‘Lot number forty-three. A unique pair of Ming Dynasty vases, circa 1462, that were a gift from the Emperor Jiaqing to the fourth Duke of Hertford in the early nineteenth century. These vases are in perfect condition and are the property of an English lady of title.’ Virginia beamed as the journalists scribbled away. ‘I have an opening bid –’ a silence descended that had not been experienced before – ‘of three hundred thousand pounds.’ The silence was replaced with a gasp, as Poltimore leant back casually and looked around the room. ‘Am I bid three hundred and fifty?’
Virginia felt an eternity had passed, although it was only a few seconds before Poltimore said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ as he gestured to a bidder seated near the back of the room. Virginia wanted to look round, but somehow managed to restrain herself.
‘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.