“I suppose this means he’s dead, does it?” Natalie Beau-champ said, pushing a battered bubble envelope across the table at me. Her tone was carefully neutral, but she spoiled the intended effect by chewing her lip and then hiccupping. A few feet away, Clive was extolling the virtues of a particularly lovely eighteenth-century writing desk to a young couple that most likely couldn’t afford it but were desperate to own it anyway. In the aisle outside the McClintoch Swain booth, the party was gradually winding down.
Opening night of the Canadian Antique Dealers Association Annual Fall Fair is a glittering affair, in a rather subdued Toronto sort of way. For $175 a ticket, the rich and fashionable, along with the wanna-bes, get to swill martinis, slurp oysters on the half shell, munch on various delectables from the city’s finest caterers, and get first dibs on the antiques on display, all in a good cause, in this case the local symphony orchestra’s endowment campaign. McClintoch Swain was there as an exhibitor for the first time, and we were working hard at making a good impression.
Natalie hiccupped again. “Oh dear, how rude of me. I’ve only had one,” she said, gesturing to the martini glass at her elbow. “Or maybe one and a half. But I don’t get out much anymore. I’m feeling rather giddy. This has been lovely, by the way. Thank you for asking me to help out.”
“Thanks for coming,” I said. And indeed, despite my misgivings, she had been a real asset. She was, as I had suspected, an attractive woman, fortyish, slim with dark hair, very pale skin, and blue eyes, with a hint of a French accent and a French woman’s sense of style. Her plain black suit was made distinctive by an elegantly draped silk-fringed scarf held in place by a diamond pin. She was a little too thin, perhaps, and she looked exhausted, but she was charming and, as it turned out, really quite knowledgeable about antiques.
“Let’s see what we have here,” I said, carefully emptying the contents of the envelope onto the table. “What is all this stuff?” It looked more like a child’s play box than something an antique dealer would have considered special, if indeed that was how Will Beauchamp had regarded it. There were letters, newspaper clippings, a few pieces of terra-cotta wrapped in tissue, some of them broken, and a photograph of a monk.
“You should probably start with the pink one,” she said, pointing to an envelope in a startling shade of rose. Inside was one sheet of similarly pink paper with a typed message.
“Dear Mrs. Natalie,” it began.
“Regarding your Mr. William. I have been store in Silom Road. I have got informed from Mr. Narong Mr. William not there. I have been apartment, but I couldn’t found him also. Got informed from Mrs. Praneet, live beside, Mr. William wasn’t arriving long time. Mr. William ask me if not coming long time send Mrs. Natalie. I have also send mail from apartment. So sorry.
Best regards, Your friend, Prasit S, Ass’t Manager,
PPKK.“
“It’s a bit obscure,” she said.
“I get the general idea,” I said. “Do you know what PPKK is?”
“No,” she said. “It sounds rather rude, doesn’t it?” She smiled a little. “I suppose the PP could be pink paper, or even purple prose. Have a look at that one next.”
She pointed to a second envelope, this one on creamy vellum, addressed to William Beauchamp, Esq., at a different address but referencing the Silom Road location, which while certainly clearer, was considerably less pleasant in tone.
“Sir,” the letter opened.
“We regret to inform you that in respect to monies owing our client for the premises currently occupied by Fairfield Antiques, and the contract signed by you, William Beauchamp, the contents of said premises have been seized, and unless restitution in the amount of 500,000 baht is paid to us in trust by November I, these same contents will be placed at auction in the River City Complex at ten A.M. of the clock on November 5 of this year.”
The letterhead was obviously that of a law firm, the signature illegible.
“That one is pretty clear, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you know how much five hundred thousand baht is,” Natalie said. “I keep meaning to find out. I’ve been thinking that if it isn’t too much, maybe I could borrow the money somehow, then sell the shop in Bangkok as a going concern.”
“It’s something over $10,000 U.S.,” I said.
“Good grief,” she said. “I guess that’s it, then.”
“We shouldn’t assume anything,” I said. “Maybe he’s just the manager. We don’t know he owns it.”
“I think we do,” she said. “Fairfield—it’s a translation of Beauchamp. Beau, in French, is ‘pretty or good or fair,” and champ is ’field.“ So, Fairfield Antiques.”
“Yes, I see,” I said. “I suppose that’s right. Is there anything on the keys that would indicate what they’re for?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “But have a look at the newspaper clippings, why don’t you?”
I unfolded them carefully. They were yellow, almost brown with age, and rather fragile, not surprising, given that they were dated January 1952. The headlines, however, were clear enough. “Mrs. Ford Found Guilty!” The Bangkok Herald trumpeted. Then, in smaller letters: “Execution Date to Be Set Next Week.” A second, from the same paper, but a week later, was even more lurid: “The Murderous Mrs. Ford to Meet Her Maker March 1,” it said. Apparently they liked alliteration at the Bangkok Herald in those days.
“I’ll spare you the effort of reading them right now,” Natalie said. “The short version is that a long time ago, someone by the name of Helen Ford killed her husband and then hacked him in pieces and buried him in various locations around her neighborhood. She may also have killed one of her children, the body has never been found. All rather gothic, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t have thought Will would have been interested in such garbage, but apparently he was.”
“Does the name Helen Ford mean anything to you?”
“Nothing. This is the first I’ve ever heard of it. Do you have any idea what that pottery stuff is?” she said, pointing to the heap on the table.
I looked at the terra-cotta pieces carefully. There were two unbroken. They were both a little under four inches high, maybe three inches wide, flat along the bottom, but curving up like an arch to a peak at the top, and only about a third of an inch thick, sort of like a thick wafer. A Buddha figure, seated on a throne, appeared in relief on the surface of one. On the other was a Buddha in another classic position, this one with one hand held palm out in front of him. I picked up the broken pieces and fitted them together to form a third, about the same size, with a standing Buddha image on it.
“I think these are amulets,” I said.
“Amulets!” she said. “Are they worth anything? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounds. I’m not entirely mercenary. I just can’t image what Will would be doing with amulets, and why he would ask the assistant manager of PPKK, whatever that is, to send them to me, especially broken ones.”
“They could have been broken in the mail,” I said.
“No,” she said. “The pieces were individually wrapped.”
“Oh,” I said. It was the best I could do at the moment. “Still, if you look at the postcard Will sent soliciting our business,” I said, showing it to her, “you can see he had some amulets on offer, along with the carvings and Buddha images. Amulets are only worth something, though, to those who believe in their powers. I’m told people pay a lot for amulets they consider particularly potent, or rather, I should say, people make large donations for them. You’re actually not supposed to buy and sell amulets. People merely rent them permanently or make a donation for which they receive them in return. Most of them go for very small donations, however. Frankly, the only way you’d make money from this amulet would be if you knew who had blessed it, which monk, I mean, and he’d have to be an important one, and also what the amulet was for.”