A Quiver Full of Arrows Read online

  The colonel’s firstborn, the Reverend Alexander Heathcote, was at the time presiding over a small flock in the parish of Honiton in Devon. 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, Captain 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 forced him to borrow to cover his losses. Why not? If the worst came to the worst, he reassured 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 for the Emperor to 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 confident 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 two hundred, two hundred and fifty 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 Number 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 seven hundred and twenty guineas. And the base? That was acquired by an American gentleman of not unknown parentage for twenty-two thousand guineas.

  THE LUNCHEON

  She waved to me across a crowded room at the St. Regis Hotel in New York. I waved back, realizing I knew the face, but I was unable to place it. She squeezed past waiters and guests and had reached me before I had a chance to ask anyone who she was. I racked that section of my brain which is meant to store people, but it transmitted no reply. I realized I would have to resort to the old party trick of carefully worded questions until her answers jogged my memory.

  “How are you, darling?” she cried, and threw her arms around me, an opening that didn’t help as we were at a Literary Guild cocktail party, and anyone will throw their arms around you on such occasions, even the directors of the Book-of-the-Month Club. From her accent she was clearly American and looked to be approaching forty but, thanks to the genius of modern makeup, might even have overtaken it. She wore a long white cocktail dress and her blond hair was done up in one of those buns that look like a cottage loaf. The overall effect made her appear somewhat like a chess queen. Not that the cottage loaf helped, because she might have had dark hair flowing to her shoulders when we last met. I do wish women would realize that when they change their hair style they often achieve exactly what they set out to do—look completely different to any unsuspecting male.

  “I’m well, thank you,” I said to the white queen. “And you?” I inquired as my opening gambit.

  “I’m just fine, darling,” she replied, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  “And how’s the family?” I asked, not sure if she even had one.

  “They’re all well,” she replied. No help there. “And how is Louise?” she inquired.

  “Blooming,” I said. So she kne