The Chinese Alchemist

by Lyn Hamilton

  “Cinnabar,” I said. “I know what that is. Lovely red color, but when you heat it you get some form of mercury.”

  “And realgar is arsenic,” Justin said. “I asked.”

  “So I guess if you actually mix this up and take it for any length of time you’re almost assured of immortality, although perhaps not in the form the person who wrote this had in mind.”

  “Perhaps not. Let me tell you about this box, though. It dates to T’ang China, specifically, we believe, to the reign of Emperor Xuanzong, known to us as Illustrious August. He’s named in the text inside. He reigned from 712 to 756. Furthermore, apparently we know the box belonged to someone by the name of Lingfei who was probably a person of some importance in the court of Illustrious August.”

  This was all very interesting, not least because you have to love a guy who names himself Illustrious August. It was also considerably more information than Dory had given me, and explained Burton’s reference to Lingfei. Regardless of its history, this box was a beauty, too. On the top was incised a bird, a magical crane, a symbol of immortality for the T’ang—at least, that’s what Justin said. On the sides were depicted a woman of high standing, according to the write-up, and her maid servants, some of whom were playing instruments. If anything, it was even more beautiful than the one I’d seen at Dory’s, perhaps because it was smaller, and the workmanship therefore more precise. In other words, the box was priceless. Still, someone had it, and wanted to sell it. The reserve bid was $200,000 as Dory and I both already knew, and the presale estimate was $300,000. And Burton and I were not the only people interested in it.

  A young man of maybe thirty, Asian with stylish spiky black hair, was showing an inordinate interest, moving steadily closer as Justin talked to me about the box. He was dressed very fashionably, Hugo Boss, I’d say, except I was certain even from a distance of a few yards that it was knockoff Hugo Boss and not the real deal. Quality does tell, and I can usually spot a fake a mile off. China being the source of so many of the world’s knockoffs, from Rolexes to Nikes, fakes are definitely a distinct possibility. But if you can’t afford the real thing, then Molesworth & Cox’s annual Oriental auction is not the place for you, unless, like me, you have a patron of considerable means.

  Mr. Knockoff was trying to give the impression he was interested in something else, in this case the gorgeous cloisonne vase that Burton had pretended to want, Qing, pronounced “Ching,” dynasty, which is to say 1644-1912. Dory would be proud of me. He wasn’t any better at faking his interest in the vase than he was in faking his suit. He was definitely interested in the T’ang silver box. I didn’t think he stood a chance.

  Thursday evening I was in my favorite position at the back of the room, waiting for the silver box to come up. I had my paddle, and was ready to raise it as required. I was also calling up my killer instincts, something that was easy enough for me to do. I just thought of those thugs who were planning to firebomb my heritage cottage with me in it.

  Burton was also at the back, but over to one side where perhaps he couldn’t see very well, but where there were some empty seats on either side of him, providing a little buffer from the germs. He also had his cell phone out, but I didn’t think he had to consult Courtney Cottingham about how much to pay. He would know very well how much he had to spend. Although it pained me to think so, it might even be more than Dory, for all her stepfather’s and her husband’s resources, could afford.

  Mr. Knockoff, the Asian man with spiky hair and fake Hugo Boss was there, and he had a paddle. That would indicate that he was indeed interested in bidding on something, presumably, given his interest, the silver box, even if he didn’t look to me as if he could afford it. Perhaps I should have tried to get a closer look at his suit, or perhaps my instinct for fakes only applied to furniture and not clothing. Or maybe the fake suit was designed to put people like me off their guard.

  The T’ang box was to be auctioned relatively late in the evening, but both Burton and I were there right from the opening bid on the first object, a beautiful, and highly collectible, bronze jia, a three-legged vessel for heating wine, dating to the Shang period, or, as Dory had made me memorize, the eighteenth to the twelfth century BCE.

  I called Dory, at home in her armchair, to tell her the auction was about to begin, being very careful not to call her by name in case Burton was eavesdropping. “Have you ascertained who might be bidding for the silver box?” she asked.

  “The Cottingham Museum in Toronto,” I said carefully. Burton was no doubt straining to hear, and I didn’t want him to think it would be anyone familiar with his name. “There was also a young man at the preview who was interested. He’s here but he doesn’t look as if he can afford it.”

  “Young?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe thirty? And there’s a telephone bidder. I was told that when I arrived. I have no idea who that is.”

  “Telephone,” she repeated. “Are there any Asian people there who might be bidding?”

  “Only one, the young man I’ve already mentioned, who does not look as if he is in the right league,” I said.

  “I see,” she said. She then started to cough, almost as if she were choking. “Excuse me, will you? I’m going to have to get myself a glass of water,” she gasped. “Call me when the bidding is about to start.”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” I said.

  It was after a break in the proceedings, about midway through the auction, that the situation changed significantly. The announcement came from the auctioneer, Gerald Cox, the Cox of Molesworth & Cox, who told us that an object had been withdrawn. Next to me, Burton was shuffling papers nervously, unwrapping something, most likely a cough drop, as he had been making little throat-clearing sounds all evening in a most irritating manner. Perhaps he had forgotten to say yes to good health that day. The rustling stopped, however, as Cox spoke.

  “I’m afraid the timing of this is highly unusual,” Cox said. “Item eighty-three, a silver coffret dating to the reign of T’ang Emperor Xuanzong has just been withdrawn by its owner.” In the booth next to me, Burton dropped his pen, which rolled in front of me. Mr. Knockoff, who had been leaning against the wall on one side of the room, slammed his paddle against the wall in frustration.

  I took a deep breath and phoned the news to Dory, hearing her sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry,” I said. I could feel her disappointment across the phone line.

  “It’s not for you to apologize,” she said quietly. “There’ll be another time.”

  There wasn’t another time for Dory, though, because ten days later she was dead.

  Two

  Life does not always unfold as we hope, of course, particularly when we make our plans without understanding the course of action others intend for us. I was not to become a soldier like my brother, nor a civil servant scurrying about the corridors of the August Enceinte where, Number One Brother informed me, the important business of managing the empire took place. Both my brothers were successful at their careers, none more so than Number Two Brother who, posted to the northern frontier, spent his idle hours trading with the caravans on the Silk Route, or perhaps, given his ne’er-do-well attitude, robbing them, thereby amassing a considerable fortune. The money he sent for the family was well regarded by all, irrespective of the manner in which it was acquired. My father was addicted to the gaming tiles, and regularly gambled much of the family income away. We lived, I suppose, in a state of decaying gentility.

  No, my destiny had been decided long before I was born. My family, it seems, had a long tradition of service to the Imperial Court. I was to be adopted by Wu Peng, a very important personage in the court. Wu was a eunuch in the imperial household. I was to be a eunuch, too.

  I did not understand when I was sent to Wu Peng on my tenth birthday what a eunuch was. I was soon to find out. Number One Brother, who by now had a wife and two concubines, told me to take it like a man, which was, I suppose, his idea of humor. My mother and father told me to be brave
, that it was a tremendous honor. Brave about what? An honor for what? I was told that the Son of Heaven’s closest advisor and confidant was a eunuch, someone so powerful that he walked the chambers of the Son of Heaven. I was told that the workings of the Imperial Palace depended upon the skill of eunuchs as much as on the ministrations of the most senior mandarins, a position to which Number One Brother aspired. I did not understand any of this. I did know that my mother cried herself to sleep for several nights before I left.

  Perhaps that is what they told Number One Sister, too, that it was an honor to serve the emperor. And it was.

  Dory suffered a massive heart attack and died on the spot, seated in her favorite armchair. She’d had a heart condition for a few years, something she’d neglected to mention to me. Her maid found her when she returned to the house with the groceries. Her husband was at his club at the time. Dory died alone. In fact, it didn’t matter that neither George nor the maid was on hand. The doctors said there was nothing that could have been done. It was a shock. Dory had looked younger than her years, but even so, she was taken way too soon. More than anything else I blamed the Cottingham, convinced Dory would still be alive if they’d let her work as long as she wanted to, or at least for a few more years until she turned sixty-five. Rob, Clive, Alex Stewart, and I all went to the funeral. I saw no one that I knew from the Cottingham, and certainly not Burton Haldimand.

  I also blamed whoever it was who had changed his or her mind about selling the T’ang box. The auction house wasn’t revealing any names, which would be standard procedure, so this person was both nameless and faceless. That didn’t stop me from being mad at them. Dory had been so excited about that box, the idea that she would have two of the three boxes her stepfather had, in her mind, stolen from China. Maybe if I’d been able to get it for her…

  It was at the funeral that I saw Dory’s husband, George Norfolk Matthews, for the first time. He looked to be older than Dory by maybe ten years, and he seemed to be a very sad man, not just because of Dory but because of life. I have no idea why I thought that. He had plenty of money, and Dory had always spoken of him with affection. She had many photos of the two of them in her former office at the Cottingham, and of course at her home. Their daughter Amy, a doctor, came from Florida. It was the first time I’d seen her in person, too. She looked like her father, not Dory, and I knew that she was divorced. With her was a young man whom I recognized from photos I’d seen at Dory’s as her much-loved grandson, George, named for his grandfather, but better known as Geordie. Geordie looked like Dory’s side of the family, which is to say more Asian. He was an extremely attractive young man, the sort who would have the girls swooning. There was also a half brother of Dory’s by the name of Martin Jones. I didn’t get a chance to talk to any of them.

  Several weeks later, long after Dory was buried, I was still playing at being Charlyn Krahn, to my displeasure. Taking care of these bad people, to use Rob’s expression, was taking rather longer than either of us wanted. Rob and I had been moved to a small apartment, which was a good thing, given that we’d have killed each other after that long in a hotel room. The only positive news, at least from my standpoint, was that my lovely little cottage was still standing. One of Rob’s brothers and sisters on the force went in and got my mail and checked the place from time to time. No new cement floor in the basement. No smoke in the front room. Maybe the Heritage Act was more powerful than Rob thought.

  Still, I was slowly, or maybe not so slowly, going gaga. Again Dory came to the rescue, not in person, needless to say, but through the offices of one Eva Reti, barrister and solicitor, of Smith, Johnson, McDougall and Reti.

  Ms. Reti was the executor of Dory’s estate, she informed me, and she hoped that I might meet with her at her offices downtown on a matter that she was sure would be of interest to me. She was a little brusque of tone, and she kept me waiting for several minutes before I got in to see her. With her was George Norfolk Matthews. He was holding a box that was about eight inches long covered in grey silk. After the usual introductions and pleasantries, he handed it to me. “Dory wanted you to have these,” he said. “They belonged to her mother.”

  I opened the box to find a long strand of some of the most beautiful pearls I’d ever seen, a lovely creamy color, with a beautiful clasp. “I can’t accept these,” I said. “Surely your daughter would want them.”

  “She favors less traditional design,” he said. “And she has received a great deal of jewelry from her mother. She is very happy for you to have them.”

  “I will treasure them,” I said. “You know, I sell old jewelry, but I don’t have much of it myself, and these pearls are exquisite, and all the more valuable to me because of Dory.”

  Ms. Reti and George smiled for the first time since I came in. Apparently my quite sincere expression of appreciation had melted the ice a little. “There is another matter arising from Dory’s will that we must discuss with you,” George said. “I will leave that part to Eva here.”

  Ms. Reti shuffled a little in her chair before getting to the point. “The T’ang silver box has come back on the market,” she said. “It is to be auctioned in Beijing in two weeks.”

  “That’s very interesting, I’m sure,” I said. “But obviously Dory’s original request is no longer practical, and while I thought it was extraordinary and would love to own it, I’m not really in that league.”

  “Mrs. Matthews has provided for its purchase, and for the purchase of a third, even larger box, should it come on the market,” she said. “She believed they belonged together, as you know. Not only that, but she has provided for your expenses to go wherever they show up, and to pay you a significant commission when you acquire them for her estate.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Ms. Reti,” I said. “I mean…”

  “Unusual, yes,” Ms. Reti said. “Ridiculous, no. Please call me Eva. May I call you Lara? Dory told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you.”

  I nodded. Alarm bells were clanging away in my head. This had the air of an obsession extending beyond the grave, and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to be a part of it.

  “A large sum of money was set aside in Dory’s will for this purpose. I can tell you it’s in the seven-figure range, with a top-up possible. Under the terms of the will, you are to consult with me on the price to be paid, but please be assured I intend to take your word for it. I know nothing about this sort of thing, and I know Dory trusted your judgment implicitly. She also wanted those boxes no matter the cost, so my role in this is peripheral only.”

  “George, how do you feel about this? How does your daughter feel?” I asked.

  “Dory had her own money,” George replied. “She inherited from her stepfather. You probably know that I don’t need the money.”

  “Forgive me,” I said. “But I don’t think you answered my question.”

  George thought about that for a moment. He looked very tired, almost drawn, deep lines etched in his face. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words, but then he straightened up in his chair and said, “Anything Dory wanted is fine with me. Our daughter feels the same way. She’s a successful doctor, and like her father can afford to indulge her mother’s wishes. We know that the money set aside for this purpose will be tied up for some time, and if you are successful, will be used for the purpose of realizing Dory’s wishes. There are no other heirs. Eva, will you give Lara the details?”

  “The silver box is being auctioned in Beijing as I’ve said, at an auction house called—just a minute while I consult my notes—Cherished Treasures House. That’s a translation, of course. I won’t even attempt the Chinese. It’s a lovely name, though, don’t you agree? Why don’t we just call it Treasures, for the sake of simplicity. I hope you’ll be able to be there, and will succeed in purchasing the box. If you are unsuccessful, you will still be paid a fee for your time that I think you will consider more than acceptable. If you do manage to acquire it, you will be paid a commission of ten perc
ent on the price realized, which, if I understand auction terminology correctly, includes the buyer’s premium.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “The price realized is the high bid, plus the buyer’s premium, which might be as high as ten percent, and any applicable taxes,” I said. “This would be a rather handsome commission for me. Are you sure?”

  “Dory’s wishes were very clear. She was absolutely certain you would get the boxes for her,” Eva said, and George nodded. “Any other issues?”

  “I don’t speak Chinese.”

  “We can help with that,” she said.

  “There’s something else bothering me, too,” I said. “Dory wanted the boxes to go back to China. That box is now in China. So…”

  “But it still may go to a private collector,” Eva said. “That was not Dory’s intent. My instructions are that once the three are assembled they are to go a museum in Xi’an, the, let me see, Shaanxi History Museum in Xi’an.”

  “I do recall her telling me that. I’m just not sure what’s going on here. I mean, why was the box withdrawn from sale in New York just before it went on the auction block? I suppose there are many reasons why that might have happened. Maybe there was a legal dispute over the ownership of the box, and it couldn’t be sold until that was resolved. Maybe someone was contesting ownership and got a court injunction to stop the sale or something. Maybe the owner died an hour before the auction. The auction house had no obligation to reveal what happened, and for sure they didn’t.” I was just thinking aloud here, but George and Eva waited patiently while I did so.