‘No need,’ she said. ‘I am an expert myself.’
‘It’s quite late to add such a significant lot ... and don’t tell my father I said this, but are we really the best house for something of that stature? Wouldn’t you do better with one of the London crew?’
Bless him, she thought, so honest. ‘The family’s taken a decision. They want a quick sale.’
He hesitated.‘Okay. I’ll add it. Tell you what, I’ll email your description to our buyers list, try and drum up some publicity. It’s the best I can think of at this late stage.’
‘Thank you.’
She borrowed his pen, twirling it between her fingers as she tossed around ideas. The description would be an insurance policy in case – heaven forbid – Percy didn’t come up trumps.Her words must alert buyers to the quality of the piece; she couldn’t rely on the estimate – people might assume it was a typing error.
Christina dithered over the wording, wanting to ‘attribute’ the cup to Paul Storr. She recognized that would be a mistake; ‘attributed to’in ‘auction speak’ meant the auctionhouse was confident but not certain of the maker. Given the maker’s mark stamp ofPL, that wasn’t credible. Worse, dealers would then question – correctly – the attribution of all the fake Paul Storr in the auction.
She settled for ‘possibly by Paul Storr’ – this translated as a tentative suggestion by the auctioneer, which experts would spot as a poor guess, and one they could capitalise on. The Storr name would pique interest and pull people to the auction to view the cup, which they could do up to and including the morning of the sale. And that’s all she needed. Anyone who knew anything about silver would spot from a casual glance the maker was not Storr – his style was the opposite of the real silversmith, but they would also spot the calibre and decide for themselves who created it. Then the market would find the true value of the cup, and Ernest wouldn’t be able to buy it for a song.
Christina passed the details to Tim.
Reading the blurb, he said, ‘I guess that makes sense, there’s quite a lot of Paul Storr’s work in the sale already.’
She smiled at the knowledge that this cup had never touched Storr’s hands any more than those other pieces. This stunning masterpiece was created decades before Storr began working.
‘Yes, he was a family favourite.’
As Tim walked off with the magnificent cup –hercup, the one she’d hidden, guarded, lied about – Christina felt the knot in her stomach twist tighter. Unless Percy could prove the cup was a protected asset, it would be auctioned off. But that didn’t mean Ernest had won. Her crafty wording should be enough to attractcompetitive bidders and prevent him from becoming the legal owner for a fraction of its real value.
Just thinking about his plan made her want to weep. Ernest and Frank – who had made their fortunes peddling fakes, coaxing stories out of nothing, weaving lies into lacquer and gilding – were expecting to make their biggest profit from somethinggenuine.
Turning to rejoin the throng by the side table, Christina groaned inwardly, noticing the crowd now included Frank.
‘Tim has the cup,’ she said.
‘And it’s going in the auction?’ asked Hugo.
‘Yes,’ replied Christina.
Frank didn’t mince his words. ‘What’s the estimate?’
‘Seven fifty.’
‘With three zeros?’ asked Amy, her eyes bulging.
Hugo opened and closed his mouth like a hooked fish. Amy gave a loud tut. ‘It all seems a bit rushed to me, why not wait and put it into a specialist auction, with photos in a catalogue ...’
Wanting to reassure Amy, Christina spoke confidently. ‘Tim’s trying to drum up some interest for us. He’s sending an email to his buyers list to draw attention to the late addition.’
Frank and Ernest exchanged a glance. Ernest’s eyes narrowed. ‘Saying what exactly?’
‘Describing the lot. I’ve attributed the cup as “possibly by Paul Storr”.’
Amy screwed up her face. ‘Why “possibly”?’
‘It’s safer for the auction house, and for us. We’re not claiming it’s by the famous silversmith, so no one can return it as incorrectly advertised after they buy it.’ Christina explained. Not that anyone would. Complaining it wasn’t by Paul Storr would be like sending back Wagyu beef when you’d ordered McDonald’s.
Ernest’s smile slipped. ‘Bold of you. Reckless, really.’
Frank swore, low and vicious, his cheeks flushing pink, andthen hissed. ‘You shouldnae have done that lassy.’ He stood up straight, and she saw his face had darkened from pink to plum, his eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched. ‘That’s other people’s money you’re playing with,’ he said, his voice low. ‘But I suppose you’re used to that.’
Christina froze.
