The Art of Betrayal

of a small deluxe hotel rather than a medical facility. Deeply cushioned furniture faced a marble fireplace. Soothing landscapes in oils hung on ochre-painted walls.
Ivor’s room was on the ground floor, facing the back garden. While a pretty, young aide changed the linens on his hospital bed, Ivor sat in a huge leather chair by a sunny French window, tucking into his elevenses—that quintessentially British custom of a mid-morning snack. His cheeks were pink, his sparse white hair frizzed out like a halo, and his eyes that electric blue that reminded me of Kashmiri sapphires. My heart soared. He was looking so much better than he had in the hospital.
“Kate, my dear girl!” Ivor raised his flower-sprigged teacup and waggled his eyebrows. “Join me?”
“No, thanks. How are you?”
“Ha! I’d be better if Attila here didn’t find it necessary to torture me several times a day.”
“Oh, go on wi’ you.” The aid, whose name badge said “Jay’den,” winked at me. “He’s walking the length of the hall now. We’re right proud of Mr. Tweedy. At this rate he’ll be leaving us early ’n’ all.” She fluffed the pillows on his bed and shook a playful finger at her patient. “The physio will be back at two, mind, for your range-of-motion exercises.”
Ivor grimaced and rolled his eyes.
“How are things at the shop?” he asked when she’d gone.
“I closed early. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Your call, Kate. I warned you we don’t get many walk-ins.” Ivor dipped a biscuit in his tea. “Sure you won’t join me?”
I declined and spent the next few minutes catching him up.
“The good news is I sold that small bronze statue—Perseus holding the head of Medusa—to a collector in Canada. He wanted it so badly he didn’t even bother to haggle.”
“A true collector. You can always tell.”
I had to laugh. “My father used to get a glazed look in his eyes. And he’d start whistling.”
“So what’s the bad news?”
“The auction.”
“Ah.” Just before I’d arrived in England, Ivor had placed a group of objects from Roman Britain—a wax writing tablet, a silver-and-gold pepper pot in the shape of a woman’s head and shoulders, and a bronze drinking vessel with gladiator scenes—with the new auction house outside Long Barston, on the road to Sudbury. The owner and his son had been all enthusiasm, he’d told me, talking about their upscale clientele and exceeding estimates. They’d set a value of ten thousand pounds.
“How bad was it?”
“We got half.”
“Ah, well.” He attempted a philosophical smile. “You can never tell with an auction.”
Ivor was right. Some auctions generate a buzz that boosts prices through the ceiling. Others, with the same type and quality of merchandise, feel more like a wake. So many factors are at play—the economy, the news cycle, even the weather.
“Well, here’s something to cheer you up.” Dragging the visitor’s chair closer, I dug in my handbag for my cell phone and pulled up the images I’d taken of the húnpíng jar.
“Blimey.” Ivor shoved his glasses higher on his nose. “I haven’t seen one of those in decades.”
“My parents had one in their antiques shop once, but it was plain—just a jar, really. Still worth a bundle, if only for its age.”
“Where did you find it?”
I told him, beginning with my early suspicions and ending with Mrs. Villiers’s tantalizing suggestion that we handle the sale of her late husband’s entire art collection.
Ivor sat for a moment, not speaking. “I know Evelyn Villiers—well, know of her.”
“That’s what I was hoping.”
“Terrible tragedy, the death of her husband. It was in all the papers. Must have happened—oh, fifteen or more years ago.”
“Eighteen, according to her.”
“Yes, well. They had a fine house near Little Gosling. Wallace Villiers was managing director of an investment firm. One daughter, Lucy. Doted on her, sent her to the best schools. She was seventeen, young for her age. According to news reports, Lucy had a clandestine relationship with her father’s chauffeur, a dicey lad in his late twenties. Her parents found out, raised a fuss. Then Mr. Villiers discovered that one of his paintings, a rare seventeenth-century landscape, had gone missing. He accused the chauffeur of stealing it—on what basis, I never knew. Lucy defended him. There was a terrible row, ending tragically in Wallace Villiers’s death from a cerebral hemorrhage. Evelyn took it hard. Blamed her daughter.”
That would explain her bitterness. Still, it had been eighteen years ago. Lucy would be in her mid-thirties now. Had there been no reconciliation? “Was the painting ever recovered?”
“I never heard.”
“Was the young man found guilty?”
“Released for lack of evidence.”
“And Lucy?”
“Left the area, I believe. Memory’s a bit fuzzy there.” He frowned. “What is it, Kate? You look troubled.”
“Not troubled exactly.”
“You’d better tell me.”
“It’s just I got the impression Mrs. Villiers was”—I shrugged—“oh, I don’t know. Ill at ease, maybe, or fearful.”
“You suspect the húnpíng is a fake? I doubt that. In my opinion, from the photograph, it’s exactly what it appears to be—a very fine and very old example of ancient Chinese pottery.”
“She says she has documentation—sales receipts. I haven’t seen them.”
“So you’re suspicious.”
“Not about the jar.”
“About the woman? She’s reputed to be a bit odd. A recluse. Never leaves her house.”
“Well, she left her house today. I told her I’d have an expert examine the jar. Do you know of anyone?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Ivor gave me one of his deceptively angelic smiles. “Bring the húnpíng here. I’ll take a look. In the meantime, do some research yourself. There’s a reference book on ancient Chinese pottery in the book room at the shop—on the left, third shelf from the top.”
Ivor took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was tiring.
As if on cue, the pretty young aide returned. “Time for a lie-down, Mr. Tweedy. You’ll need your strength for the physio. And our afternoon stroll.”
“I can’t wait.” He pulled a face. “How are you and Vivian getting along?”
“Like Thelma and Louise—Vivian’s words. I’m afraid to ask what she means.”
Vivian Bunn, owner of Rose Cottage, the picture-perfect, thatched-roof cottage