EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  The five-course Epicurean Lunch in the Panoramic Restaurant, with wines suitably paired by Andrew, far exceeded Kingston’s expectations. They had a window table with an unimpeded view of the emerald green racecourse, the winning post directly below them. The vantage point also offered a farreaching panorama across Windsor Great Park to the London skyline in the hazy distance. As if all this wasn’t enough, both of them came out on the winning side, with Kingston making a bundle on the twenty-to-one outsider that won the Coronation Stakes, the third race on the card. The name of the horse: Saucy Sally.

  Arriving back in Chelsea, with full stomachs and wallets, they decided that a celebratory drink at the Antelope was in order before going home. With Andrew, there was no such thing as “a drink” singular. “Drink” existed only as a verb in his mind. Thus, it was past eight o’clock before Kingston got to kick off his shoes and plonk down on the sofa to go through the day’s mail. An envelope bearing the logo and address of the Percival David Foundation of Chinese Art caught his attention. He opened it with his bone-handled letter knife and took out the one-page letter.

  Dear Dr. Kingston,

  We have examined the photographs of the Chinese bowl that you provided and are able to offer the following opinion accordingly.

  Visually, the ceramic appears to be a Ming Dynasty Palace bowl of Chenghua period (1465–87). It bears the correct Chinese character reign marks, scrollwork, and shows modest wear, as would be expected.

  Without examining the bowl itself, to study the glaze and determine the weight, etc., we are unable to confirm if it is a genuine work or a reasonable copy.

  Few examples of such Palace bowls exist today and we are fortunate to possess several of them. If judged authentic, it would be considered extremely rare.

  If you are able to bring the bowl to our offices, we would be happy to provide a more accurate opinion. To facilitate this, please make an appointment with one of our curators by phoning the number below.

  Yours truly,

  Warren Yee

  Curator

  Kingston was pleased. He hadn’t expected the bowl to be authenticated from a photograph. Anyone who knew anything about antiques would know that it was not possible. What was encouraging was the information about the period and its rarity. He would have to do more research, but from what little he’d read, the bowl, if genuine, would be of considerable value—in the £1–2 million–plus range. That said, he doubted it was the real McCoy. Given the dubious circumstances, it was looking more and more to him as if the bowl was a good fake, indicating that Jenkins had been involved in a scheme to produce counterfeit Chinese ceramics.

  He put the letter on the coffee table. Something that Inspector Sheffield had said came back to him: “Jenkins was always running off to China looking for plants, what would be so unusual about his collecting Chinese antiques?” Collecting authentic antiques was one thing, but forging them on a grand scale was another entirely. Clearly Jenkins hadn’t been alone in the venture. Whoever had made the bowls was unquestionably a skilled craftsman or woman. Another thing: To reproduce any antique so perfectly as to be virtually indistinguishable from the real thing required that the artisan possess the original. So where had the original or originals come from? China? Not necessarily. Chinese antiques were now in much demand worldwide, not only by collectors but also by investors. Ancient Chinese ceramics now appeared regularly for sale at Christie’s, Sotheby’s, and Bonham’s auctions in London and abroad. Kingston had read that when China entered the World Trade Organization in 2001, many of the tight controls on the trade and export of antiquities were lifted. No longer was it illegal to sell such relics. As a result, antiques markets and auction houses dealing in Chinese antiquities sprang up all over the country, and the price of the ancient works of art, many once held in private collections, started to rise dramatically.

  If Jenkins had been acquiring antique ceramics on his expeditions to China, could Graves, Bell, or any of the others be in on it with him? Another problem bothered Kingston. Why produce so many bowls? Conservatively, there had to be at least two dozen on the shelf at the barn, all the same size and shape. To flood the market with so many would seem to be not only illogical and counterproductive, but would also invite the risk of discovery.

  With so many questions spinning in his head on top of the day’s wine and spirits—far beyond his normal intake—he decided to give up worrying about it for now. A phone call in the morning to Sheffield, telling him about the Percival David letter, should result in permission being granted to release one of the glazed bowls sitting in Cornwall and have it delivered to the Percival David curator for authentication. After that, its pedigree would be known, once and for all. He thought about making a cup of coffee but changed his mind. He got up, turned off the lights, and headed for the stairs. After a long and lively excursion, an hour’s reading—if he could keep his eyes open—then an early night would be a welcome and fitting end to a memorable day.

  The weekend passed uneventfully, which was a welcome change for Kingston. No important phone calls and little contact with the outside world, save for a visit to his barber in Kensington and a trip to Sainsbury’s, where he stocked up on essentials for the pantry and food for only the next couple of days. Shopping for anything, except books, paintings, and antiques, was about as appealing to Kingston as watching paint dry. By and large, he shopped for food much the same way as the French and Italians: buying only enough fresh fish, meats, and vegetables in season to cover the next two or three days’ meals, versus the next several weeks, which, by the appearance of some of the supermarket shopping carts, had become the prevailing practice of today’s younger families.

  The morning after he’d received the Percival David letter, he had called Sheffield, telling him about his earlier conversation with the foundation and his submitting the digital photos. Then he had read aloud their reply. Sheffield had agreed that it was significant and assured Kingston that he would call Inspector Hannaford that afternoon and arrange to have one of the glazed bowls sent off immediately.

  With time on his hands, a rare indulgence of late, he caught up with his e-mails and correspondence, finishing a letter to his daughter, Julie, embarrassed to discover that he’d started it two weeks ago. Having now had plenty of time to mull over the events of the last weeks, it seemed clear, like it or not, that if there were to be any kind of break at all in solving Mayhew’s death and the two murders, it would come after Sheffield had interviewed Julian Bell and Spenser Graves. They had to be mixed up in it all, somehow. Who else was left? Kingston would dearly love to sit in on those interviews, but from experience he knew that such a request would fall on very deaf lawful ears. There was little he could do for now—perhaps until the case was solved— other than to sit and wait patiently until Sheffield felt the need to call him.

  It was Country Life that broke the stalemate. Kingston might have been sitting around his flat until the cows came home but for an item at the end of the Art Market Review pages that caught his eye. He read it twice, chuffed at his good fortune.

  ASIAN ART EXHIBIT AT AUDLEIGH HALL

  Visitors to Audleigh Hall Gardens and Arboretum in Leicestershire will enjoy an additional attraction from July 16–21. For the first time, Spenser Graves, Audleigh’s owner, connoisseur and collector of fine Asian art, will be exhibiting his entire collection of Asian antiquities. Included in the display of over 500 objects are several 15th-century Imperial jade beaker vases; a number of 19th-century hanging scrolls; and a fine selection of 18th-century Qianlong jade carvings, cloisonné enamel jars and bowls, and Gue yue xuan porcelains. Highlight of the show is an exceptionally rare 14th-century Yuan Dynasty jar set. Hours of the exhibit are from 10 A.M. to 4 P.M. every day. Admission is free. Audleigh Hall is located on the A6, five miles north of Market Harborough, Leicestershire.

  Kingston slapped his thigh. What a stroke of luck. The 16th was only two days away. Now he didn’t need an excuse to pay a visit to Spenser Graves. Not o
nly that, he had a legitimate reason for going should Sheffield chew him out later for unnecessary meddling. He thought about calling Graves first but decided against it. Graves already knew that Kingston was collaborating with the police. If, as it now appeared, Graves was mixed up with the fake Chinese ceramics—let alone the murders—he wouldn’t want Kingston snooping around, far from it. There was also the remote possibility that Graves would not be in residence, though with such an important exhibit, that seemed unlikely. Even knowing Graves as little as he did, Kingston was sure that he would be on hand to oversee things. From what Sheffield had said, the interviews with Graves and Bell should have taken place by now. It would help if he knew the outcome. For all he knew, Graves or Bell or both of them could be under lock and key. Somehow, he doubted it.

  Graves or no Graves, he was going to take a run up to Leicestershire and play it by ear. It would be worth the drive, anyway, just to see the art collection. Would there be a blue-and-white Ming Dynasty Palace bowl among the exhibits? He would soon find out.

  NINETEEN

  Rain was tattooing the canvas top of the TR4 as Kingston drove through the iron gates of Audleigh Hall. From the moment he’d left London, the weather had been wretched. This time, when the house came into view through the blurry arcs of the wipers, it looked bleak and inhospitable. What a difference from his first visit, he thought. That time, he had driven right up to the front door, now the road was roped off and all traffic was directed to a car park. This, he discovered, was two hundred yards from the house. Several minutes later, Kingston locked the car, zipped up his Barbour jacket to his chin, put up his brolly, and started the long trudge through the avenue of beech trees, along the soggy grass path to the house.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Kingston, with other visitors, including a docent-led group of seniors, made their way slowly around the grand echoing exhibit hall under the gimlet-eyed gaze of two uniformed guards. Graves’s Asian art collection was, as the article had promised, extensive, museumworthy, and impressive. What with the Chinese bowls at Jenkins’s place, his recent exchange with the Percival David Foundation, and now this magnificent display of old Asian artifacts, Kingston was quickly gaining a renewed interest and appreciation for Chinese antiques.

  Kingston at last reached the end of the exhibit. He gazed at the jars, plates, tureens, and candlestick holders displayed in the last showcase: blue-and-white porcelain from the Qianlong period (1736–1795). He paused briefly, looking around the hall, thinking. There had been no Ming Dynasty Palace bowl resembling the one in Cornwall. He came up with only two reasons why not. The most obvious was that Graves didn’t possess any. Considering their strato-spheric value, that wasn’t surprising. The second reason was that if Graves did have one or more in his collection, and was also implicated in the forgeries, he certainly wouldn’t put one on display.

  More visitors were entering and the room had become quite crowded. The guards’ attention was focused mainly on the showcases and wall cabinets, making sure that the security systems were functioning and that some light-fingered person wasn’t walking off with a Ming vase under his raincoat. Kingston saw several closedcircuit TV cameras mounted high on the walls and in adjacent hallways. Nobody noticed as he calmly slipped out the exhibit hall into one of the hallways farthest from the main entrance.

  He was in an unfamiliar part of the house. On his earlier visit, Graves had mentioned that it contained forty-plus rooms. At that time Kingston had seen only a few. He had no idea what he was looking for, or what he expected to find, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up, nosey parker that he was. If he bumped into a staff member, he would surely be directed back to the hall or the exit. Turning a corner, passing several closed doors, he was soon out of sight and sound of the exhibit hall. If asked what he was looking for, he would simply say the bathroom. It worked every time.

  He became a little bolder, quietly opening a door now and then, each time peering into an empty room or storage area. He was starting to think that it had been a bad idea in the first place and that perhaps he should retrace his steps, when he heard voices. He slowed, approaching a door on his right that was slightly ajar. He stopped, straining to hear the conversation that sounded to be between two men. He stood still, no more than three feet from the open door.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  The voice from behind startled Kingston. He turned, aware that he’d been caught eavesdropping. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but I was looking for the gents,” he said, with as much humility as he could summons.

  For a moment the man didn’t answer. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt and tie, and looking at Kingston in an odd way. At last he spoke. “You’re Dr. Kingston, aren’t you?”

  “I am, yes,” Kingston replied. Then the penny dropped. It was Hobbs, Graves’s butler, manservant, whatever. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, which was what had thrown Kingston off.

  “Would you looking be for Mr. Graves?” he asked politely.

  Kingston smiled inwardly at the archaic phrasing. “I actually was looking for a bathroom. But yes, if it’s not inconvenient. Just to say hello. I really came to see the exhibit and wouldn’t want to disturb him unnecessarily.”

  “Wait here a moment.” Hobbs stepped past Kingston, knocked lightly, opened the door and entered, leaving it ajar. Kingston wondered what kind of reception to expect from Spenser Graves. In seconds, Hobbs reappeared.

  “He’ll meet you in the library. He’s just finishing his meeting. No more than ten minutes, he said. Come with me, Doctor.”

  Kingston nodded and followed Hobbs to the end of the hall, where he opened a large paneled door, holding it open for Kingston to enter.

  The elegantly colonnaded room was magnificent. Row after row of books covered three walls, from floor to vaulted ceiling. Each wall had its own library ladder connected to a brass track surround that projected from below the ceiling molding. Multipaned French doors occupied most of the other wall facing the garden. Too bad it was still pelting down outside, so the view didn’t amount to much. In the center of the room a massive square table, low enough but far too big to be considered a coffee table, was surrounded by overstuffed chairs. A huge copper bucket containing fresh flowers—from the garden, no doubt—sat in the center of the table in the midst of stacks of books and magazines. Declining Hobbs’s offer of tea, coffee, or “stronger beverage,” Kingston settled into one of the chairs, picked up the top magazine, The World of Interiors, and started reading.

  After several minutes, Spenser Graves entered. Kingston put down the magazine and stood. He was pleased to see that Graves’s expression was agreeable.

  “Good morning, Lawrence. Hobbs tells me you came up to see the exhibit.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? I could have given you a private viewing.”

  “I thought about it but decided not to bother you. Having seen the displays, I can imagine how much effort went into staging the event. Superb, I might add.”

  Graves pulled up one of the chairs and sat. Kingston did likewise, crossing his legs.

  A silence fell, while each waited for the other to say something.

  “If I’d known you were that interested in Asian antiques, I could have shown you a good part of the collection when you were here last,” said Graves.

  “Other than certain Japanese pieces—Imari, tansus, netsuke, that sort of thing—I confess it’s a subject I know little about. That’s why I thought it would be a good idea; that I could learn something. I saw the mention in Country Life.”

  Graves nodded, scouring Kingston’s face, remaining silent.

  Kingston cleared his throat. “I was coming up to Bedford anyway, to visit friends, so it wasn’t as if I had to make a special trip.” He realized now that he was babbling and sounding apologetic. By the look on Graves’s face, he was thinking the same thing. In the brief silence that followed, Kingston wondered if he should apologize for the intrusion and ma
ke a graceful exit. As he was about to stand, Graves spoke. His eyes locked on Kingston’s.

  “Are you still working with the police on the Mayhew case?”

  “I’m not, no.” Kingston reasoned that it wasn’t really a lie because, to all intents and purposes, his role in the case had run its course. “Why do you ask?”

  Graves’s eyes narrowed. Now he looked anything but friendly, a Graves that Kingston hadn’t seen before. “I understand that David Jenkins is dead.” His voice lacked any trace of emotion or sympathy. “The police say he was murdered.”

  Kingston saw the trap. If he admitted to knowing about Jenkins, he would have to explain how he came by the information. He had to think quickly.

  A knock on the door gave him the time he needed. The door opened partway and Hobbs appeared. “Your guests are ready to leave, sir,” he said.

  Graves swiveled in his chair to face Hobbs. “Tell them I’ll be with them in a few minutes. I’ll be through with Dr. Kingston shortly.” He turned back to face Kingston.

  Kingston didn’t like the implication in Graves’s last remark one bit. Rather than try to change the subject, which would appear as if he were purposely avoiding Graves’s last question, he waited for Graves to say something.

  “Jenkins’s death doesn’t surprise you?” Graves asked at length.

  “It doesn’t,” Kingston replied without hesitating. “Sally Mayhew told me. She’d called the police to find out if there had been any further developments in the case. It just so happened that she phoned them right after Jenkins was killed.”

  Graves searched Kingston’s face momentarily, as if he were unsure whether Kingston was telling the truth. Seemingly satisfied with Kingston’s explanation, he looked away and stood. “I have to say goodbye to my friends,” he said.