Chapter Forty
Forty
A hush fell. Heads swivelled. Toby looked momentarily stunned.
The marquee erupted into chaos.
Tina’s mouth went dry. She hadn’t seen this coming, and she scolded herself for forgetting Ernest’s style – always three steps ahead. But somewhere, deep beneath the terror, she told herself to stay calm.
Ernest’s voice carried clearly over the din. ‘I’m an authority on Paul Storr, Mr Hartwell. This piece is a fake, decorative, but not an original by the famous silversmith!’
The crowd buzzed with excitement and confusion. Toby looked thunderous, his carefully planned sale derailed by a second dramatic intervention.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Hamish in a hoarse whisper.
Tina leaned closer. ‘He’s doing this deliberately.
I created interest by using Paul Storr’s name; experts have spotted what it really is.
Now Ernest’s fighting back. He knows as well as I do, that Lot 179a is a genuine work by Paul de Lamerie.
But by forcing an announcement that the lot is repro, that will make people question if it is a fake – and they’ll be reluctant to bid at all, let alone anywhere near the cup’s true value.
Ernest will buy it for a song, then sell it on for a fortune. ’
But Hamish wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to the display tables; his eyes fixed on a pair of Tudor miniature portraits.
Tina knew that look – the same obsessive focus he brought to his research.
Then she recognized the miniatures – the pair that should be hanging in the Manor’s library.
‘Those shouldn’t be in the sale,’ he hissed. ‘They’re family portraits. Ernest must have slipped them into the auction as another late lot. I can’t have our relatives hanging on strangers’ walls.’
Tina stared at him in disbelief. Despite Percy’s failure to save the cup, and Ernest’s current skullduggery, Hamish was fixating on his ancestors. So much for last night’s promise to spend less time in the sixteenth century.
‘How much money have we got saved, darling?’ His voice was distant, already calculating.
‘Fifty thousand,’ Tina replied automatically. The house fund.
As Toby called for order, Hamish slipped away through the crowd, heading for the registration desk with the determined stride of a man about to bid his wife’s dreams away on some dead Tudor nobles.
The money Tina had set aside for a fresh start was about to vanish.
And oddly, it didn’t matter. If buying back those portraits made Hamish happy, Tina couldn’t think of a better use for the house fund.
‘Ladies and gentlemen’ announced Toby, ‘. . . this gentleman,’ his voice curled into something less respectful, ‘this man here, Mr Macarthy,’ he gestured directly at Ernest, ‘is, I am told, a silver expert.’
A snort escaped Tina’s nose – dry, cynical.
‘He claims this piece is a reproduction,’ Toby continued, still smiling, but the humour was cold. ‘And not by Paul Storr. Just . . . decorative.’
The crowd shifted like a body disturbed in sleep. A ripple of uncertainty passed through the marquee. Tina felt it – a cold draught of doubt seeping through the bidders – like a winter wind beneath the tent flaps.
To her left, a tall man in a linen jacket lowered his paddle.
Then another. Dealers didn’t take risks.
If there was even a whiff of forgery, they’d step back.
Of course, what Ernest claimed was true.
The cup wasn’t by Paul Storr, and all those previously keen bidders had probably spotted that, but with an expert claiming the cup was a reproduction, they were now questioning if it was entirely fake.
Tina knew it wasn’t, but she’d spent weeks with the loving cup admiring the work of a master silversmith, not minutes like these bidders.
She wanted to shout, ‘he’s lying,’ but her voice stayed locked in her throat. Because of course, the best lies have a grain of truth – the cup wasn’t a reproduction, but it also wasn’t by Paul Storr. Her hands were damp against the catalogue. Time to switch to Plan B.
‘We recommence the auction at one hundred thousand pounds,’ Toby said briskly, attempting cheer. ‘Do I still have one hundred thousand pounds?’
Tina’s hand rose before she could think. A reflex. Desperation. Control.
‘Thank you, madam. One hundred. Do I have one fifty?’
Another paddle, number 236, somewhere behind a man in a velvet jacket. She couldn’t see the face.
‘Two hundred?’ prompted Toby.
Tina twitched her paddle upward, and her heart clenched.
‘Two fifty?’
There was paddle 236. She could see him now, or at least, the sleeve of his pink shirt, just tapping his paddle with a fingernail – clearly an experienced bidder. She prayed he was a silver expert.
‘Three hundred?’
Her hand twitched up again. She glanced sideways. Ernest hadn’t moved. Yet.
‘Three fifty?’
Another tap on paddle 236.
‘Four hundred?’
Tina hesitated. Fifty thousand. That was all she had. She was already naked. At this level, with VAT added, she could barely afford Toby’s commission.
She shook her head and lowered her paddle.
‘I’m looking for four hundred thousand pounds?’ Toby’s voice rang out like a challenge.
And then: ‘Five hundred,’ Ernest drawled, lazily not even sitting upright, one arm slung across the chair back next to him.
Silence dropped like a curtain; the marquee held its breath. Then confusion rippled through the crowd. Tina heard multiple mutterings: ‘Wasn’t he the one claiming it was forged?’
Toby’s gavel-hand froze mid-air. He recovered with a tight smile.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, the words clipped, almost bitten off.
He turned sharply, raking the crowd like a hawk denied its prey, his eyes sweeping the bidders, searching, coaxing, willing someone to rise to the bait.
‘Do I hear six hundred anywhere?’ he called, too quickly, too brightly.
‘Six hundred for this remarkable piece of English silver?’
Pink-shirt man’s paddle rose.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Toby.
The tent seemed to tighten, everyone tracking the bidding, heads swivelling from one side to the other as if following a grand slam tennis match.
Ernest smiled faintly. ‘Seven hundred thousand.’
Gasps. Tina’s eyes darted toward paddle 236, but he was gone.
The cup was worth ten times what Ernest was offering.
Surely some of the silver experts could see what Ernest was doing.
But it was a tall ask, expecting someone to bid at this level based on a gut feeling that someone else was orchestrating a con.
From the rostrum, Toby’s eyes scanned the room.
She raised her own paddle.
Toby arched his eyes at her. ‘Seven hundred thousand. Thank you, madam.’
Tina could hardly breathe. What if Ernest bowed out now? What if he left her holding the bid? He could do that. She peeked across at him, wondering if he could smell her fear. Would Hartwells give her time to pay?
Ernest’s mouth curled into a small, sickening smile. A look not meant for the room. Just for her. A warning: I could.
Then he gave a mock-thoughtful glance toward the ceiling. ‘Seven fifty,’ he said.
Now, Toby’s eyes were on her. She lowered her head, gave a tiny shake. At least she’d pushed the dirty rat up another fifty grand. He’ll be already planning where to sell it on. A museum, a collector, a middle eastern prince. He’d already have the network lined up.
Then she heard the auctioneer, ‘ah thank you sir, a new bidder; the bid is now with paddle 385 at eight hundred thousand pounds.’
Her pulse surged with fresh energy. She sent up a silent cheer for paddle 385 . . . please keep going.
‘Nine hundred,’ came Ernest’s voice.
Toby’s eyes spun to the other side of the tent. ‘The bid is against you sir. Do I have nine fifty . . . Thank you, sir.’
A thrill passed up Tina’s spine. Maybe he knew. Maybe bidder 385 saw the truth behind the lie. The cup was good. Museum good. Ten times this good.
Ernest crossed his arms, then said: ‘one million pounds.’
Tina’s fists clenched. But the more he spent, the more she knew. He had the money. The family’s money, and hers, in truth. Years of it. He’d used her hands, her skill, her life.
She caught his eye across the marquee.
He smiled at her – warm, slow, poisonous.
She looked away.
‘One million, one hundred thousand pounds?’ Toby asked, his voice slightly breathless.
Tina’s blood went cold. She didn’t twitch a muscle, keeping her paddle locked to her chest. No more bluffing.
Let the other bidder fight. She shuffled her feet, eyes raking the crowds for paddle 385; she couldn’t see the bidder, but she sent up a little cheer when Toby’s voice said, ‘Thank you, sir.’
Then the auctioneer’s eyes swivelled in Ernest’s direction.
Ernest flicked his wrist lazily. ‘One point two.’
‘One million, two hundred thousand pounds’ the auctioneer repeated, drawing out the words. ‘Any advance?’
A gasp burst out of someone. Tina looked around for the other bidder –willing him to keep going. Come on. Come on. Push it higher. Don’t stop now. For a Paul de Lamerie, you’d be getting a bargain at two million. The crowd held still. Even the air seemed suspended.
‘One million, two hundred thousand pounds going once . . . going twice . . .’
The gavel fell.
‘Sold. Lot 179a to paddle number forty-seven. For one million, two hundred thousand pounds.’
Polite applause scattered across the marquee, brittle and uncertain.
Ernest turned in his chair and smiled at her.
Wide. Satisfied. As if they’d shared something intimate.
As if he’d just bought her. She didn’t smile back.
Instead, she watched the handlers approach the plinth, preparing to remove the cup.
It glittered in the sunlight streaming through the marquee’s plastic windows.
She crossed to the aisle for a last look at the beautiful loving cup, the finest piece of silver she had ever touched.
The handlers lifted the plinth – one of them wobbling slightly as they tilted it to carry out.
‘Careful!’ Toby barked.
And then it happened. Fast. A misjudged step, a tangle of feet, a slip. The loving cup rocked – teetered, then toppled.
‘No!’ screeched the crowd.
Instinctively, Tina lunged. She caught it just before it hit the floor, falling to her knees.
The marquee erupted into shouting. Time slowed.
She sat on the floor, winded, heart hammering, the cup nestled in her lap like a rescued child.
Her arms cradled it. Her bag had spilled open beside her, contents scattered – tissues, keys, a compact mirror catching the light.
She set the cup down and crawled onto all fours, the precious silver beneath her, and with trembling fingers, gathered the items back, fumbling with the clasp on her bag that seemed suddenly uncooperative.
Gasps gave way to silence.
She looked up. The handlers were still staring at each other, both pale and wide eyed.
Tina stood – unsteadily, dirt on her knees, the cup once more cradled against her chest. She approached the plinth with measured steps, her free hand steadying herself against the display case’s edge.
Her bag strap slipped from her shoulder; she adjusted it nervously, the heavy bag swinging against her hip as she leaned forward.
She looked at the crowd and said, with a soft smile, ‘no harm done.’
Tina placed the cup – Ernest’s cup – on the plinth.
Then she stepped back and went into the gardens to calm her racing heart, muttering to herself: que será, será.