“My late husband wouldn’t have wanted anyone to think he was selling off the family heirlooms.”
“And the new duke?” asked Poltimore. “How does he feel?”
“Frankly, Clarence wouldn’t know the difference between Ming and Tupperware.”
Poltimore wasn’t sure whether to laugh, and simply said, “Before you agree to allow the vases to go under the hammer, your grace, you might like to know that I’ve had an offer of seven hundred thousand pounds for them from a private dealer in Chicago, and I’m confident I can push him over the million mark. And perhaps it could be done without anyone even knowing the transaction had taken place.”
“But surely a dealer will simply be selling my vases on to one of his customers?”
“While at the same time making a handsome profit for himself, which is why I’m confident they will fetch a far higher price at auction.”
“But there must be an outside chance that if the vases do come up for auction, the same dealer might pick them up for less than a million.”
“That’s most unlikely, your grace, with a piece of this importance. And despite that possibility, I still consider it a risk worth taking, because I’ve already approached half a dozen leading collectors in the field, and they all showed considerable interest, including the director of the National Museum of China in Beijing.”
“You’ve convinced me,” said Virginia. “So what should I do next?”
“Once you’ve signed a release form, you can leave the rest to us. You’re well in time to catch the autumn sale, which is always one of the most popular of the year, and I have already suggested that we feature the Hertford vases on the cover of the catalogue. Be assured, our customers won’t be in any doubt how important we consider these pieces to be.”
“Can I mention something in the strictest confidence, Mr. Poltimore?”
“Of course, your grace.”
“I am most keen that there should be the minimum of publicity before the auction, but the maximum amount possible afterward.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, especially as the arts correspondents from all the national newspapers will be attending the sale. And if the vases fetch the sort of price we anticipate, it will generate considerable interest in the press, so you can be sure that the following morning, everyone will be aware of your triumph.”
“I’m not interested in everyone,” said Virginia, “just one member of one particular family.”
* * *
“A gold-plated bitch,” said Virginia.
“That bad?” asked Priscilla Bingham, once their dessert plates had been whisked away.
“Worse. She has the airs and graces of a duchess, but she’s nothing more than the wife of a jumped-up antipodean sheep farmer.”
“And you said she’s the second daughter?”
“That’s right. But she behaves as if she’s the mistress of Castle Hertford.”
“Wouldn’t all that change if the duke were to get married and decide to reclaim his family seat?”
“That’s unlikely. Clarence is married to the army, and hopes to be the next colonel of the regiment.”
“Like his father before him.”
“He’s nothing like his father,” said Virginia. “If Perry were still alive, he would never have allowed them to humiliate me in this way. But I intend to have the last laugh.” She extracted a newly minted auction catalogue from her bag and handed it to her friend.
“Are these the two vases you told me about?” asked Priscilla, looking admiringly at the cover.
“They are indeed. And you’ll see just how much I’m going to make if you turn to lot forty-three.”
Priscilla flicked through the pages and when she reached Lot 43, Two Ming Vases, circa 1462, her eyes settled on the estimate. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“How very generous of the duke,” she eventually managed.
“He had no idea how much they were worth,” said Virginia, “otherwise he would never have let them go.”
“But surely the family will find out long before the sale takes place.”
“Seems unlikely. Clarence is holed up somewhere in Borneo, Alice is in New York peddling bottles of perfume, and Camilla never leaves the castle unless she has to.”
“But I thought you wanted them to find out?”
“Not until after the sale, by which time I will have banked the check.”
“But even then, they may not hear about it.”
“Mr. Poltimore, who’s conducting the auction, tells me he’s already had calls from several of the leading art correspondents, so we can expect extensive coverage in the press the following morning. That’s when they’ll find out, and by then it will be too late because I will have banked the money. I do hope you’ll be able to come to the auction next Thursday evening, Priscilla, and then you can join me for dinner afterward at Annabel’s to celebrate. I’ve even booked Perry’s favorite table. It will be just like old times.”
“Old times,” repeated Priscilla, as a waiter appeared and served coffee. “Which reminds me, do you ever hear from your ex, following your little coup with Mellor Travel?”
“If you mean Giles, he sent me a Christmas card for the first time in years, but I didn’t return the compliment.”
“I see he’s back on the front bench.”
“Yes, he’s been pitched against his sister. But he’s so wet, I expect he regularly lets her off the hook,” Virginia added as she took a sip of coffee.
“And now she’s a baroness.”
“She’s a life peer,” said Virginia. “Anyway, she only got her place in the Lords because she backed Margaret Thatcher when she stood for the leadership of the Tory party. It’s almost enough to make one consider voting Labour.”
“To be fair, Virginia, the press all seem to agree that she’s doing a rather good job as a health minister.”
“She’d be better off spending her time worrying about the health of her own family. Drink, drugs, three in a bed, assaulting the police, and her granddaughter ending up in jail.”
“It was only for one night,” Priscilla reminded her. “And she was back at the Slade the following term.”
“Someone must have pulled some very long strings to make that possible,” said Virginia.
“Probably your ex-husband,” suggested Priscilla. “He may be in opposition, but I suspect he still has a lot of clout.”
“And what about your husband?” asked Virginia, wanting to change the subject. “I hope all’s well with him,” she added, hoping to hear otherwise.
“He’s still producing a hundred thousand jars of fish paste a week, which allows me to live like a duchess, even if I’m not one.”
“And is your son still doing the PR for Farthings Kaufman?” asked Virginia, ignoring the barb.
“Yes, he is. In fact, Clive’s hoping it won’t be long before they ask him to join the main board.”
“It must help with Robert being an old friend of the chairman.”
“And how’s your son?” asked Priscilla, trading blow for blow.
“Freddie is not my son, as you well know, Priscilla. And when I last heard, he’d run away from school, which would have solved all my problems, but unfortunately he returned a few days later.”
“So who takes care of him during the holidays?”
“My brother Archie, who lives off the income from the family distillery, which Father promised to me.”
“You haven’t done too badly, duchess,” said Priscilla, looking back down at the Sotheby’s catalogue.
“You may well be right, but I’m still going to make certain it’s me who has the last laugh,” said Virginia as a waiter appeared by their side, unsure who he should present the bill to. Although Virginia had invited Priscilla to join her for lunch, she was painfully aware that if she wrote a check it would bounce. Still, all that was about to change.
“My turn next time,” said Virginia. “Annabel’s on Thursday night?” she added, looking
the other way.
* * *
When Priscilla Bingham returned to her home in the Boltons, she left the Sotheby’s catalogue on the hall table.
“Quite magnificent,” said Bob when he spotted the cover. “Are you considering bidding for them?”
“Nice idea,” said Priscilla, “but you’d have to sell an awful lot more fish paste before we could consider that.”
“Then why are you interested?”
“They belong to Virginia, and she’s having to put them up for sale because the Hertford family have found a way of cheating her out of her monthly allowance.”
“I’d like to hear the Hertfords’ side of the story before I make a judgment on that,” said Bob, as he flicked through the catalogue looking for Lot 43. He let out a low whistle when he read the estimate. “I’m surprised the family were willing to part with them.”
“They weren’t. The duke left them to Virginia in his will without the slightest idea what they were worth.”
Bob pursed his lips, but said nothing.
“By the way,” said Priscilla, “are we still going to the theater tonight?”
“Yes,” replied Bob. “We’ve got tickets for The Phantom of the Opera, and the curtain goes up at seven thirty.”
“Then I still have time to change,” said Priscilla as she headed upstairs.
Bob waited for her to disappear into the bedroom before he picked up the catalogue and slipped into his study. Once he was seated at his desk, he turned his attention to Lot 43 and took his time studying the provenance of the two vases. He began to understand why they were considered so important. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a large brown envelope, and slipped the catalogue inside. He wrote on it in bold capitals:
THE DUKE OF HERTFORD
CASTLE HERTFORD
HERTFORDSHIRE
Bob had dropped it into the postbox on the corner and returned home before Priscilla got out of the bath.
37
“SOLD! FOR ONE HUNDRED and twenty thousand pounds,” said Poltimore as he brought down the hammer with a thud. “Lot thirty-nine,” he said, turning to the next page of the catalogue. “A white jade marriage bowl of the Qianlong period. Shall I open the bidding at ten thousand pounds?”
Poltimore looked up to see the Dowager Duchess of Hertford making an entrance, accompanied by another lady he didn’t recognize. They were led down the central aisle by an assistant and, although the sale room was packed, they were shown to two vacant seats near the front, whose reserved signs were quickly removed before the two ladies sat down.
Virginia enjoyed the murmurs around her, to show that she had arrived. Although the sale had begun at seven o’clock, Mr. Poltimore had advised her there was no need to turn up before 7:45, as he didn’t anticipate Lot 43 would be coming under the hammer much before 8:15, possibly 8:30.
She and Priscilla were seated in the fifth row, which Poltimore had assured her were the best seats in the room, not unlike house seats in a West End theater. As Virginia had no interest in a jade marriage bowl of the Qianlong period, she tried to take in what was going on around her, and hoped it wasn’t too obvious that this was the first time she’d attended a major auction.
“It’s so exciting,” she said, as she gripped Priscilla’s hand, admiring the men in the audience who were dressed in dinner jackets, obviously going on to another function once the sale was over, while the rest were wearing smart suits and colorful ties. But it was the women she was most fascinated by, dressed in their designer outfits with the latest accessories. For them, this was more of a fashion show than an auction, each one trying to outdo the other, as if it were the opening night of a new play. Priscilla had told her that sometimes the final price could be decided by these women, who often had plans to make sure a particular item went home with them that evening, while some of the men would bid higher and higher simply to impress the woman they were with—and sometimes a woman they weren’t with.
The room was large and square and Virginia couldn’t see an empty seat. She calculated there must be around four hundred potential customers in a room crammed with collectors, dealers, and the simply curious. In fact, several of the audience were having to stand at the back.
Directly in front of her stood Mr. Poltimore, on a raised semicircular dais that offered him a perfect view of his victims. Behind the dais stood another, smaller group of senior staff, experts in their own fields, who were there to assist and advise the auctioneer, while others took a note of the successful bidder and the hammer price. To Poltimore’s right, reined in behind a loose rope, were a group of men and women, notepads open, pens poised, who Virginia assumed were the press.
“Sold! For twenty-two thousand pounds,” said Poltimore. “Lot forty, an important polychrome decorated carved wood figure of a seated Luohan, circa 1400. I have an opening bid of one hundred thousand.”
The sale was clearly warming up, and Virginia was delighted when the Luohan sold for £240,000—forty thousand above its high estimate.
“Lot forty-one, a rare celadon jade model of a lion.”
Virginia had no interest in the lion, which was being held up by a porter for all to see. She looked to her right and noticed for the first time a long table, slightly raised, on which stood a dozen white phones, each manned by a member of Sotheby’s staff. Poltimore had explained to her that they represented overseas clients, or those who simply didn’t want to be seen in the sale room, although they would sometimes be seated discreetly among the audience. Three of the staff were on the phone, hands cupped, whispering to their clients, while the other nine phones lay idle because, like her, those clients were not interested in the little jade lion. Virginia wondered how many of the phones would be ringing when Poltimore opened the bidding for Lot 43.
“Lot forty-two. An extremely rare, enameled, imperial yellow-ground floral Yuhuchunping vase. I have an opening bid of one hundred thousand.”
Virginia could feel her heart beating, aware that the next lot to be announced would be her two Ming vases. When the hammer came down on Lot 42 at £260,000, a buzz of anticipation swept around the room. Poltimore looked down at the duchess and gave her a benign smile as two porters placed the magnificent vases on separate stands each side of him.
“Lot number forty-three. A unique pair of Ming Dynasty vases, circa 1462, that were a gift from the Emperor Jiaqing to the fourth Duke of Hertford in the early nineteenth century. These vases are in perfect condition and are the property of an English lady of title.” Virginia beamed as the journalists scribbled away. “I have an opening bid—” a silence descended that had not been experienced before—“of three hundred thousand pounds.” The silence was replaced with a gasp, as Poltimore leaned back casually and looked around the room. “Am I bid three hundred and fifty?”
Virginia felt an eternity had passed, although it was only a few seconds before Poltimore said, “Thank you, sir,” as he gestured to a bidder seated near the back of the room. Virginia wanted to look around, but somehow managed to restrain herself.
“Four hundred thousand,” said Poltimore, turning his attention to the long row of phones on his left, where eight members of staff were keeping their clients informed on how the sale was progressing.
“Four hundred thousand,” he repeated, when a smartly dressed young woman at one of the phones raised a hand, while continuing to talk to her client. “The bid is on the phone at four hundred thousand,” said Poltimore, immediately switching his attention to the gentleman at the back of the room. “Four hundred and fifty thousand,” he murmured, before returning to the phones. The young woman’s hand shot up immediately. Poltimore nodded. “I have five hundred thousand,” he declared, returning to the man at the back of the room, who shook his head. “I’m looking for five fifty,” said Poltimore, his eyes once again sweeping the room. “Five hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” he repeated. Virginia was beginning to wish she’d taken the offer from the dealer in Chicago until Poltimore announced, “F
ive fifty,” his voice rising. “I have a new bidder.” He looked down at the director of the National Museum of China.
When he swung back to the phones, the young woman’s hand was already raised. “Six hundred thousand,” he said, before switching his attention back to the director, who was talking animatedly to the man seated on his right before he eventually looked up and gave Poltimore a slight nod.
“Six hundred and fifty thousand,” said Poltimore, his eye fixed once again on the young woman on the phone. This time her response took a little longer, but eventually a hand was raised. “Seven hundred thousand pounds,” demanded Poltimore, aware that this would be a world record for a Chinese piece sold at auction.
The journalists were scribbling more furiously than ever, aware that their readers liked world records.
“Seven hundred thousand,” whispered Poltimore in a reverential tone, trying to tempt the director, but making no attempt to hurry him, as he continued his conversation with his colleague. “Seven hundred thousand?” he offered, as if it were a mere bagatelle. A disturbance at the back of the room caught his eye. He tried to ignore it, but became distracted by two people pushing their way through the crowd as the museum director raised his hand.
“I have seven hundred thousand,” Poltimore said, glancing in the direction of the phones, but he could no longer ignore the man and woman striding down the aisle toward him. A pointless exercise, he could have told them, because every seat was taken. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” he suggested to the director, assuming the pair would turn back, but they didn’t stop.
“I have seven hundred and fifty thousand,” Poltimore said, and following another nod from the director, he turned back to the young woman on the telephone. He tried not to lose his concentration, assuming that a security guard would appear and politely escort the tiresome couple out. He was staring hopefully at the woman on the phone when an authoritative voice announced firmly, “I am presenting you with a court order to prevent the sale of the Hertford Ming vases.”