Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “You think the statue is good?” asked the craftsman through the interpreter.

  “It’s magnificent,” the minister replied. “Quite magnificent.”

  “My own work is not worthy to stand by its side,” added the craftsman humbly.

  “No, no,” said the minister, though in truth the little craftsman knew that the great man was only being kind, for Sir Alexander was holding the ivory statue in a way that already showed the same love as the old man had for the piece.

  The minister smiled down at the craftsman as he handed back the Emperor Kung and then he uttered perhaps the only undiplomatic words he had ever spoken in thirty-five years of serving his queen and country.

  “How I wish the piece was mine.”

  Sir Alexander regretted voicing his thoughts the moment he heard the mandarin translate them, because he knew only too well the old Chinese tradition that if an honored guest requests something the giver will grow in the eyes of his fellow men by parting with it.

  A sad look came over the face of the little old craftsman as he handed back the figurine to the minister.

  “No, no. I was only joking,” said Sir Alexander, quickly trying to return the piece to its owner.

  “You would dishonor my humble home if you did not take the emperor, Your Excellency,” the old man said anxiously, and the mandarin gravely nodded his agreement.

  The minister remained silent for some time. “I have dishonored my own home, sir,” he replied, and looked toward the mandarin, who remained inscrutable.

  The little craftsman bowed. “I must fix a base on the statue,” he said, “or you will not be able to put the piece on view.”

  He went to a corner of the room and opened a wooden packing chest that must have housed a hundred bases for his own statues. Rummaging around, he picked out a base decorated with small, dark figures that the minister did not care for but that nevertheless made a perfect fit; the old man assured Sir Alexander that although he did not know the base’s history, the piece bore the mark of a good craftsman.

  The embarrassed minister took the gift and tried hopelessly to thank the little old man. The craftsman once again bowed low as Sir Alexander and the expressionless mandarin left the little workshop.

  As the party traveled back to Peking, the mandarin observed the terrible state the minister was in, and uncharacteristically spoke first:

  “Your Excellency is no doubt aware,” he said, “of the old Chinese custom that when a stranger has been generous, you must return the kindness within the calendar year.”

  Sir Alexander smiled his thanks and thought carefully about the mandarin’s words. Once back in his official residence, he went immediately to the embassy’s extensive library to see if he could discover a realistic value for the little masterpiece. After much diligent research, he came across a drawing of a Ming statue that was almost an exact copy of the one now in his possession, and with the help of the mandarin he was able to assess its true worth, a figure that came to almost three years’ emolument for a servant of the Crown. The minister discussed the problem with Lady Heathcote, and she left her husband in no doubt as to the course of action he must take.

  The following week the minister despatched a letter by private messenger to his bankers, Coutts & Co. in the Strand, London, requesting that they send a large part of his savings to reach him in Peking as quickly as possible. When the funds arrived nine weeks later the minister again approached the mandarin, who listened to his questions and, seven days later, gave him the details he had asked for.

  The mandarin had discovered that the little craftsman, Yung Lee, came from the old and trusted family of Yung Shau who had for some five hundred years been craftsmen. Sir Alexander also learned that many of Yung Lee’s ancestors had examples of their work in the palaces of the Manchu princes. Yung Lee himself was growing old and wished to retire to the hills above the village where his ancestors had always died. His son was ready to take over the workshop from him and continue the family tradition. The minister thanked the mandarin for his diligence and had only one more request of him. The mandarin listened sympathetically to the ambassador from England and returned to the palace to seek advice.

  A few days later the empress granted Sir Alexander’s request.

  Almost a year to the day the minister, accompanied by the mandarin, set out again from Peking for the village of Ha Li Chuan. When Sir Alexander arrived, he immediately dismounted from his horse and entered the workshop that he remembered so well. The old man was seated at his bench, his flat hat slightly askew, a piece of uncarved ivory held lovingly between his fingers. He looked up from his work and shuffled toward the minister, not recognizing his guest immediately until he could almost touch the foreign giant. Then he bowed low. The minister spoke through the mandarin:

  “I have returned, sir, within the calendar year to repay my debt.”

  “There was no need, Your Excellency. My family is honored that the little statue lives in a great embassy and may one day be admired by the people of your own land.”

  The minister could think of no words to form an adequate reply and simply requested that the old man should accompany him on a short journey.

  The craftsman agreed without question, and the three men set out on donkeys toward the north. They traveled for over two hours up a thin winding path into the hills behind the craftsman’s workshop, and when they reached the village of Ma Tien, they were met by another mandarin, who bowed low to the minister and requested Sir Alexander and the craftsman to continue their journey with him on foot. They walked in silence to the far side of the village and only stopped when they had reached a hollow in the hill from which there was a magnificent view of the valley all the way down to Ha Li Chuan. In the hollow stood a newly completed small white house of the most perfect proportions. Two stone lion dogs, tongues hanging over their lips, guarded the front entrance. The little old craftsman who had not spoken since he had left his workshop remained mystified by the purpose of the journey until the minister turned to him and offered:

  “A small, inadequate gift and my feeble attempt to repay you in kind.”

  The craftsman fell to his knees and begged forgiveness of the mandarin as he knew it was forbidden for an artisan to accept gifts from a foreigner. The mandarin raised the frightened blue figure from the ground, explaining to his countryman that the empress herself had sanctioned the minister’s request. A smile of joy came over the face of the craftsman, and he slowly walked up to the doorway of the beautiful little house unable to resist running his hand over the carved lion dogs. The three travelers then spent over an hour admiring the little house before returning in silent mutual happiness back to the workshop in Ha Li Chuan. The two men thus parted, honor satisfied, and Sir Alexander rode to his embassy that night content that his actions had met with the approval of the mandarin as well as Lady Heathcote.

  The minister completed his tour of duty in Peking, and the empress awarded him the Silver Star of China and a grateful queen added the KCVO to his already long list of decorations. After a few weeks back at the Foreign Office clearing the China desk, Sir Alexander retired to his native Yorkshire, the only English county whose inhabitants still hope to be born and die in the same place—not unlike the Chinese.

  Sir Alexander spent his final years in the home of his late father with his wife and the little Ming emperor. The statue occupied the center of the mantelpiece in the living room for all to see and admire.

  Being an exact man, Sir Alexander wrote a long and detailed will in which he left precise instructions for the disposal of his estate, including what was to happen to the little statue after his death. He bequeathed the Emperor Kung to his first son, requesting that he do the same, in order that the statue might always pass to the first son, or a daughter if the direct male line faltered. He also made a provision that the statue was never to be disposed of unless the family’s honor was at stake. Sir Alexander Heathcote died at the stroke of midnight in his seventieth year.
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br />   His firstborn, Maj. James Heathcote, was serving his queen in the Boer War at the time he came into possession of the Ming emperor. The major was a fighting man, commissioned with the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, and although he had little interest in culture even he could see the family heirloom was no ordinary treasure, so he loaned the statue to the regimental mess at Halifax in order that the emperor could be displayed in the dining room for his brother officers to appreciate.

  When James Heathcote became colonel of the Dukes, the emperor stood proudly on the table alongside the trophies won at Waterloo and Sebastopol in the Crimea and Madrid. And there the Ming Statue remained until the colonel’s retirement to his father’s house in Yorkshire, when the Emperor returned once again to the living room mantelpiece. The colonel was not a man to disobey his late father, even in death, and he left clear instructions that the heirloom must always be passed on to the firstborn of the Heathcotes unless the family honor was in jeopardy. Col. James Heathcote, MC, did not die a soldier’s death; he simply fell asleep one night by the fire, the Yorkshire Post on his lap.

  The colonel’s firstborn, the Reverend Alexander Heathcote, was at the time presiding over a small flock in the parish of Much Hadham in Hertfordshire. After burying his father with military honors, he placed the little Ming emperor on the mantelpiece of the vicarage. Few members of the Mothers’ Union appreciated the masterpiece, but one or two old ladies were heard to remark on its delicate carving. And it was not until the reverend became the right reverend, and the little statue found its way into the bishop’s palace, that the emperor attracted the admiration he deserved. Many of those who visited the palace and heard the story of how the bishop’s grandfather had acquired the Ming statue were fascinated to learn of the disparity between the magnificent statue and its base. It always made a good after-dinner story.

  God takes even his own ambassadors, but he did not do so before allowing Bishop Heathcote to complete a will leaving the statue to his son, with his grandfather’s exact instructions carefully repeated. The bishop’s son, Capt. James Heathcote, was a serving officer in his grandfather’s regiment, so the Ming statue returned to the mess table in Halifax. During the emperor’s absence, the regimental trophies had been augmented by those struck for Ypres, the Marne, and Verdun. The regiment was once again at war with Germany, and young Captain James Heathcote was killed on the beaches of Dunkirk and died intestate. Thereafter English law, the known wishes of his great-grandfather, and common sense prevailed, and the little emperor came into the possession of the captain’s two-year-old son.

  Alex Heathcote was, alas, not of the mettle of his doughty ancestors, and he grew up feeling no desire to serve anyone other than himself. When Captain James had been so tragically killed, Alexander’s mother lavished everything on the boy that her meager income would allow. It didn’t help, and it was not entirely young Alex’s fault that he grew up to be, in the words of his grandmother, a selfish, spoiled little brat.

  When Alex left school, only a short time before he would have been expelled, he found he could never hold down a job for more than a few weeks. It always seemed necessary for him to spend a little more than he, and finally his mother, could cope with. The good lady, deciding she could take no more of this life, departed it, to join all the other Heathcotes, not in Yorkshire but in heaven.

  In the swinging sixties, when casinos opened in Britain, young Alex was convinced that he had found the ideal way of earning a living without actually having to do any work. He developed a system for playing roulette with which it was impossible to lose. He did lose, so he refined the system and promptly lost more; he refined the system once again, which resulted in him having to borrow to cover his losses. Why not? If the worst came to the worst, he told himself, he could always dispose of the little Ming emperor.

  The worst did come to the worst, as each one of Alex’s newly refined systems took him progressively into greater debt until the casinos began to press him for payment. When finally, one Monday morning, Alex received an unsolicited call from two gentlemen who seemed determined to collect some eight thousand pounds he owed their masters, and hinted at bodily harm if the matter was not dealt with within fourteen days, Alex caved in. After all, his great-great-grandfather’s instructions had been exact: The Ming statue was to be sold if the family honor was ever at stake.

  Alex took the little emperor off the mantelpiece in his Cadogan Gardens flat and stared down at its delicate handiwork, at least having the grace to feel a little sad at the loss of the family heirloom. He then drove to Bond Street and delivered the masterpiece to Sotheby’s, giving instructions that the emperor should be put up for auction.

  The head of the Oriental department, a pale, thin man, appeared at the front desk to discuss the masterpiece with Alex, looking not unlike the Ming statue he was holding so lovingly in his hands.

  “It will take a few days to estimate the true value of the piece,” he purred, “but I feel confident on a cursory glance that the statue is as fine an example of Pen Q as we have ever had under the hammer.”

  “That’s no problem,” replied Alex, “as long as you can let me know what it’s worth within fourteen days.”

  “Oh, certainly,” replied the expert. “I feel sure I could give you a floor price by Friday.”

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Alex.

  During that week he contacted all his creditors, and without exception they were prepared to wait and learn the appraisal of the expert. Alex duly returned to Bond Street on the Friday with a large smile on his face. He knew what his great-great-grandfather had paid for the piece and felt sure that the statue must be worth more than ten thousand pounds. A sum that would not only yield him enough to cover all his debts but leave him a little over to try out his new refined, refined system on the roulette table. As he climbed the steps of Sotheby’s, Alex silently thanked his great-great-grandfather. He asked the girl on reception if he could speak to the head of the Oriental department. She picked up an internal phone, and the expert appeared a few moments later at the front desk with a somber look on his face. Alex’s heart sank as he listened to his words: “A nice little piece, your emperor, but unfortunately a fake, probably about 200, 250 years old, but only a copy of the original, I’m afraid. Copies were often made because …”

  “How much is it worth?” interrupted an anxious Alex.

  “Seven hundred pounds, eight hundred at the most.” Enough to buy a gun and some bullets, thought Alex sardonically as he turned and started to walk away.

  “I wonder, sir …” continued the expert.

  “Yes, yes, sell the bloody thing,” said Alex, without bothering to look back.

  “And what do you want me to do with the base?”

  “The base?” repeated Alex, turning round to face the Orientalist.

  “Yes, the base. It’s quite magnificent, fifteenth century, undoubtedly a work of genius, I can’t imagine how …”

  “Lot No. 103,” announced the auctioneer. “What am I bid for this magnificent example of …”

  The expert turned out to be right in his assessment. At the auction at Sotheby’s that Thursday morning, I obtained the little emperor for 720 guineas. And the base? That was acquired by an American gentleman of not unknown parentage for 22,000 guineas.

  THE WINE TASTER

  The first occasion I met Sefton Hamilton was in late August last year when my wife and I were dining with Henry and Suzanne Kennedy at their home in Warwick Square.

  Hamilton was one of those unfortunate men who have inherited immense wealth but not a lot more. He was able quickly to convince us that he had little time to read and no time to attend the theater or opera. However, this did not prevent him from holding opinions on every subject from Shaw to Pavarotti, from Gorbachev to Picasso. He remained puzzled, for instance, as to what the unemployed had to complain about when their welfare check was just less than what he was currently paying the laborers on his estate. In any case, they only spent it on bin
go and drinking, he assured us.

  Drinking brings me to the other dinner guest that night—Freddie Barker, the president of the Wine Society, who sat opposite my wife and, unlike Hamilton, hardly uttered a word. Henry had assured me over the phone that Barker had not only managed to get the Society back on to a proper financial footing but was also acknowledged as a leading authority on his subject. I looked forward to picking up useful bits of inside knowledge. Whenever Barker was allowed to get a word in edgewise, he showed enough knowledge of the topic under discussion to convince me that he would be fascinating if only Hamilton would remain silent long enough for him to speak.

  While our hostess produced as a starter a spinach soufflé that melted in the mouth, Henry moved round the table pouring each of us a glass of wine.

  Barker sniffed his appreciatively. “Appropriate in bicentennial year that we should be drinking an Australian Chablis of such fine vintage. I feel sure their whites will soon be making the French look to their laurels.”

  “Australian?” said Hamilton in disbelief as he put down his glass. “How could a nation of beer swiggers begin to understand the first thing about producing a half decent wine?”

  “I think you’ll find,” began Barker, “that the Australians—”

  “Bicentennial, indeed,” Hamilton continued. “Let’s face it, they’re only celebrating two hundred years of parole.” No one laughed except Hamilton. “I’d still pack the rest of our criminals off there, given half a chance.”

  No one doubted him.

  Hamilton sipped the wine tentatively, like a man who fears he is about to be poisoned, then began to explain why, in his considered view, judges were far too lenient with petty criminals. I found myself concentrating more on the food than the incessant flow of my neighbor’s views.