The Art of Betrayal

easily as the next person’s.
It’s the internal sensations that never fail.
The client watched me, her bony fingers clasping and unclasping in her lap.
I peeled back a layer of plastic and took a sudden breath.
Even before the wrapping was fully removed, I knew what was inside. The technical term is húnpíng, a distinctive type of stoneware jar found in the Han dynasty tombs of early imperial China.
The final layer of wrapping slid away. Each húnpíng is unique—some fairly simple, others wonderfully complex. This example was nothing short of dazzling.
The bulbous jar had the earthy gray-green glaze known as celadon, typical of the period. The lower two-thirds of the vessel featured a procession of mold-pressed figures—leaping chimera; riders astride coiling, dragon-like creatures; peak-helmeted warriors wielding long pikes, ready to strike. The fullest part of the jar culminated in a wide mouth supporting a fantastical, multistoried architectural complex with triple-tiered, tiled roofs and curved corner eaves surrounded by gates and pillars, each entryway watched over by a pair of oversized guards. I tilted the jar to peer at the bottom. Unglazed, unmarked—typical of the Han period.
“Do you know what this is?” I asked.
“Some kind of urn?”
“It’s an ancient Chinese funerary jar from the Han dynasty. In English we call it a soul jar or spirit jar.”
“Han?”
“They ruled much of China for four centuries, roughly 200 BCE to 200 CE.
“Is it valuable?”
“If authentic, very.”
“Oh, it’s authentic. How much is it worth?”
“My guess would be thirty or forty thousand pounds, but to be sure I’d have to consult someone who specializes in early Chinese ceramics. I’m not an expert.”
She blinked and shoved her glasses higher on her nose. “How long would that take? To consult, I mean.”
“Two or three days, perhaps a week.” I clicked open my pen. “First, I’ll need your name and the history of the piece, as far as you know it.”
Her shoulders stiffened, as if I’d asked to see her bank balance. “My name is Evelyn Villiers. My husband bought the urn forty years ago in Hong Kong. He traveled a great deal for business and often purchased pieces for his art collection. If necessary, I can tell you the name of the shop and exactly what he paid for it. He kept meticulous records.”
“That would help,” I said, tossing my earlier caution to the wind. This woman actually had documentation. “It’s a wonderful piece. May I ask why you’re selling?”
“Not for the money, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Mrs. Villiers snapped open the clasp on her handbag and pulled out a white handkerchief. “My husband died eighteen years ago. We had one child, a daughter. When I’m gone, she’ll inherit a large trust fund from her father. I can’t stop that, but I refuse to let her inherit his art collection as well. I’ve decided to sell now, while I’m able.” She met my eyes, as if daring me to criticize.
Criticism was the last thing on my mind—pots calling kettles black and all that. My own daughter, Christine, and my son, Eric, had recently (and unexpectedly) inherited twenty thousand pounds each from their Scottish aunt, a sum I’d persuaded them to invest in a money-market account in Ohio. Eric’s share would help pay for his doctoral degree in nuclear physics. Christine had intended to spend hers, meaning it would have been gone in months, with no more to show for it than a handful of receipts—and very possibly a lady’s Rolex. Christine’s latest boyfriend, the son of an Italian manufacturing executive, had a Rolex. Doesn’t everyone?
Mrs. Villiers cleared her throat, and I put my parenting issues aside. Whatever had caused a rift between this woman and her only child had been a tragedy, and I wasn’t about to take advantage.
“We’d love to help you sell the jar, Mrs. Villiers, but you might want to consider Sotheby’s or one of the other large auction houses in London. Buyers from all over the world receive their catalogs. Wealthy Chinese collectors are paying top prices for objects like this. I’m sure you’d realize more from them than you could from us.”
“No public auctions. No catalogs.” Mrs. Villiers pinched her lips together. “I insist on doing this privately, without publicity. That’s why I came to you … well, to Mr. Tweedy. Just write a check. Whatever you think is fair.”
I felt my cheeks turn pink. Ivor’s checking account currently held just about enough to cover expenses for the month of May. “I’m afraid we’re not in a position to purchase the piece outright. If you’re sure you want us to handle the jar, I suggest consignment. We find a buyer. You get the proceeds minus a reasonable commission. Why don’t I show you our standard contract? If you’re satisfied, we’d be happy to handle the sale.” I turned to the back of the binder, snapped open the rings, and pulled out a printed legal document. As I organized the papers, I tried to make conversation. “Will you be going to the May Fair on the green this evening?”
She mumbled something that sounded like wagon bell.
I looked up. “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”
“I said if you can guarantee my privacy, I have more to sell. A lot more.”
That was not what she’d said, but I let it go, swept away by the glorious possibilities. What Mrs. Villiers was proposing was nothing short of a miracle—a source of high-quality antiques without any financial investment on Ivor’s part. This woman wasn’t offering an odd piece now and again, but an entire collection, and if the húnpíng was any indication of the quality, a collection that would place The Cabinet of Curiosities among the highest tier of England’s private dealers. I couldn’t wait to tell Ivor. “What sorts of things did your husband collect?”
“Like the urn—pottery, porcelain, paintings. Special figurines as well—nearly fifty pieces. I can’t remember the name, but they’re marked on the bottom with crossed swords.”
“You mean Meissen.” My heart kicked up a notch.
She brightened. “That’s right. Meissen.”
The famous Meissen factory near Dresden was the first