a box of tissues and handed it to Henry.
“We’ll have to go over the events of that night again, step by step.” Tom said.
Henry pulled out a tissue and swabbed his eyes.
“Start at the beginning,” Tom said. “What time did you set up at the fair?”
Henry took a breath, visibly calming himself. “Mid-afternoon. James and Penny helped. My wife was at the restaurant, preparing the ingredients we would need. It’s a big job. I bicycled over for the first batch of rolls and pork ribs, and
