The Face of the Seal

by Jennifer Cumiskey

  Ten months later, after she gave birth to a baby girl, she was bestowed the title of imperial noble consort. The once secluded Rose Pavilion became the target of palace scheming and trickery. Catty concubines and consorts ingratiated themselves to Meigui and her servants, hoping to learn her secrets of carnal pleasure. Maids of court officials—especially of those who wished to exert influence on the Emperor regarding foreign and domestic affairs—waylaid Meigui in the gardens and by the ponds in hope of convincing her to talk the Emperor into doing what their masters wanted . . .

  More sex scenes. William Blackwell IV skipped them. It would’ve been a pleasurable read on a normal, uneventful evening. But it was not. He needed to find out more about the Empress Seal for which he was most likely being blackmailed. He flipped the pages hurriedly until the story was pertinent again.

  . . . One day, the ambassador of France came knocking on the door of the Forbidden City bearing a gift—a cloisonné seal made of metal. The body of the seal was encircled with the image of a pure gold dragon. The face of the seal was white jade etched with a fleur-de-lis. The Emperor considered the gift a novelty. After the ambassador left, he took the seal to the back palace to show it to Meigui. The Emperor told her what the French ambassador conveyed to him: the fleur-de-lis and the golden dragon were both symbols of power and strength, thus the seal represented the perfect union of France and China. Meigui, fascinated by the analogy, studied the seal carefully. “My Emperor, if I may, I’d say fleur-de-lis is the flower of lily. Some may say it also represents light, purity, and perfection. As for power and strength, they can also be interpreted as aggression.”

  “Where did you learn this?” asked the Emperor, shocked and stern. “I’ve heard that Li often snuck in books you’re not supposed to read. You might be an imperial noble consort, but don’t you dare to try to influence me and interfere with court affairs.”

  Knowing she might have overstepped her boundaries and fearing for Li’s life, Meigui dropped on her knees before the Emperor and implored, “Please don’t be angry, it’s not Eunuch Li’s fault. I’m the one who asked him to buy those books. I know my Emperor desires to rule the dynasty more like the way European countries are ruled. So I thought if I read books about Europe, I’d understand my Emperor’s wishes and hopes. I thought in doing so, I could in my own way share a bit of the burden my Emperor carries on his shoulders.”

  The Emperor listened to Meigui, his anger quickly giving way to tenderness. “I know you’re different from any other woman in the back palace. I know that had you been a man, you’d be a wiser advisor to me than any of the councils or ministers in my court. But you’re not a man and you need to be careful about what you say to others, particularly those who are close to the Empress Dowager. She wants to keep the dynasty the way it is so she can continue to exert her power over the court and over me. You don’t know what she’d do if she found out a concubine in the back palace is trying to instill those western devil ideas into the mind of the Emperor of the Great Qing Dynasty.”

  “I’m grateful my Emperor has forgiven me. I’ll be careful,” Meigui said, still kneeling.

  “Now, stand up and come sit with me,” the Emperor motioned. As Meigui raised herself to join him on the large rosewood couch he asked, “So what else have you learned from those books you’ve been reading?”

  Meigui thought for a moment and said, not directly answering the Emperor’s question, “My Emperor, since we’ve been talking about the design of fleur-de-lis, I wonder how a flower can have so many layers of meaning?”

  “Meigui, that’s your name and it’s also a flower. Have you checked how many meanings Meigui has?” the Emperor asked playfully.

  “Yes, my Emperor, I have. But if I state what I’ve found, my Emperor has to promise not to get angry at me again,” Meigui demurred.

  “State. I’ve passed being angry at you, you little cunning fox.”

  “My Emperor, when I was a little girl, my mother told me a rose didn’t use to have thorns because it was the flower of paradise, a symbol of purity, perfection, love, and passion. Then it fell to Earth and became tainted and corrupt. It still maintained its perfect shape and fragrance, but it developed thorns . . .”

  “And why is that?”

  “My mother said it’s because we humans are capable of love, passion, and grace, but also lust, sin, and hatred toward each other.”

  “So, the thorns represent men’s transgressions.”

  “And women’s, too.”

  “I see now there’s another reason your pavilion is full of red roses, but why all red?”

  “My mother said red is the color of blood, the blood shed by people who sacrificed their lives to save their fellow human beings.”

  The Emperor was silent for a long moment, staring at Meigui as if it was the first time he’d ever seen her. Then abruptly he pointed at the blood-red pendant that had never left Meigui’s bosom since the day she set foot in the palace. “I have an idea, give me that stone you’re wearing.”

  “But my Emperor, this is the only thing I have to remember my mother by, I can’t part with it,” Meigui said, clutching the pendant tightly.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll return it to you. And when I do, it’ll make you the most famous imperial noble consort in the history of the Great Qing Dynasty. Now, hand it over.”

  It was not until three months later that the red stone was returned to Meigui, but in the form of the face of a stamp seal, etched with a five-petal rose. The shape of the seal, though smaller, was similar to the dragon seal given to the Emperor by the French ambassador. It was cloisonné enamel, royal blue and encircled by a pure gold phoenix. It was officially named “The Empress Seal,” a gift from the Emperor to his beloved imperial noble consort. It was never meant to have real approval power, but symbolically, it was viewed as the Emperor’s desire to replace the Empress chosen for him by the Empress Dowager with Meigui, a mere concubine . . .

  Blackwell was not able to read on, the realization was frightening. The note was not a practical joke, it had intended to intimidate, to blackmail. He stared into the dying fire, his pale blue eyes almost icy grey. His lips that quite a few women found delicately sensual were now strained into a line. His slightly hollow cheeks sunken, his normal Hugh Grant kind of cuteness had faded into the tragic air of noble princes portrayed in those old museum paintings.

  The front door clicked, opened, and shut. Familiar sounds of footsteps on the parquet floor. “Is that you Allerton?”

  “Yes, William. You need anything?” The butler’s voice traveled down the hallway toward the study.

  “No, I’ll see you in the morning, good night.”

  “Good night, then.”

  Outside, the wispy fog of early evening had thickened, turning the windows opaque white. Eerie silhouettes of passing vehicles flitted by. The antique brass clock on the mantel showed almost midnight. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He needed to talk to someone, someone he could trust but who was more cunning than the author of the blackmail note. After another two fingers of scotch, he picked up his cell.

  It’s not too late to call there.

  Chapter 3

  New York City, present day

  At nine-thirty a.m. Ryan arrived at the W Gallery on 69th Street, between Maddison and 5th. The previous day, after he and Detective Rica left the crime scene at the Crystal Palace Residence, they went back to the station where they’d pounded keyboards and scrolled through articles and reports, searching for anything about their victim that could be useful. William Blackwell IV wasn’t just rich and famous, he was also noted for his bloodline that stretched back to his great-grandfather William Blackwell I, Britain’s most celebrated journalist and historian, knighted by King George V in 1915. His great-grandson seemed to have made his own name, a fixture in the London art world and high society. A glorified party boy, Ryan thought to himself before Ive laid several grainy pictures in front of him. They were party photos she found on social media si
tes and they had one thing—or rather one man—in common. Wesley Walters, the owner of the W Gallery in Midtown Manhattan who, according to one editorial in the New York Art Journal, had benefited from Mr. Blackwell’s patronage. The person I need to talk to. Ryan called the W Gallery immediately but the woman who said she was Wesley Walters’s assistant informed him icily that Mr. Walters had already left for the day. An appointment was required to see the owner since he was very busy preparing for an upcoming special exhibition. Ryan finally had to use the words “police business” to scare her into grudgingly putting his name on Mr. Walters’s calendar for the next morning before the gallery opened.

  The W Gallery was in one of the several three-story townhome-style buildings lining a street where the cacophony of Manhattan was blissfully muted. They were built in the early twentieth century as residential properties but have been currently leased to doctors, lawyers, and financial advisors who, Ryan was sure, had client lists as elite as the addresses of their offices. The gallery building was white with curved stairways that framed the step-down front entrance and led to the center French doors on the second floor, through which Ryan could see a large ceiling chandelier and paintings on the walls. He marched to the entrance and pushed the gold button to the side of the door. Immediately, he was buzzed in.

  “Good morning, sir,” an icy voice drafted over.

  A woman was sitting behind the reception desk. A black turtleneck clung to her pencil thin body like a second layer of skin, her platinum blond hair pulled back in a tight bun, her skin translucent white, her lips painted bright red. She stared at Ryan, her eyes icy blue.

  “Good morning. I’m here to see Mr. Walters, I believe we talked on the phone yesterday . . .” Ryan said, holding out his badge.

  She glanced at the badge, her lips twitched slightly. Ryan couldn’t tell if it was a smile or sneer.

  “Good morning, Detective Ryan,” a deep voice greeted him solemnly from behind. Ryan turned around and saw a tall, square-shouldered man approaching him with an outstretched hand. “I’m Wesley Walters. Sorry I missed your call yesterday. Simone should’ve given you my cell number. I had quite a busy day yesterday and didn’t hear the sad news until late at night, when I got home and turned on the TV.”

  “Mr. Walters.” Ryan shook the extended hand.

  “Wes, please.” Walters’s stubbled face forced a faint smile, his dark brown eyes glistening. “I can’t believe he’s gone, he was just here two days ago, helping me with the new exhibition,” he said, looking around the room as if Blackwell had just stepped away but was still somewhere in the gallery.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Wes, you two must be very close. But if you don’t mind, I need to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Oh, yes,” Walters pulled himself back to the present. “Let’s go to my office.” He pointed toward the other end of the first floor and stepped aside to let Ryan proceed first.

  Considering the prestigious address of the W Gallery and elegant façade of the building, Walters’s office was surprisingly small and average: a wooden desk and a swivel chair in front of a wall of bookshelves, a round table off to the side with a wooden chair on each side. One wall was decorated with a couple of scrolls of Asian calligraphy. A black and white watercolor landscape hung on the opposite wall. The room suited Walters who, in a grey herringbone wool jacket over a black sweater, looked like a college professor on any run-of-the-mill campus.

  There were several rolled up scrolls scattered on the round table, each tied with a deep red ribbon. With both hands Walters pushed them to the side, then motioned Ryan to sit down. “These are hanging Chinese scrolls William thought ought to be part of the exhibition,” he murmured as he lowered himself into the other chair, facing Ryan from across the table.

  “Wes, let’s get a couple of routine questions out of the way, it might sound offensive, but we have to go through it.” Ryan decided to get down right to business.

  “Sure, anything I can do to help to catch the murderer.”

  “Where were you last night from eight-thirty to ten-thirty?”

  “Good god, you think I’m a suspect?” Wes’s voice seemed to crack with grief.

  “Sorry Wes, I have to ask the question.”

  Walters sighed. “I had dinner with a few clients at 21 Club on 52nd Street. Simone was with me. We arrived around seven-thirty and left a little before ten, you can check with the restaurant. After that, we both needed some fresh air after being cooped up in the cellar dining room for a few hours. So, I walked Simone home, which was only a few blocks away.”

  Multiple alibis, Ryan jotted down on his notepad. “What’s your relationship with Mr. Blackwell? Did he have anything to do with your business? I mean the gallery?”

  “Not officially. But William had a keen artistic eye, he gave good advice when it came to pulling together an exhibition. He was supposed to come in today to look at these . . .” Wes trailed off, glancing at the scrolls on the side of the table.

  Ryan let a moment of silence settle between them before moving on to the next question. “So, your dinner last night, with whom? Business or pleasure?”

  “Oh, it was a farewell dinner with a group of young artists from China. My gallery often shows and commissions their work. It is part of the program we have with China so young Chinese and American artists get to visit each other’s country for cultural and art exchange purposes. This is the fun part of my job. Beats being a lifelong professor at Harvard,” Walters said, his mournful voice sounding lighter.

  “Now you’ve mentioned it—how long were you a professor at Harvard . . .” Ryan let his words hang. He’d checked Walters’s background but the reason he left Harvard was not clear.

  Walters gave Ryan a chuckle. “After postdoctoral study of the history and culture of the East, I thought I’d stay at Harvard forever, devoting my whole life to teaching and researching. But I lost the tenured professorship to a colleague. I realized the only way to win the catty game of the academics is not to play it. So, I left, and things turned out just fine.”

  More than fine. “So how did you know Mr. Blackwell?”

  “It was over two years ago when he wandered into my gallery for the first time.”

  “You mean right here?”

  “No, in Chinatown. My gallery had a rather humble beginning.” Walters’s voice ebbed slightly, he lowered his eyes and peered at the scrolls again.

  Ryan gave him a nod. I’d like to know how your gallery ended with this ritzy address.

  “I remember William was standing in front of a watercolor by a contemporary Chinese artist. It’s a painting about the environmental pollution plaguing China, titled Inferno. We struck up a conversation about the technique the artist used and exchanged our own interpretations. We simply hit it off and became friends,” Walters said tenderly, as if he was giving a speech at Blackwell’s memorial.

  “According to record, Mr. Blackwell bought the penthouse unit at Crystal Palace about a year ago. Do you know why?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he had other businesses to take care of in the city, so it would be more convenient to have his own place rather than staying in a hotel? I’m sure you know by now that William was very generous in supporting my gallery, but he’d also done a lot for other talented artists in the city. He and I were close, but I’d never pry into what William didn’t want to tell me.” Walters blinked back tears, but annoyance tinged his tone.

  Ryan remained quiet, letting Walters succumb to the wave of grief and indignance his question seemed to have stirred up so effectively. A moment later, Ryan pulled out a postcard-sized photo from his notebook and slid it across the table. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  Walters picked up the photo and studied it carefully, then held it at arm’s length and squinted at the cursive characters at the bottom. “Sorry Detective, I seem to have left my reading glasses somewhere. But yes, I’ve seen the real thing before. It’s been in William’s family for
generations. But recently William returned it to China.”

  “When exactly?” Ryan had read the recent press sensation about the Empress Seal. But if the seal had been returned to China, why did Carmen say she’d seen the seal in Blackwell’s penthouse only a few days ago?

  “About a few weeks ago. They held ceremonies in London and Beijing, commemorating the event. William thought it was time to return a treasure like this to China. He was convinced that many of the Chinese antiques being sold and bought at high-end auction houses were looted and brought out of the country during the nineteenth century. You know, when the Brits waged the original drug war against China and then almost every country in the west joined in thereafter?”

  “But the cleaning staff at Crystal Palace was quite sure she’d seen it on Mr. Blackwell’s desk only a few days ago,” Ryan said, ignoring Walters’s proud display of his historical knowledge. He knew very well Walters was talking about the infamous Opium War in the mid-nineteenth century. But he didn’t have time to be sidetracked into a debate about who’d done whom wrong in history.

  “Oh that, that’s just a copy. William wanted a replica to remember the original by. It might’ve been misplaced somewhere in the penthouse.”

  “Nope, we searched everywhere as soon as the cleaning staff told us it was missing from its regular spot—the top of Mr. Blackwell’s desk. We couldn’t find it. Do you know who did the copy work?”

  “William commissioned the House of Cartier for the job. It turned out beautifully, but I can’t believe that someone actually killed William for a fake.”