I thanked him and returned to my seat. A bell indicated it was time for the auction to begin. I was surprised to see Martin Ingram take the podium.
“Goodness. He’s a hunk,” Vivian said.
He was, too, with hair the color of black coffee and those startling blue eyes. He wore jeans and a crisp white shirt under a fitted wool sports jacket. Very GQ. Was it my imagination or did our eyes meet? I looked away, feeling … churlish. Always wanted to use that word.
He clapped his gavel. “Welcome, everyone, to this eclectic auction of Continental and British antiques, including several items from Suffolk’s own Finchley Hall. Let’s get started, shall we? Lot one is this magnificent George the Third mahogany serpentine serving table, attributed to Ince and Mayhew, circa 1775, the property of a gentleman. Perfect for that country cottage.” The audience laughed appreciatively as two burley young men held the table aloft. “We’ll start the bidding at five thousand pounds. Who will begin?”
A man in the fourth or fifth row raised his paddle.
“We have five thousand. Who will make it six? Yes, in the blue sweater. And seven?”
In the end, the table sold for twelve thousand pounds, well over the eight- to ten-thousand-pound estimate. Everything was selling well. The bidders were in a good mood.
Lady Barbara’s Regency chairs were lot fifty-seven. I thought Oakley’s had taken a risk, selling them as a set.
After what seemed like a long wait, the lot came up.
“A set of fifteen Regency mahogany dining chairs ,” said Martin. “Possibly by Gillows, early nineteenth century, including one armchair. Each chair has a curved bar top rail with ebony stringing and horizontal splat above a padded seat on tapering turned and reeded legs. From Finchley Hall, Long Barston.”
One of the runners lifted the armchair, the other a side chair.
“Where is the second armchair, you ask?” Martin Ingram lowered his eyebrows in mock suspicion. “I have it on good authority—the chair met its end, if not its maker, at Christmas dinner, 1956, under the not-inconsiderable bulk of a certain gentlelady, whose identity”—he put a finger to his lips and winked—“shall remain undisclosed.” The audience actually clapped.
Martin Ingram was charming them—and adding to the chairs’ value by incorporating intriguing details about their provenance. Exactly what my mother had always done. “Give them as much information as you can,” she used to say. “That way they’re not just buying an object; they’re buying a piece of history.”
“We’ll start the bidding at fifteen thousand pounds.”
In the end, the chairs sold for thirty-four thousand pounds and the silver coffee pot for an astonishing thirty-eight thousand pounds.
Lady Barbara was ecstatic.
I felt foolish for having had doubts about the Oakleys.
The auction was drawing to a close. Some of bidders had already claimed their purchases and left. A number of the telephone bidders had disconnected.
“Lot one hundred forty-three,” Martin Ingram said, “a molded blue-and-white dragon bottle vase, Qing dynasty, eighteenth century, the property of a gentleman.”
I was surprised Oakley’s had placed such an important piece near the end.
“We’ll start the bidding at three thousand pounds.”
“That’s low,” I whispered to Vivian. “I should have registered for a paddle myself.”
One of the runners displayed the vase, including the unmarked bottom, a sign of age.
Four bidders raised their paddles, but they were trumped by an online client who put in the winning bid of four thousand five hundred pounds.
The vase should have brought a lot more. Had Oakley’s deliberately sabotaged the sale? Why would they do that?
Nigel Oakley appeared at Lady Barbara’s side. “Were you pleased with the results?”
“Kate tells me we got top prices.” She was positively glowing. “Congratulations, Nigel. You’ve certainly earned your commission.”
“Does that mean we’ll have the privilege of handling the lacquer plate?”
I cut in before she had an opportunity to respond. “We’ll let you know very soon. In the meantime, when can Lady Barbara expect to receive the proceeds?”
“As soon as the checks clear—a day or two at the most.” He addressed Lady Barbara. “I’ll bring the check myself, personally.”
“No rush,” Lady Barbara said. “I enjoyed this afternoon more than I imagined.”
“I’m sure you’ve attended countless auctions, Kate,” Nigel said. “I hope you were pleased with the outcome today.”
“Very pleased,” I admitted. “Especially with the chairs. Martin did a masterful job of turning a liability into a selling point.”
“That’s his specialty—making spending money fun. The mark of a true salesman. And he’s got an eye for quality. Smart lad. Always popular with the ladies.”
“One thing surprised me—that dragon vase, near the end. Why didn’t you place it earlier in the lineup, before so many bidders dropped out. It should have gone for twice the winning bid.”
A cloud darkened Nigel’s pleasant, open expression. “Do you think so? I’ll mention it to Peter and Martin. They set the bidding schedule.”
I mumbled something about auctions being unpredictable, but the bidding on the dragon vase bothered me. Why would an experienced auctioneer with an eye for quality, like Martin Ingram, handicap a sale before it even began?
By the time we’d pulled onto the A road, Lady Barbara and Vivian were already speculating on how high the bidding might go on the cinnabar plate.
The windshield wipers kept up a steady rhythm. I backed off an articulated lorry that was sending up sheets of muddy water, making it impossible to see.
“If I didn’t need the money, I’d donate the plate to one of the Chinese museums,” Lady Barbara said from the rear seat. “It ought to go home.”
“The plate will probably return to China anyway,” Vivian said over her shoulder. “Kate says wealthy Chinese businessmen are buying up things like that and donating them to the State.”
“At least the money will repair the damage in the Chinese bedroom.” Lady Barbara chuckled at her own joke.
“What damage?” I asked.
“There’s rain pouring into the east wing.” Vivian said. “Mind you, that happens every spring.”
We turned right onto the B road toward Long Barston and waited as several sheep decided if life would be drier on the
