Toby looked up, his moustache bristling with indignation. ‘Ibeg your pardon? This ismostirregular. The sale is already in progress, sir. And we’ve been shown a variation deed that removes Lot 179a from the protected asset list.’
Percy stroked his beard, as if working up his response. ‘The trust variation deed may be forged.’
Tina sucked in a breath. That one word –may– made her stomach drop. She gripped the lawyer’s arm, her voice low and fierce. ‘You don’t have proof?’
Percy didn’t blink. His eyes stayed on Toby. Calm. Precise. Legal. ‘The Cambridge expert says there’s strong evidence of forgery. I’ve had a verbal confirmation.’
‘Then say it like it matters,’ she snapped. ‘You know it’s a fake, I know it’s a fake, and now an expert says it’s a fake. Surely that’s enough to stop the sale?’
Percy turned, his voice clear and deliberate. ‘The ability to sell Lot 179a is under legal dispute. We’re requesting an immediate suspension of sale until the signature on the trust variation deed can be verified.’
A ripple pulsed through the marquee – murmured voices, heads twisting.
‘Absolute nonsense!’ Hugo’s voice punched across the tent. ‘Desperate, last-minute theatrics. I’m the heir to this place, and I say the cup is going under the hammer.’
He strode toward them, face florid and eyes unfocused, his steps slightly too deliberate to be sober. A bitter scent of whisky enveloped him. His shirt clung to him in patches, and the flush in his cheeks had deepened to a blotchy red. ‘Percy, this is outrageous!’ he slurred. ‘The sale islegal! We’ve done everything by the book!’
Toby hesitated, his gavel twitching in his fingers. Tina watched him. Toby didn’t want this stopped. Not with a seller’s commission close to 10 per cent and an estimate of £750,000.
Hugo continued, voice ringing. ‘Bidders are registered. Theywant to buy.’
‘Continue to sell it, with forged documents?’ challenged Tina, her chest heaving.
More shifting. Phones came out. A lady in the front row was already filming.
‘Hugo,’ Hamish’s voice was calm but tight, ‘if there are questions about the authenticity–’
‘There arenoquestions!’ Hugo roared. ‘We need the money and the cup goes today!’
The crowd gave a collective gasp. Tina couldfeeltheir focus, like heat rising from the earth before a storm.
As if he was the judge presiding over two warring barristers, Toby rapped his gavel for silence. ‘Gentlemen, please! This ismostunseemly. And you are?’ he asked, angling his head toward Percy.
‘I am the lawyer representing the Pemberton family. I’m requesting a delay on the sale until we can verify the deed.’
‘He’s not representing me,’ said Hugo.
Toby spoke icily. ‘I’m afraid we cannot delay the sale on the basis of ... speculation.’
‘Then the sale proceeds,’ Hugo declared, staggering slightly but grinning with the gloating satisfaction of a man who knew he had won.
Percy looked at Tina helplessly.
Hamish laid a steadying hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Hugo, you’re making a mistake. Come with me on this one, trust me, this cup should not be sold today. Ma wouldn’t want it sold.’
‘No, dear boy,’ said Hugo. ‘The cup must be sold. Ma’s gaga. She doesn’t know what she wants.’
Hamish turned to Tina, his face crumpled as if the air had gone out of him. ‘I’m sorry darling,’ he said. ‘I ... I tried.’
She touched his arm and turned back to the rostrum. Her heart felt heavy, her throat dry. But she stood straighter. She wouldsee this through. As Ernest would say,que será, será.
‘Lot 162,’ Hartwell announced, brisk now, trying to regain control, ‘a Paul Storr cream jug, circa 1810. Shall we start at a thousand pounds?’
Tina’s gaze snagged on the cream jug. She winced. She recognised the tooling – the slight asymmetry in the scrollwork –hertouch, unmistakable. The hammer fell at £1,200.
She felt sick.
‘Lot 163, a pair of silver candlesticks, attributed to Paul Storr—’
