‘You want to talk about lost fortunes, Hugo?’ Hamish said lightly. ‘Tina isn’t responsible for her father’s actions. She’s made mistakes. She’s also made something of herself. You, on the other hand, are still using Henry VIII as a role model. All appetite, no conscience.’
Marmalade’s tail stopped wagging. Sensing the sudden shift in tone, he whined and paced a half-circle before pressing himself against Hugo’s shin.
Hugo flushed, but Hamish didn’t stop. ‘You didn’t just take to drink – you built a throne in the wreckage and crowned yourself the martyr.’ A few nearby heads turned at the raised voice. Hugo, cowed by his younger brother’s words, muttered something unintelligible. But watching him slink away, his hip flask clutched as tightly in his hand as Elspeth used to cling to her childhood teddy bear, Tina felt a wave of sympathy. She knew Hamish was trying to persuade his brother to seek professional help for his drinking.
‘That was unnecessarily flattering,’ she said under her breath.
‘He needed reminding. And I’ve always been partial to a metaphor,’ Hamish replied. ‘Especially Tudor ones.’
Tina smiled up at him, then looked again at the red digits ticking away beside the rostrum: 11:56. She turned in a circle, surveying the crowd. Still no sign of Percy. ‘Have you got any signal?’ she asked.
Hamish took out his phone, then shook his head.
The auctioneer, Toby Hartwell – Tim’s father – hauled himself up onto the rostrum. At sixty-two, he carried himself with the same effortless grace his son exuded, though decades of good living had softened the sharp angles of his jaw. His salt-and-pepper moustache was trim, and his suit hung with an understated perfection that spoke of good taste.
When he smiled at the assembled crowd, it was Tim’s smile – warm, easy, and utterly convincing – the smile of a man who could make you believe you were getting a bargain even as he emptied your wallet. Toby adjusted the microphone with a sharp screech of feedback, then tapped it twice. ‘Can you hear me at the back?’ he called out, already thumbing through a stack of papers.
Tina stood, half-hidden behind a pole, her eyes pinned to the entrance flap, fanning herself with her bidding paddle, willing Percy to arrive.
‘Don’t fret darling,’ said Hamish, ‘plenty of time yet.’
Toby cleared his throat into the microphone, loud enough to make the first few rows flinch.
‘Splendid, splendid! Ladies and gentlemen, what a day we have for you. Some exceptional lots, and a few surprises too, if you know what to look for. Now, I trust you’ve all registered and are ready to bid with enthusiasm – and deep pockets!’
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Tina twisted the paddle around in her fingers.
‘Right then. Now, before we start a few announcements,’ Toby continued. ‘We’ve got a couple of late additions to the catalogue,’ he said, flipping a page. ‘Lot seventy-four –Victorian watch fob, found in a drawer, no reserve ...’
Tina tuned out his words and turned back to the entrance, scanning again. She could feel the pressure building, like air sucked into a vacuum.
Toby raised the gavel and gave the microphone one final tap. ‘Let’s begin. Lot number one,’ Toby announced, ‘a delightful Georgian tea service, hallmarked London 1798. What am I bid? Shall we start at five hundred pounds? Five hundred? Four hundred then? Come on now, don’t be shy – this is solid silver, not plate!’
The marquee swelled with noise. Bidding paddles lifted like petals to the sun, flicking up in rapid succession.
For over an hour, Tina watched, half-hypnotised, as Toby conducted the sale with the energy of a man possessed. The gavel fell again and again with cracking finality. Toby was proceeding at lightning pace, the red LED display clicking over lot numbers like a ticking fuse edging toward the blast.
Tina’s heartbeat pounded in her throat. She clutched her catalogue in white-knuckled fingers, barely seeing the pages. Lot after lot blurred past – silver jugs, porcelain inkwells, Georgian cruet sets. But her mind wasn’t on the sale. It was on theabsence.
Where was Percy?
‘Six hundred, seven, eight – do I hear nine hundred?’ purred Toby. ‘Nine hundred with the lady in the blue hat. One thousand? One thousand pounds with the gentleman by the door. Any advance on one thousand? Fair warning ... sold to bidder number twelve!’Smack.Down came the gavel. ‘Right, lot number one thirty-six ...’
The minutes seemed to stretch and warp in the stifling heat. A man walked past her, attempting to muffle a coughing fit. Somewhere across the marquee, someone sneezed. She barely registered either. Her eyes kept darting to the front of the marquee, to the place Percyshouldhave been, halting the sale.
The digital display announced Lot 155. Lot 179a was less than thirty minutes away.
Toby’s voice as smooth as silk. ‘And now we reach the climax of the silver, the superb collection of pieces by Paul Storr.’
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.
