‘I’m going to assume that’s rhetorical.’

‘Me too,’ Simon says.

‘Post-1860 but pre-World War Two.’ Brian’s still following the same thought. ‘You’ve got factory-based solid soldier production really getting going in Germany around 1860, Heyde getting their licence in 1872. But lead, that was lead . . .’

‘Wait, I think it was Ellen’s husband’s grandfather’s.’ It’s the mention of the dates that makes me remember it. ‘The possibly Napoleon one. I think she said it was a toy of his grandfather’s, and his grandfather was a Civil War veteran. American Civil War.’

‘Except that puts it around 1850, or earlier.’ He tips the figurine up and checks its base. It’s blank. ‘But it might not even be lead, so it’s breaking rules already. Maybe it’s tin? Same density as iron, roundabout, but who was casting tin soldiers in 1850? And doing such a nice job of it?’

‘Simon has that tin one downstairs from around that time.’ It’s in his cabinet of curiosities.

‘My Prussian infantry officer?’ Simon says. ‘It’s flat, though. Different ballgame. Those were made between two pieces of engraved slate, rather than a fully 3D mould.’ He holds his hand out and takes the figurine from Brian. ‘This is cast in a mould. Anyway, it’s brilliant.’ He turns it over in his hand. ‘I’ll be researching the crap out of it for years. If this guy and my Austrian are from the same set, I’ll track it down somehow.’

‘Just wait,’ Brian says to me. ‘He’ll be sending off paint flakes for analysis. To the people who tell you your hundred-million-pound Monet is real or not.’

‘I will,’ Simon says forcefully, jabbing Napoleon’s head in Brian’s direction. He laughs. ‘Well, I might. I kept the paint that came off the Austrian . . .’

‘Cake!’ Faye calls out from downstairs. ‘Cake while it’s still only two weeks after your birthday.’

‘Who’d have thought it,’ Lacy says as she scrubs a baking tray. ‘Who’d have thought a little piece of old metal brought from Girdwood could make a grown man so excited? And up against clear-vinyl limited-edition Tom Petty, too?’ She shakes her head. ‘Maybe there’s an age people get to when I don’t understand them. Some age between yours and his.’

‘I think this was pretty Simon-specific.’ I’m down on my good knee, stacking the cake plates into the dishwasher. ‘Nice, though.’

I was bracing myself for the shabby Napoleon to be dismissed as a worthless dime-store toy, but all the time needing it not to be. All over eBay, people are selling bags of used toy soldiers for less than the cost of postage, or trying to. I don’t know that anyone’s buying. I don’t know what things are worth. I know how to price a toolbox, and a house in Girdwood.