‘Ladies and gentlemen’ announced Toby, ‘... this gentleman,’ his voice curled into something less respectful, ‘this man here, Mr Macarthy,’ he gestured directly at Ernest, ‘is, I am told, a silver expert.’
A snort escaped Tina’s nose – dry, cynical.
‘He claims this piece is a reproduction,’ Toby continued, still smiling, but the humour was cold. ‘And not by Paul Storr. Just ... decorative.’
The crowd shifted like a body disturbed in sleep. A ripple of uncertainty passed through the marquee. Tinafeltit – a colddraught of doubt seeping through the bidders – like a winter wind beneath the tent flaps.
To her left, a tall man in a linen jacketlowered his paddle. Then another. Dealers didn’t take risks. If there was even a whiff of forgery, they’d step back. Of course, what Ernest claimed was true. The cup wasn’t by Paul Storr, and all those previously keen bidders had probably spotted that, but with an expert claiming the cup was a reproduction, they were now questioning if it was entirely fake. Tina knew it wasn’t, but she’d spent weeks with the loving cup admiring the work of a master silversmith, not minutes like these bidders.
She wanted to shout, ‘he’s lying,’ but her voice stayed locked in her throat. Because of course, the best lies have a grain of truth – the cup wasn’t a reproduction, but it also wasn’t by Paul Storr. Her hands were damp against the catalogue.Time to switch to Plan B.
‘We recommence the auction at one hundred thousand pounds,’ Toby said briskly, attempting cheer. ‘Do I still have one hundred thousand pounds?’
Tina’s hand rose before she could think. A reflex. Desperation. Control.
‘Thank you, madam. One hundred. Do I have one fifty?’
Another paddle, number 236, somewhere behind a man in a velvet jacket. She couldn’t see the face.
‘Two hundred?’ prompted Toby.
Tina twitched her paddle upward, and her heart clenched.
‘Two fifty?’
There was paddle 236. She could see him now, or at least, the sleeve of his pink shirt, just tapping his paddle with a fingernail – clearly an experienced bidder. She prayed he was a silver expert.
‘Three hundred?’
Her hand twitched up again. She glanced sideways. Ernesthadn’t moved. Yet.
‘Three fifty?’
Another tap on paddle 236.
‘Four hundred?’
Tina hesitated. Fifty thousand. That was all she had. She was already naked. At this level, with VAT added, she could barely afford Toby’s commission.
She shook her head and lowered her paddle.
‘I’m looking for four hundred thousand pounds?’ Toby’s voice rang out like a challenge.
And then: ‘Five hundred,’ Ernest drawled, lazily not even sitting upright, one arm slung across the chair back next to him.
Silence dropped like a curtain; the marquee held its breath. Then confusion rippled through the crowd. Tina heard multiple mutterings: ‘Wasn’t he the one claiming it was forged?’
Toby’s gavel-hand froze mid-air. He recovered with a tight smile.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, the words clipped, almost bitten off. He turned sharply, raking the crowd like a hawk denied its prey, his eyes sweeping the bidders, searching, coaxing, willing someone to rise to the bait. ‘Do I hear six hundred anywhere?’ he called, too quickly, too brightly. ‘Six hundred for this remarkable piece of English silver?’
Pink-shirt man’s paddle rose.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Toby.
The tent seemed to tighten, everyone tracking the bidding, heads swivelling from one side to the other as if following a grand slam tennis match.
Ernest smiled faintly. ‘Seven hundred thousand.’
