by Debbie Rix
Martin & Co was above a shop selling designer housewares. The entrance to the office was via a narrow doorway next to the shop. Miranda pushed the wooden door and it opened, revealing a narrow steep staircase carpeted with a cheap scuffed nylon runner. At the top was a small landing and a glass doorway etched with the solicitors’ nameplate: Martin & Co. Miranda knocked on the door. A young woman with long brown hair braided in a plait down her back and wearing a green, knee-length woollen dress let them in.
‘We’re here to meet with Mr Martin,’ said Miranda.
‘Would you like to wait over there, please,’ said the receptionist, pointing at three shabby faux leather chairs lined against the walls. Clearly Martin & Co didn’t like to waste money on unnecessary luxuries, thought Miranda.
Mr Martin arrived a few minutes later, bursting through the door. There was a sense of urgency and irritation about him, she noted: he clearly didn’t believe in wasting time either.
‘Ah, Mrs Sharp, you’re here. Good. Oh, you’re not alone. Is this your cousin?’ he said, leading the way to his office and gesturing towards Jeremy. He carried a plastic shopping bag filled with bits of paper that he almost threw onto his cluttered desk.
‘My cousin?’ said Miranda. ‘No, I don’t have a cousin. This is my friend, Jeremy…’
‘Oh? How odd. I took a call from your cousin – Manning, I think he said his name was – yes, Simon Manning, that was it. Do sit down… What do you mean, you have no cousin?’ He fell silent and stared at the three visitors. It was as if he had run out of steam; the engine that had been motoring at full tilt since he blasted into the office had suddenly stalled. He looked accusingly at Miranda.
‘I have no cousin, Mr Martin. And I don’t know anyone called Simon Manning. What did this man want? Did he know me?’
‘Yes, how peculiar. Carole!’ he shouted through to his receptionist. ‘Carole, bring us some tea, could you? I presume you’d like tea?’ The three nodded pointlessly at this rhetorical question as he took up the narrative once again. ‘Yes – most peculiar. He was interested in the estate of your great aunt. He appeared to know all about it, and so I presumed that he was… How peculiar. Oh, how embarrassing. I don’t think I said anything indiscreet.’
‘He knew about Celia?’ said Miranda, astonished. ‘But no one, only Jeremy here, and my parents knew about Celia, apart from…’ She stopped.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Martin, peering over his half-moon spectacles. ‘Apart from?’
‘Charlie,’ said Miranda to Jeremy and Georgie.
‘No, he was definitely not called Charlie. I’d have remembered that, as I myself am called Charles. No, not Charlie.’
‘Did he say where he was phoning from?’ asked Miranda.
‘From… No. I didn’t speak to him long. He asked about the estate, he mentioned you by name and said he was your cousin, hence the confusion – ah, tea! Yes. Good. Carole, put it down here on the desk. Excellent… And biscuits. Do take one please, Mrs Sharp, and…’ He looked blankly at Jeremy.
‘Jeremy,’ said Jeremy. ‘Thanks I’d love one.’ He handed the plate on to Georgie, who took two.
‘No he didn’t say where he was phoning from.’ Mr Martin took a slurp of tea. ‘And I did think it was a bit odd, because at the time of your great aunt’s demise the list of recipients for her will was limited to the three charities and your good self. There was no mention in the will of another young person. Anyway, I’m afraid I told him that I couldn’t tell him anything about the vase, as I was far too busy, and that if I had anything to say, I would say it to you this afternoon.’
He crunched down heavily on a chocolate digestive and chewed for a moment before taking another huge slurp of tea.
‘He asked about the vase?’ said Miranda.
‘Yes, and as you had already rung about it, I naturally assumed that you must have discussed it with him in some way… But as I say, I was in a bit of a hurry and didn’t really say much.’
‘I see,’ said Miranda. ‘So you told him nothing about it.’
‘No. Well, to be honest, I’m not sure what I can tell you about it. I was simply your great aunt’s executor. I didn’t even know her. It was a strange business. As I said, apart from your good self, and I presume one of your parents. . .’ He looked questioningly at Miranda before continuing. ‘She appeared to have no living relatives.’
‘My mother, yes. She was my mother’s aunt.’
‘Quite so. But you were the only beneficiary named in person. No one else. The bulk of the estate was left, as you know, to three organisations. I had to sell the house and dispose of the furniture, which seemed a bit of a shame, as some of it was quite good, you know? I was surprised that she hadn’t bothered to name individuals who might have liked some of those items. I arranged for it to be sold here in Cirencester through the auction house down the road. In fact, I bought one or two pieces myself – a rather pretty writing desk and a very attractive side table.’
‘Yes. . . but what I am interested in, Mr Martin, is did she leave any instructions or information about the items that she left to me?’
‘Yes – quite. That is why I was out when you arrived and was a few moments late.’ He gestured towards the plastic shopping bag.
‘I have a storage area nearby,’ he continued. ‘Clients’ papers take up so much room, and one simply doesn’t have space for it all here. Anyway, I had a box of bits and pieces from your aunt’s estate that I didn’t know what to do with. So they’ve been stored there. To be honest, I was considering getting rid of it all the other day, but then I got your phone call. I’ve not really had a look through it, but there might be something helpful in there.’ He tipped the papers out onto his desk and gestured to them to take a look. There were old bank statements and out of date share certificates.
‘I presume that all these accounts have been closed now?’ asked Miranda.
‘Oh yes. All closed and dealt with. Really it’s probably all rubbish, but one feels responsible, you know.’
He handed a sheaf of the papers to both Jeremy and Georgie and the three began to work through them.
‘Do you mind us doing this in here?’ asked Miranda.
‘Well, no, if you don’t mind if I get on,’ replied Mr Martin. He wandered out to his receptionist’s office and started to dictate a letter.
It was Georgie who found it. In a self-sealing envelope that had resealed itself, and which was addressed to Mr Martin in beautiful hand-writing, was a list of instructions on the items that should be sent to Miranda.
‘Mum, here’s a note from Celia. Look.’
Miranda opened it and read the note penned in Celia’s neat, rounded, feminine hand-writing.
* * *
Dear Mr Martin,
Further to my letter of the 12th inst. regarding the handling of my estate, I am writing to you with explicit instructions concerning my great-niece Miranda Sharp and the small bequest I wish to make to her.
I have ensured that the items I wish her to have are labelled with little pink stickers in order to avoid confusion. It is extremely important that the items are all sent to her recorded and carefully wrapped. Some of them are quite valuable, or of great sentimental value.
They are as follows:
A set of French flan dishes that I acquired early on in my marriage to Hubert. We were living in Amsterdam at the time and he bought them for me from a little shop round the corner from our house on the Herengracht. They are a little worn, but I think Miranda will appreciate them.
A Victorian carriage clock. I remember her admiring it one day when she came to visit me. I would like her to know that I did so appreciate her visits. I was rather lonely after my beloved Hubert died. I had one or two friends of course, but having never had a child, Miranda took on a great significance for me.
A leather-bound set of Dickens novels – I know she loves to read. And one can never be lonely with a good book.
A complete set of Walter Scott – not everyone’s cup of tea
, but I think she will like them.
An early edition of Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice. Again, my husband bought it for me. He was always in and out of antique shops and second-hand bookshops. He said this was a good edition.
A quilt that my mother made for me. She was a wonderful quilter and the bedspread has been well looked after. Perhaps that is where Miranda got her talent for handicraft from. I’m sure that Miranda will appreciate it.
Finally, I am leaving her the Chinese dragon vase. It has been in my husband’s family for many years. He always said it went back into the mists of time. The dragon has a rather angry appearance, but he is nevertheless quite beneficent I believe. He has gazed down at me from the mantelshelf in my bedroom for many years now. Hubert always said that it was a family tradition that the vase must be handed down from one generation to the next. I have decided that Miranda should have it. We have no children, and many of Hubert’s family were killed in the war. I have no idea where any of his relatives might be now. Scattered across the globe, I imagine. And so I hand it to her… May it bring her luck.
* * *
Miranda sat in stunned silence, watched by Jeremy and Georgie.
‘Well?’ said Jeremy eventually, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer.
She handed him the letter.
‘I don’t know whether to cry, laugh, or be angry.’
‘Why Mum? What’s the matter? Is it bad news?’
‘No darling… It’s good news really; but I feel a bit sad that Celia obviously thought of me as a sort of surrogate daughter. I should have seen more of her.’
‘But why angry?’ asked Georgie.
‘Because Mr Martin,’ said Miranda, lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘should have handed this letter on to me ages ago. I need to have a word with him.’
She stood up just as Mr Martin came bustling in.
‘Ah… Good. Was it useful?’
‘Yes,’ said Miranda curtly. ‘To be honest, Mr Martin, it is pretty crucial. It does explain that the vase my great aunt left me was rather valuable. It would have been very useful to have had this from the start.’
‘Oh!’ Mr Martin sat down at his cluttered desk and held out his hand. ‘May I take a look at it?’
He scanned the letter.
‘Yes…’ he said after a few moments. ‘Something of an oversight on my part. Not quite sure what I can say.’
‘Well, at least we’ve found it now and it does make it clear that I am the rightful owner. So that’s some sort of good news.’
‘I don’t suppose there were any photographs of the items Celia left, were there?’ Jeremy asked.
‘Photos? No I shouldn’t think so. Sorry… I certainly didn’t take any. I left all that sort of thing to my receptionist, Carole. She packed everything up and sent it on. I can ask her, though. Carole, could you come in here, please?’
Carole thought for a few seconds before replying to their queries about photographs. ‘Yes, I think I took some pictures on my phone – you know? Just in case anything went missing.’
‘And where are the photos now?’ asked Miranda, her faith in Martin & Co now at an all-time low.
‘They’re probably on my computer. I’ll have a look.’
Carole scrolled through the various files, eventually finding a folder labelled “Mrs Celia Kaerel”. ‘Here you go – pictures of all the items I sent you and also of her furniture that we sold.’
‘May I have a look?’ asked Miranda. Scrolling through the postage stamp-sized images of dining chairs, kitchen dressers, desks, kidney-shaped dressing tables and dinner services, she at last found a picture of the dragon vase, shot from two angles – one upright on a side table, the dragon’s face in the centre of the frame, and another photograph clearly showing the markings on the base of the vase.
‘Oh, well done! You took a picture of the base as well,’ said Miranda incredulously.
‘Yes, well it had some writing on it, so I thought I ought to.’
‘Carole,’ said Jeremy, ‘I could kiss you.’
‘Well, please don’t!’ said Mr Martin crossly. ‘Well done, Carole – very thorough, as always. So, is that everything?’
‘Yes, yes it is Mr Martin,’ said Miranda. ‘I think we have everything that we need.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Barnes, London, 3rd January 2016
At ten minutes to nine o’clock, Miranda and Jeremy sat together in the shop, preparing to make the call to Hong Kong. She had assembled all the ‘evidence’ that she was the rightful owner of the vase, but was understandably nervous. Now that she had some indication that the vase might be valuable, the whole process seemed fraught with pitfalls and dangers.
‘It’s odd,’ she had said to Jeremy the previous night when they finally got back from Gloucestershire. ‘When I had nothing – financially, I mean – I was quite happy. But now that there is the possibility that I might actually be about to have a little money, it’s terrifying. It’s a bit like winning the lottery, but not being quite sure if you can remember where you put the ticket, you know?’
They had agreed to meet at the shop, as Jeremy was due to open that day. If she arrived by nine o’clock it would be two o’clock in Hong Kong and she would be able to speak to the person in charge of the porcelain sale.
She sat at Jeremy’s desk, her hand on the telephone, her palms sweating. A cup of tea lay untouched beside her. ‘Oh God, Jeremy, I feel sick. I’m not quite sure how to explain it,’ said Miranda. ‘What if they don’t believe me?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Miranda, just get on with it; how hard can it be?’
He dialled the Hong Kong auctioneer’s number.
‘Good afternoon, this is Anstruthers Hong Kong.’ The voice was singsong, English, female.
‘Oh, good afternoon, I wonder if you can help me. I would like to speak to the person in charge of the sale of a piece of Ming China – a vase – that you have in a sale on the 15th of January.’
‘Putting you through,’ said the singsong voice.
‘Good afternoon, Michael Hennessy speaking.’
It didn’t take Miranda long to explain her predicament. ‘So to sum up, Mr Hennessy, this man misled me, I believe deliberately, about the value of the vase. He took it from me, without actually asking me, as it happens. He did leave a cheque for two hundred pounds on the hall table, but I’ve not cashed it. And I don’t want to. It was when I started to try to trace him to get the vase back that I discovered he had put it in your sale in Hong Kong and that it is not just some cheap copy worth £100 or so as he said it was but the real thing.’
‘Well. That’s most disturbing, Mrs…?’
‘Sharp – Miranda Sharp.’
‘Mrs Sharp. I’m sorry I have to ask you this, but do you have any kind of proof that the vase is yours? Some kind of bill of sale, or at least a description?’
‘I have no bill of sale unfortunately, but I have a photograph that I took of it on my own hall table. I also have a photograph taken by the solicitor who arranged my aunt’s bequest, including the marks on the base. Finally, I have a letter from my aunt describing the vase and explaining that it had been in her Dutch husband’s family for many years – “lost in the mists of time” is how she put it. Will that do?’
‘Could you email all that to me, do you think?’
‘Yes, I’ll do it now. Then what?’
‘If we can establish that you are the rightful owner, and that the vase was taken from you in error, or indeed fraudulently, then we must have another conversation and explore if you are still keen to sell the property, or if you would prefer to have it returned.’
‘I see,’ said Miranda. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose if I’m honest it rather it depends on what it’s worth.’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end. ‘That’s a tricky one. The key issue is its provenance, you see. That’s what matters and attracts buyers. But it could be worth a million or more.’
‘A million what?�
�
‘Sterling – at least that, if I’m honest. But I’m reluctant to say more. Am I to take it that you would like to proceed with the sale, on the 15th of January?’
‘Well, yes, I think I would be interested.’
‘Good. Well, first things first. Send over that information to me and then I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’
‘Just one thing more,’ said Miranda.
‘The man who brought it to you, was he called Charles Davenport?’
‘No, he wasn’t.’
‘Oh… Simon Manning, then?’
Silence.
‘I take it that the silence means that was the name he gave you.’
‘I really couldn’t say, Mrs Sharp. It’s complicated. But the good news is that the vase has not yet been sold and you have found us. Do you think you would be coming out for the sale?’
‘Out to Hong Kong? No, I don’t think I could afford to do that.’
‘Well, you could go to our offices in London if that would work for you – on the day of the sale – and observe from there, or online – you know?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hong Kong, 15th January 2016
The saleroom began to fill up from nine-thirty. Proceedings were due to kick off at ten o’clock and there was a definite ‘buzz’ in the building. Michael Hennessy, dressed in his best auctioneer’s suit – a dark grey striped three-piece made for him by his tailors in Savile Row rather than by their cheaper Hong Kong counterparts – had arrived earlier than usual, well before eight o’clock. He had been an auctioneer since his early twenties, but now, aged fifty-three, he had a feeling that he was about to make history.
The Ming vase had attracted a huge amount of international attention. There was no doubt it was genuine. The marks on the base of the jar were perfect, consisting of six characters said to have been made originally by the famous calligrapher Shendu. The symbol for ‘Da’, meaning ‘great’, looked like a man running, his arms outstretched, his front leg extended. One could usually detect a Ming forgery by checking this symbol. The forger invariably failed to get that sense of ‘movement’ that ‘Da’ required, as if the man were leaping forward over a stream. The lower half of the symbol on the top left was also tricky to get right. Shendu made it using just four strokes of the pen. Forgers, not quite understanding the significance of that economy, frequently used too many strokes. It was always a give-away.
