HLM – Chapter 15 The Noble’s Heirloom

Fortunately, Lawyer Mueller was quite understanding. He said, “Tell you what, Mayor Wang, it seems like you’re pretty strapped for cash right now. I won’t charge you for the time being—just pay me back when you’re able to.”

In that moment, Wang Bo regarded Lawyer Mueller as a lifelong friend, despite the age gap. Who says lawyers in capitalist countries are all bloodsuckers? Look at this guy—a modern-day Norman Bethune!

Unfortunately, Mueller didn’t give him a chance to deepen the friendship. As soon as the taxi left the slums, Mueller switched cars and went on his way.

That night, for dinner, they had black pepper chicken rolls—a local specialty of Omarama. The dish was made by boiling a broiler chicken until tender, removing the meat and letting it naturally gel, then mixing it with spices and starch, shaping it into rolls using a tortilla machine, deep-frying them, and finally freezing them before serving.

These chicken rolls were perfect for hot weather—tender, flavorful, and great for dispelling internal heat. Wang Bo had been eating them every night for the past few days.

Charlie ate some too, and after licking his fingers clean, said, “Hey Old Wang, you’re short on money, huh?”

“No sh*t,” Wang Bo mumbled through a mouthful of food.

Charlie nodded. “Actually… I forgot to mention something…”

Wang Bo froze mid-bite and stared at Charlie in alarm. “Who else does the old man owe money to?”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “It’s not debt this time—it’s about making money. I meant to tell you about it when we went to the castle last time, but that haunting scared me so bad I forgot. You know how even ruined noble families often have a few valuable items? Turns out, I know of one.”

Hearing it wasn’t more debt, Wang Bo relaxed and resumed wolfing down his food.

As for Charlie’s story, he was skeptical. “I dun bleeve et… chomp chomp… how cud dere be sumthang worth sellin’…”

“Swallow before you speak—I can’t understand you.”

“I said, I don’t believe it. If there was something valuable, why borrow from loan sharks instead of selling it?” Wang Bo said, stretching his neck after nearly choking.

Charlie replied, “Let’s say you’re broke in Beijing. Your parents left you a family heirloom, or maybe your ex gave you a gold ring. Would you sell those or go borrow from a loan shark?”

“Obviously I’d sell them! What kind of idiot takes out a high-interest loan?!”

Charlie was briefly stunned by that answer. He blinked a few times, then decided not to argue with someone as simpleminded as Wang Bo. He waved his hand and said, “Sir Roberts had the pride of a noble. He’d rather borrow money than sell that red box. Now it’s yours—you figure it out.”

World leaders often have signature items: for the U.S. President, it’s Air Force One; for the South Korean President, a Hyundai car; for the North Korean Supreme Leader, it’s his chubby face and ears. As for British Prime Ministers and their cabinet, their symbol is the red dispatch box.

The tradition of British leaders using a red box dates back to 1860. The original red box was introduced by William Gladstone, who served as Prime Minister four times. For over 150 years, the red dispatch box has served as the iconic briefcase of British officials.

Sir Roberts had one such red box—and his was no ordinary one. It had been personally gifted to him by one of the most legendary figures in modern British history: the Iron Lady herself, Margaret Thatcher. That made the red box not just rare, but priceless.

Charlie explained to Wang Bo, “Many Chinese people know that in 1982, Margaret Thatcher made her first visit to China, marking a new era of diplomatic relations between China and the UK. But what few know is that after visiting China, she didn’t return home immediately—instead, she visited New Zealand.”

“When a British Prime Minister or a member of the royal family visits a British territory, if there are any noble families left in that territory, it’s customary for a noble to accompany them. At that time, it was Sir Roberts who accompanied Thatcher on her visit to New Zealand.”

“Even back then, the Sir’s financial situation was already quite dire. Throughout Thatcher’s visit, he used a rather shabby suitcase. So when the Iron Lady concluded her trip, she thanked him for his loyal company by gifting him the red dispatch box she had used.”

“The Sir treated that box as a family honor. Ever since he received it, many political memorabilia collectors had expressed interest in buying it, but he never sold it. He kept it as a treasured heirloom.”

After hearing the story, Wang Bo asked, “So… are there still people interested in buying it now?”

Charlie nodded. “Yes. An auction house in Wellington wants to acquire the box. If you’re willing to sell, I can help make the connection.”

“How much are they offering?”

Charlie thought for a moment. “About two years ago, during the first anniversary of Thatcher’s passing, there was a charity auction of her personal items held in London. One of her other red boxes sold for roughly £250,000—that’s about 530,000 New Zealand dollars. That’s what the buyer’s offering.”

“That’s the price they gave Sir Roberts too? Then why didn’t he sell?” Wang Bo asked.

“I have no idea,” Charlie shrugged.

Old Wang put down his half-eaten chicken roll, eyes deep and contemplative as he gazed at the rising moon. He spoke slowly, “Actually, I think I know why. To the old Sir, that box represented not only his family’s dignity—but also his personal integrity. His life had already become bleak, his family nearly lost everything, and that box was all he had left to maintain his pride… to stop his character from falling apart…”

“What? I don’t get it.”

“I mean, 530,000 is not enough! That box witnessed a major moment in the history of Sino-British diplomacy! Eight hundred thousand—if the auction house is willing to offer that, they can have it. Otherwise, forget it! And tell them: Sovereignty is non-negotiable! Moral bottom line—non-negotiable!”

With that, Old Wang went back to wrestling with his chicken roll. Damn, this thing really was delicious.

The deal over the red box wasn’t something that could be settled overnight. Charlie agreed to help make inquiries, and once they got a response, they’d go to the castle during the day to retrieve the box—then Wang Bo would finally have money again.

Thinking of the haunted castle, Old Wang couldn’t help but feel the urge to shed noble tears.

What’s the most painful thing for a mortgage slave? It’s clearly owning a house but not being able to live in it. And what’s the most painful thing of all? Owning a castle—and still not being able to live in it!

After eating their cold yet fragrant chicken rolls, the two strolled along lazily. As they passed an oak tree, a few kids came running over. A little girl looked up at Charlie and timidly asked, “Uncle, our remote-control plane got stuck in the tree. Could you help us get it down?”

The little girl looked about five or six, dressed in a creamy-white puffy dress and cartoon flip-flops. Her short, silky black hair was tied into a tiny ponytail, with a large yellow bow fastened to the back.

Her cheeks were plump and rosy like a little steamed bun. Her long eyelashes fluttered gently, and her big, shiny eyes sparkled with innocence. At that moment, her chubby hands were wringing in front of her chest—pure adorableness overload. She was so cute that Wang Bo felt his heart melt.

But what truly caught his attention was that she seemed to have Chinese blood. She had that unmistakable mixed-race charm—her facial features were quite defined, and judging from her skin tone, she looked like a yellow-white mix. And the yellow part… probably Chinese. I mean, what kind of foreign gene pool could produce such a kawaii little angel?