Chapter 39 #2
A murmur ran through the crowd, followed by a ripple of shifting bodies. And then –blessedly – Percy appeared. He pushed through the throng, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, clutching his briefcase like a lifeline.
Tina let out a long breath, the tight knot of tension unfurling as his familiar figure broke through the chaos. He was here. Just in time. She jumped up and down waving her bidding paddle at him. Heads were already turning.
‘Tina!’ he called, his voice hoarse with urgency. ‘Tina, Hamish, let’s try and stop this!’
She took Hamish by the hand and together the threesome surged toward the rostrum, Percy’s briefcase jostling bidders, drawing irritated glances.
‘Mr Hartwell!’ Percy puffed. ‘I need to halt the sale of Lot 179a – the loving cup. It’s a protected asset. It cannot be sold.
Toby looked up, his moustache bristling with indignation. ‘I beg your pardon? This is most irregular. The sale is already in progress, sir. And we’ve been shown a variation deed that removes Lot 179a from the protected asset list.’
Percy stroked his beard, as if working up his response. ‘The trust variation deed may be forged.’
Tina sucked in a breath. That one word – may – made her stomach drop. She gripped the lawyer’s arm, her voice low and fierce. ‘You don’t have proof?’
Percy didn’t blink. His eyes stayed on Toby. Calm. Precise. Legal. ‘The Cambridge expert says there’s strong evidence of forgery. I’ve had a verbal confirmation.’
‘Then say it like it matters,’ she snapped. ‘You know it’s a fake, I know it’s a fake, and now an expert says it’s a fake. Surely that’s enough to stop the sale?’
Percy turned, his voice clear and deliberate. ‘The ability to sell Lot 179a is under legal dispute. We’re requesting an immediate suspension of sale until the signature on the trust variation deed can be verified.’
A ripple pulsed through the marquee – murmured voices, heads twisting.
‘Absolute nonsense!’ Hugo’s voice punched across the tent. ‘Desperate, last-minute theatrics. I’m the heir to this place, and I say the cup is going under the hammer.’
He strode toward them, face florid and eyes unfocused, his steps slightly too deliberate to be sober.
A bitter scent of whisky enveloped him. His shirt clung to him in patches, and the flush in his cheeks had deepened to a blotchy red.
‘Percy, this is outrageous!’ he slurred.
‘The sale is legal! We’ve done everything by the book! ’
Toby hesitated, his gavel twitching in his fingers. Tina watched him. Toby didn’t want this stopped. Not with a seller’s commission close to 10 per cent and an estimate of ￡750,000.
Hugo continued, voice ringing. ‘Bidders are registered. They want to buy.’
‘Continue to sell it, with forged documents?’ challenged Tina, her chest heaving.
More shifting. Phones came out. A lady in the front row was already filming.
‘Hugo,’ Hamish’s voice was calm but tight, ‘if there are questions about the authenticity–’
‘There are no questions!’ Hugo roared. ‘We need the money and the cup goes today!’
The crowd gave a collective gasp. Tina could feel their focus, like heat rising from the earth before a storm.
As if he was the judge presiding over two warring barristers, Toby rapped his gavel for silence. ‘Gentlemen, please! This is most unseemly. And you are?’ he asked, angling his head toward Percy.
‘I am the lawyer representing the Pemberton family. I’m requesting a delay on the sale until we can verify the deed.’
‘He’s not representing me,’ said Hugo.
Toby spoke icily. ‘I’m afraid we cannot delay the sale on the basis of . . . speculation.’
‘Then the sale proceeds,’ Hugo declared, staggering slightly but grinning with the gloating satisfaction of a man who knew he had won.
Percy looked at Tina helplessly.
Hamish laid a steadying hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Hugo, you’re making a mistake. Come with me on this one, trust me, this cup should not be sold today. Ma wouldn’t want it sold.’
‘No, dear boy,’ said Hugo. ‘The cup must be sold. Ma’s gaga. She doesn’t know what she wants.’
Hamish turned to Tina, his face crumpled as if the air had gone out of him. ‘I’m sorry darling,’ he said. ‘I . . . I tried.’
She touched his arm and turned back to the rostrum. Her heart felt heavy, her throat dry. But she stood straighter. She would see this through. As Ernest would say, que será, será.
‘Lot 162,’ Hartwell announced, brisk now, trying to regain control, ‘a Paul Storr cream jug, circa 1810. Shall we start at a thousand pounds?’
Tina’s gaze snagged on the cream jug. She winced. She recognised the tooling – the slight asymmetry in the scrollwork – her touch, unmistakable. The hammer fell at ￡1,200.
She felt sick.
‘Lot 163, a pair of silver candlesticks, attributed to Paul Storr—’
More of hers. The guilt accumulated, piece by piece, hardening into something fixed.
The lot numbers climbed. The bidders were eager. The lies gleamed under the lights. Tina stood toward the back, shoulder to shoulder with silver dealers, collectors, and curious locals, all craning their necks as the auctioneer tapped the microphone with theatrical flourish.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ called Toby, his voice smooth but commanding, ‘we now turn to Lot 179a.’
A ripple of excitement shot through the crowd. Some leaned forward. Others started whispering.
Tina’s heart hammered as the assistants wheeled the plinth forward. The loving cup sat gleaming beneath the spotlights like something venerable. She could almost hear the swish of polishing cloths, past and present.
The auctioneer paused. A theatrical beat.
‘This item has caused quite a stir,’ he said. ‘A rare three-handled loving cup in silver gilt, intricately chased and with aristocratic provenance, and’ he paused, glancing at the catalogue, ‘possibly by Paul Storr.’
From across the tent, Tina saw Hugo smile, clearly enjoying the sense of grandeur.
The auctioneer gestured towards the front row. ‘A magnificent example of a master silversmith’s work. Interest has been considerable. Shall we start the bidding at fifty thousand pounds?’
Tina could barely breathe. The crowd rustled like dry leaves in wind.
‘Sixty thousand . . . seventy . . . eighty thousand pounds – do I hear ninety?’
Hands rose. Wealthy collectors, silver dealers. They saw the loving cup, and they recognized what it was. All were hungry to buy the cup for a fraction of its value, all vying to own a slice of history. She spotted Ernest, his suit immaculate, a bidding paddle in his hand, yet to raise it.
Her ears sang.
‘Ninety thousand . . . one hundred thousand pounds . . .’
And then, like a hammer on a silver ingot, a voice rang out, clear and commanding. ‘Stop!’