Джеффри Арчер - This Was a Man

‘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.’

‘The 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.’

‘But they would never have found out if...’ said Virginia, almost as if she were talking to herself. ‘So how did they find out?’

‘A fair question,’ said Sir Edward, ‘and indeed I asked the Hertfords’ legal representatives why they hadn’t alerted you to the relevant clause in the late duke’s will as soon as they became aware that the sale was taking place. Had they done so, it would have avoided any unnecessary embarrassment for either side, not to mention the lurid headlines that appeared in the national press the following day.’