This Was A Man (41 page)

‘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 judgement 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 theatre 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:

Bob had dropped it into the postbox on the corner and returned home before Priscilla got out of the bath.

‘S
OLD
! F
OR 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 theatre. 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 colourful 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 semi-circular 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, enamelled, 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 leant 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 round, 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, ‘Five 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 towards 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.’

The man handed an engrossed document to Poltimore, just as the young woman on the phone raised her hand.

‘I have eight hundred thousand,’ said Poltimore, almost in a whisper, as a smartly dressed man stepped forward from the small group of experts behind the rostrum, took the document,
removed the red tape and studied the contents.

‘Eight hundred and fifty thousand?’ suggested Poltimore, as some of those seated in the front row began chattering among themselves about what they had just overheard. By the time
the Chinese whispers had reached the director, almost everyone in the room except Virginia was talking. She simply stared in silence at the man and woman standing by the rostrum.

‘Mark,’ said a voice from behind Poltimore. He turned, bent down and listened carefully to the advice of a Sotheby’s in-house lawyer, then nodded, raised himself to his full
height and declared, with as much gravitas as he could muster, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to have to inform you that lot number forty-three has been withdrawn from the sale.’ His
words were greeted with gasps of disbelief and an outbreak of noisy chattering.

‘Lot forty-four,’ said Poltimore, not missing a beat. ‘A black glazed mottled bowl of the Song Dynasty . . .’ but no one was showing the slightest interest in the Song
Dynasty.

The penned-in journalists were trying desperately to escape and discover why Lot 43 had been withdrawn, aware that an article they had hoped might stretch to a couple of columns in the arts
section was now destined for the front page. Unfortunately for them, the Sotheby’s experts had become like Chinese mandarins, lips sealed and non-communicative.

A posse of photographers broke loose and quickly surrounded the duchess. As their bulbs began to flash she turned to Priscilla for solace, but her friend was no longer there. The Lady Virginia
swung back to face the Lady Camilla; two queens on a chess board. One of them about to be toppled, while the other, a woman who never left the castle unless she had to, gave her adversary a
disarming smile and whispered, ‘Checkmate.’

‘T
HE ARISTOCRATS
’
CLAUSE
.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Virginia as she looked across the desk at her QC.

‘It’s a common enough clause,’ said Sir Edward, ‘often inserted as a safeguard in the wills of members of wealthy families to protect their assets from generation to
generation.’

‘But my husband left the vases to me,’ protested Virginia.

‘He did indeed. But only, and I quote the relevant clause in his will, as a gift to be enjoyed during your lifetime, after which they will revert to being part of the current duke’s
estate.’

‘But they were thought to be of no value,’ said Virginia. ‘After all, they’d been languishing below stairs for generations.’

‘That may well be so, your grace, but this particular aristocrats’ clause goes on to stipulate that this applies to any gift deemed to have a value of more than ten thousand
pounds.’

‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Virginia, sounding even more exasperated than before.

‘Then allow me to explain. A clause of this type is often inserted to ensure that aristocratic estates cannot be broken up by females who are not of the bloodline. The most common example
is when a member of the family is divorced and the former wife tries to lay claim to valuable pieces of jewellery, works of art or even property. For example, in your particular case, you are
permitted to live in the Dower House on the Hertford estate for the rest of your life. However, the deeds of that property remain in the duke’s name, and on your demise the house will
automatically revert to the family estate.’

‘And that also applies to my two vases?’

‘I’m afraid it does,’ said the elderly silk, ‘because they are without question worth more than ten thousand pounds.’

‘If only I’d disposed of them privately,’ said Virginia ruefully, ‘without the duke’s knowledge, no one would have been any the wiser.’

‘If that had been the case,’ said Sir Edward, ‘you would have been committing a criminal offence, as it would be assumed that you knew the true value of the vases.’