The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [243]
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, Capt. 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 resulted in him having to borrow to cover his losses. Why not? If the worst came to the worst, he told 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 that the emperor should 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