Being an exact man, Sir Alexander wrote a long and detailed will, in which he left precise instructions for the disposal of his estate, including what was to happen to the little statue after his death. He bequeathed the Emperor Kung to his first son, requesting that he do the same, in order that the statue might always pass to the first son, or a daughter if the direct male line faltered. He also made a provision that the statue was never to be disposed of, unless the family’s honor was at stake. Sir Alexander Heathcote died at the stroke of midnight on his seventieth year.
His first-born, Major James Heathcote, was serving his Queen in the Boer War at the time he came into possession of the Ming Emperor. The colonel was a fighting man, commissioned with the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, and although he had little interest in culture, even he could see that the family heirloom was no ordinary treasure, so he loaned the statue to the regimental mess at Halifax in order that the Emperor could be displayed in the dining room for his brother officers to appreciate.
When James Heathcote became Colonel of the Dukes, the Emperor stood proudly on the table alongside the trophies won at Waterloo and Sebastopol in the Crimea and Madrid. And there the Ming statue remained until the colonel’s retirement to his father’s house in Yorkshire, when the Emperor returned once again to the drawing room mantelpiece. The colonel was not a man to disobey his late father, even in death, and he left clear instructions that the heirloom must always be passed on to the firstborn of the Heathcotes unless the family honor was in jeopardy. Colonel James Heathcote M.C. did not die a soldier’s death; he simply fell asleep one night by the fire, the Yorkshire Post on his lap.
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?”