“As you know, my client . . .” The word makes Nell sit up straighter in her chair, mentally donning her work armor. Perhaps she should have lawyered up like Pansy. How have things escalated while she wasn’t looking? “. . . has some concerns centering on the Moon of Nizam and the frankly unclear drafting of some of the will provisions.”
Just then, a commotion in the foyer precedes Louis Morrell walking into the library—a small phalanx of waitstaff following behind him with a spare chair and menu. She’d mentioned this dinner in passing when texting with him about her trip. She didn’t expect him to show up. He’s saying “Thank you so much,” and “I’ll be fine,” and “Something simple, so I don’t hold them up.” She feels a jolt of electricity from his entrance, from his appealing smile, from the private way he looks at her as if they share a secret. Feeling his actual energy in the room after months of correspondence sends a buzz through her. Within minutes, he’s wedged himself between Nell and Baldwin as the waitress lays his place setting and efficiently takes his order. “Whatever Ms. Merrihew is having, order me that,” he says, adjusting his knife and fork. “Sorry I’m late.” Nell checks Pansy’s face, so surprised she hasn’t been able to hide it yet.
“Louis, there’s really no need for you to be here,” Walker is saying.
“Then you won’t mind if I sit in.” He closes both eyes at Nell with a silent nod, as if to say “I got this.”
She’s shocked that he’s crashed the dinner. Walker is right. As estate lawyer, he’s not technically required at this meeting. She feels a little thrill curl up her spine, the thrill of having someone in her corner.
Walker pauses, considering how far to take his objections, and whether he’s going to cause a scene, but he decides to pick up where he left off. “I think we can all agree that the testator’s intent was to leave her jewelry to Pansy here.”
“The jewelry in the safe-deposit box, yes,” Louis says in a measured tone, jumping in right away. “Except for the one clearly enumerated and specifically bequeathed gift, which goes to Nell.”
“Well, I think leaving an item of this importance in a whiskey bag shoved in the back of her dressing table, where anyone might find it, even nurses or maids, shows that the testator could have become reckless toward the end, even impaired, which doesn’t go against her intent to leave all jewels, both secured and unsecured, to Pansy. Certainly if she’d treat an item of this importance this cavalierly, perhaps she hadn’t all her faculties when she was changing will provisions.”
Pansy is looking out the window, watching a horse being lunged in a nearby paddock in the twilight, her face serene, as if she has nothing to do with the scene unfolding before her.
Reema Patel is fascinated by the melba toast on her bread plate as she breaks off a miniscule piece and thoroughly butters it.
Baldwin stares right at Nell, gauging her reaction.
Louis puts his elbows on the table, leaning forward.
Nell knows this Walker lawyer is blowing smoke if he’s showing his hand so early, trying to best her easily while testing the effectiveness of his argument. He’s hoping an early agreement will avoid a lot of heavy legal lifting later.
There’s a pause while they’re served wine. When the waiter leaves with a quiet click of the door, Walker starts up again.
“Look, we all know there are some issues here. Sorry, Louis, but there are. And we don’t want anything dragged out. My letter was to put you on notice that we believe my client has a significant claim to that necklace,” he says, nodding toward Nell’s chest. Nell tries to tuck the Moon in her shirt, but this only draws attention.
“A claim you intend to pursue through the courts?” Nell asks, finding her voice. This affects her most of all. She doesn’t need Louis speaking for her.
“Well, there’s no need to start worrying about things that haven’t happened yet.”
That’s right, Nell thinks. Back off.
“We’re just here for a discussion,” Walker says.
“But in talking with Pansy and Baldwin”—Nell looks at her uncle; no surprise he’s in on Pansy’s plans—“we had an idea that might sidestep all of this unpleasantness, and that’s why I’ve asked Reema to be here with us today,” he says, gesturing toward Patel, who holds up a hand while chewing. “I thought she might outline some of the benefits of collaboration with the museum.”
“Collaboration,” a euphemism for donation, and it’s then Nell sees the play they’re making.
“It would be significant,” Patel starts. “A piece like this would make an incredible anchor to the Southeast Asia collection. A calling-card piece, if you will. As I touched on briefly when you came to see me, it needs to be authenticated and researched, not only for verification, but for historical importance and meaning. Additionally, and I think Charles could speak more to this than I could, I believe there are beneficial tax implications for the estate.”
“Which is also where your job as a fiduciary comes in,” Baldwin admonishes, as if Nell isn’t a lawyer, as if she hasn’t put the obvious together.
Patel continues. “It would be in the most careful of caretaking hands. We could ensure preservation and, of course, allow it to be viewed to increase understanding of Mughal culture. A gift to scholars, to the public, really. And we would ensure that it would be on continuous display in the most sophisticated exhibit, surrounded by appropriate pieces to tell its story and give it context.”
Nell’s silent, giving nothing away.
“After you left, I did some preliminary research,” Patel continues. “Curiosity and the cat and all. The maharaja, the Mahj, you remember, I told you about him . . .”
Nell does remember, and she’d done a bit of her own Internet searching. The twelfth maharaja of Baroda, known to the paparazzi as the Mahj, lives in London and is fond of Eastern European models, Bugattis, and the tiki bar Prince Harry favors. Surprisingly, he also fancies himself a bit of an activist and has been known to disrupt auctions for important Indian antiquities by bidding the price sky-high and then refusing to pay.
“I don’t get how he hasn’t been caught,” Nell says to Patel now. “That’s a binding contract the moment he becomes the high bidder.”
“What’s this?” Baldwin asks.
“Legally, yes. But he makes a huge stink in the press. The auction houses can try to go after him, but they won’t since it just gives his cause airtime. He gets to wax poetic about stolen culture. He’s actually a pretty good speaker. The optics on the whole thing are a nightmare. Plus they’d be getting a judgment in US court and then they’d have to enforce it in India against a popular royal. His bids are way out of whack with any rational valuation, and so they’ve quietly negotiated sales to the next highest bidder. But buyers are reluctant because they’ve been up against a shill, and the price has to be unnaturally deflated for sale. I know they’ve had to finesse those sales for a lot less than the original reserve.”
“Would you guys please fill us in?” Pansy whines, and Patel brings the rest of the table up to speed.