maids and a housekeeper. Her pride and joy is a collection of oriental antiquities, acquired with her late husband when they lived in Canton.”
“Does she know for certain sure that this little horse has been nicked?” I asked. “It could just have been broken by one of the maids while she was dusting.”
“We are almost certain it has been taken. It is a very delicate matter,” the Professor told us. “The lady suspects an old friend. His name is Major Wilton. He too collects Chinese antiquities. Now, it seems that a month ago, Mrs Honeychurch observed the Major slipping a valuable decorated bowl into his pocket. She didn’t know what to do or say, she told me, but the bowl was back in its place the next day. She is quite wretched now, for she wonders whether temptation has got the better of him.”
“How terrible,” said Judith.
“She has invited him to visit her today. And Verity, you and Judith and I are to be guests as well. For afternoon tea.”
Afternoon tea? I looked down at my shabby dress, and Judith caught my eye. Read my mind too.
“If you come upstairs with me later,” she whispered, “I will find one of my old dresses that will fit you. Mrs Cannister can help us take up the hem.”
I blushed and thanked her. Maybe a smart dress wouldn’t help to find whoever nobbled the antiquities, but it’d make me feel a lot better at this tea party.
Mrs Honeychurch lived in Gordon Square, in a terrace set behind a quiet tree-shaded park. As the Professor helped Judith and then me out of the carriage, a child darted out from the servant’s entrance and up to the horses. It was a little boy of about five, with wide-apart blue eyes, an elfin face and a shock of white-blond hair.
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” A lady came running out of the house. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking his hand. “He’s mad on horses, and I can’t keep him away from them. Why, only last week he followed a delivery cart all the way up the Euston Road.”
“It’s no bother to me,” said John, the Plushes’ coachman. “You can pat ’em, sonny. Go on.”
“All right then, Jimmy,” the lady said and she turned to us, still a bit a flustered over her runaway. I thought it was Mrs Honeychurch herself, for she was dressed very nicely, but it turned out it was only the housekeeper. Mrs Chalmers was her name, and she led us into the hall and down a corridor to the drawing room.
“Mrs Honeychurch is expecting you,” she said, ushering us in.
Light filtered in through the narrow curtained windows, and it was all dim and solemn, like a church. The walls were lined with shelves and glass cases full of china bowls and plates. Some were painted with flowers and insects and strange winged creatures; some were patterned with blue and white; some were quite plain, and one – deep red and shiny and shaped like an upturned tulip – was so beautiful it took my breath away.
“I see you are looking at the
sang-de-boeuf
,” said a woman’s voice.
“Oh,” I said, startled. A little lady, old but still lovely in a thistledown sort of way, was sitting on the sofa.
“
Sang-de-boeuf
means oxblood,” she went on. “It’s from the Ming Dynasty.”
It was still gobbledegook to me, but the Professor was impressed.
“Amazing,” he said. “We must beg your pardon, Mrs Honeychurch. I can speak for all of us. Your collection has deprived us, momentarily, of speech.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Honeychurch, holding out her hand.
The Professor, with another of his old-fashioned bows, kissed it, and then did the introductions. “Our young friend, Miss Sparks” was the way he put it when he came to me, and he never said a thing about the millinery trade.
“It is certainly a wonderful collection, Mrs Honeychurch,” said the Professor. “The work of many years, I can tell. Could you perhaps show me the bowl that Major Wilton …”
The Professor trailed off tactfully, but I could see the lady was upset. She dabbed her eyes with her
“Does she know for certain sure that this little horse has been nicked?” I asked. “It could just have been broken by one of the maids while she was dusting.”
“We are almost certain it has been taken. It is a very delicate matter,” the Professor told us. “The lady suspects an old friend. His name is Major Wilton. He too collects Chinese antiquities. Now, it seems that a month ago, Mrs Honeychurch observed the Major slipping a valuable decorated bowl into his pocket. She didn’t know what to do or say, she told me, but the bowl was back in its place the next day. She is quite wretched now, for she wonders whether temptation has got the better of him.”
“How terrible,” said Judith.
“She has invited him to visit her today. And Verity, you and Judith and I are to be guests as well. For afternoon tea.”
Afternoon tea? I looked down at my shabby dress, and Judith caught my eye. Read my mind too.
“If you come upstairs with me later,” she whispered, “I will find one of my old dresses that will fit you. Mrs Cannister can help us take up the hem.”
I blushed and thanked her. Maybe a smart dress wouldn’t help to find whoever nobbled the antiquities, but it’d make me feel a lot better at this tea party.
Mrs Honeychurch lived in Gordon Square, in a terrace set behind a quiet tree-shaded park. As the Professor helped Judith and then me out of the carriage, a child darted out from the servant’s entrance and up to the horses. It was a little boy of about five, with wide-apart blue eyes, an elfin face and a shock of white-blond hair.
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” A lady came running out of the house. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking his hand. “He’s mad on horses, and I can’t keep him away from them. Why, only last week he followed a delivery cart all the way up the Euston Road.”
“It’s no bother to me,” said John, the Plushes’ coachman. “You can pat ’em, sonny. Go on.”
“All right then, Jimmy,” the lady said and she turned to us, still a bit a flustered over her runaway. I thought it was Mrs Honeychurch herself, for she was dressed very nicely, but it turned out it was only the housekeeper. Mrs Chalmers was her name, and she led us into the hall and down a corridor to the drawing room.
“Mrs Honeychurch is expecting you,” she said, ushering us in.
Light filtered in through the narrow curtained windows, and it was all dim and solemn, like a church. The walls were lined with shelves and glass cases full of china bowls and plates. Some were painted with flowers and insects and strange winged creatures; some were patterned with blue and white; some were quite plain, and one – deep red and shiny and shaped like an upturned tulip – was so beautiful it took my breath away.
“I see you are looking at the
sang-de-boeuf
,” said a woman’s voice.
“Oh,” I said, startled. A little lady, old but still lovely in a thistledown sort of way, was sitting on the sofa.
“
Sang-de-boeuf
means oxblood,” she went on. “It’s from the Ming Dynasty.”
It was still gobbledegook to me, but the Professor was impressed.
“Amazing,” he said. “We must beg your pardon, Mrs Honeychurch. I can speak for all of us. Your collection has deprived us, momentarily, of speech.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Honeychurch, holding out her hand.
The Professor, with another of his old-fashioned bows, kissed it, and then did the introductions. “Our young friend, Miss Sparks” was the way he put it when he came to me, and he never said a thing about the millinery trade.
“It is certainly a wonderful collection, Mrs Honeychurch,” said the Professor. “The work of many years, I can tell. Could you perhaps show me the bowl that Major Wilton …”
The Professor trailed off tactfully, but I could see the lady was upset. She dabbed her eyes with her
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