Lynda Plante - The Talisman

‘Are those guards armed, Jeff?’

‘Yep, sure thing, sir. They got a hundred of ‘em, the old boy was paranoid about kidnapping... Okay, here we go, buckle up and sit tight.’

Way below them by the Olympic-size swimming pool, two figures lay sunbathing. Ming stared down at them through a pair of binoculars, then turned to Alex. ‘I think they must be her daughters, she has two. She’s divorced now... she must be older than I thought, they look quite old. Here, do you want to see?’ She offered him the binoculars, but he refused, and she began to survey the ranch.

‘Oh, by the way, she’s called Mrs Taverner, Barbara Taverner.’

The entrance hall was so vast it could have been a ballroom, with a tiled floor and marble in such profusion it dazzled the eye. Alex found the hall cool, almost cold, the chill of the marble adding to the effect of the air conditioning. No servant appeared to greet them. She looked at Alex and shrugged. The crystal chandelier, out of place in the ranch house, tinkled in the cool air.

Three men wearing light suits and open-necked shirts, with their ties pulled loose, appeared through double doors from a room off the hall. Alex introduced himself, but the men seemed none too interested. Alex was not prepared to turn round and go back after coming all this way. The men were about to move on. Firmly, Ming took charge. ‘Mr Barkley cabled from New York that we would be here, surely there must be a secretary, someone we could speak to?’

One of the men hesitated, and Alex cornered him. ‘Would it be possible for me to look at the pieces I am interested in?’

The man pointed towards the room he had just left, and said that Alex should talk to their head man, Mr Dean.

They were taken aback by the appalling taste of the vast lounge. Although the place was cluttered with boxes, and various pieces of furniture had been dragged to the centre of the room, the awful decor was obvious. The room was dominated by a painting of a man with white hair, wearing a linen suit that even in the painting looked crumpled.

‘That’s the old man himself, impressive, isn’t he?’

Alex made a point of charming Mr Dean, and was given a brief rundown on the family. Mr Dean was the head man from Sotheby’s — pleasant, open-faced and balding, sweating even with the air conditioning and constantly wiping his head.

‘The old boy seems to have had various families, no one can quite work out the intricacies of the family feuds. But after he died there were three women and three families grabbing... he lost his sons in a plane crash, perhaps you read about it? The fortune’s been divided up and this place left to a granddaughter. Have you met Mrs Taverner? Well, she wants this place sold as fast as possible — hates it, and hated him from what I’ve heard. But it means we are working night and day to get everything catalogued and ready for the auction.’

Alex chose his words carefully. First, he asked about Hunter Hardyman’s china collection, and Dean told him they had not even started assessing that yet. The porcelain experts were flying in next day, and in the meantime the men were just listing the articles. The pricing would be done by the experts. Alex mentioned the lists he had already seen.

‘Yes, but they’re incomplete — there’s fifty times more than that. We had no idea the job would take so long. You know the ranch itself is up for sale? Are you interested?’

Alex was not interested, and there was nothing worth looking at in this room. Somehow he had to steer the conversation around to the seventeenth-century furniture. ‘I’m wanting to have a look at a couple of pieces — not of immense value, but I’m just starting my collection... You think I could take a look at items 500 and 600?’

Dean was no fool. He smiled at Alex. ‘They’re in the dining hall, but I have to tell you, they’ve not even been valued yet.’

Alex said he would still like just a quick look at them, and eventually Dean led him from the room.

Alex followed him through the double doors at the far end of the room and down a long corridor. When they reached the far end, Mr Dean looked over his shoulder, then unlocked the door. ‘I would have liked to have been at his funeral, rumour has it a couple of the old boy’s ex-wives turned up, and all hell broke loose.’ He lowered his voice to a confidential tone, ‘He was a real money-grubbing old buzzard — made his fortune from scrap, bought land, and the rest is history, but I’ve never met anyone who has a good word to say for him. And he was paranoid, believed everyone was trying to kidnap him. That’s why the place is wired up like a fortress. There are more bells and wires around this place than Fort Knox... Freezing in here.’

The room was dark, shuttered, and there was the icy blast of air conditioning. ‘Old man kept the place ice cold, at least he knew that much. The pieces in here are in excellent condition, and some of it he never even used. There’s a Queen Anne desk over there — in all my life I have never seen one in such condition. Look, would you mind if I leave you, come back in a few minutes? I still have a lot to do.’

The door closed behind him, and Alex stared around the cold, draped room. Just one look told him that Dean was right. Even to Alex’s untrained eye some of the furniture was indeed special. He searched around for the seventeenth-century pieces, lifting cover after cover away from highly polished Queen Anne, Tudor, Victorian chairs, desks and card tables, but he could not find the treasures he had travelled so far to see. Frustrated, he was about to give up when he saw a chair in a corner, piled high with old newspapers. Removing the papers, he stood back.

The yoke-back armchair, Huang-Hua-Li hardwood with a perfect matted seat, was in superb condition. Alex got down on his knees to touch the smooth wood. Then he spotted the legs of a bench seat, horseshoe-shaped, and he knew it was the same period. Excitedly, he uncovered three more pieces, and began to think he might be right, somewhere here there might just be the most sought-after article for any collector, a bed.

The door opened behind him, and a cold voice, almost as chilly as the room, said, ‘Mr Dean, the servants have laid out lunch in the breakfast room. I would be most obliged if you would ask permission to use the swimming pool — one of your men is in there right now, and I must ask you to have them refrain in future.’

Taken aback, Alex stood up and straightened his tie. She was very tall, wearing a simple white dress, but a dress that would set any woman back a few thousand dollars. Her skin was a pale golden colour, and her blonde hair was swept up in a Grace Kelly chignon. She wore a gold necklace and many bangles on her slender arms.

Alex moved towards her. ‘I really must apologize for my presence here. We haven’t been introduced — my name is Alex Barkley, I cabled from New York. Are you Mrs Taverner?’ He looked into steely, penetrating eyes the colour of turquoises. There was not a scrap of make-up on the flawless skin.

‘I am Mrs Taverner — I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Alex Barkley.’

She did not take his outstretched hand for a moment, and he was about to withdraw it when she suddenly slipped her cool fingers into his grasp. It was a fleeting gesture, and he felt foolish. Mrs Taverner turned back to the door, paused a moment. ‘Barkley, you said? And English, from your voice?’

Feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, Alex nodded. He felt she was scrutinizing him from head to toe. ‘I think I should tell you that I am a private collector, I am not connected with the auctioneers.’

She twisted the diamond ring on her wedding finger, held her head slightly to one side. ‘You spoke to my secretary? Well, I’m sure if you have permission then it’s all right. Don’t let me detain you.’