‘I’m not interested in everyone,’ said Virginia, ‘just one member of one particular family.’
‘A gold-plated bitch,’ said Virginia.
‘That bad?’ asked Priscilla Bingham, once their dessert plates had been whisked away.
‘Worse. She has the airs and graces of a duchess, but she’s nothing more than the wife of a jumped-up antipodean sheep farmer.’
‘And you said she’s the second daughter?’
‘That’s right. But she behaves as if she’s the mistress of Castle Hertford.’
‘Wouldn’t all that change if the duke were to get married and decide to reclaim his family seat?’
‘That’s unlikely. Clarence is married to the army, and hopes to be the next colonel of the regiment.’
‘Like his father before him.’
‘He’s nothing like his father,’ said Virginia. ‘If Perry were still alive, he would never have allowed them to humiliate me in this way. But I intend to have the last laugh.’ She extracted a newly minted auction catalogue from her bag and handed it to her friend.
‘Are these the two vases you told me about?’ asked Priscilla, looking admiringly at the cover.
‘They are indeed. And you’ll see just how much I’m going to make if you turn to lot forty-three.’
Priscilla flicked through the pages and when she reached Lot 43, Two Ming Vases, circa 1462, her eyes settled on the estimate. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
‘How very generous of the duke,’ she eventually managed.
‘He had no idea how much they were worth,’ said Virginia, ‘otherwise he would never have let them go.’
‘But surely the family will find out long before the sale takes place.’
‘Seems unlikely. Clarence is holed up somewhere in Borneo, Alice is in New York peddling bottles of perfume and Camilla never leaves the castle unless she has to.’
‘But I thought you wanted them to find out?’
‘Not until after the sale, by which time I will have banked the cheque.’
‘But even then, they may not hear about it.’
‘Mr Poltimore, who’s conducting the auction, tells me he’s already had calls from several of the leading arts correspondents, so we can expect extensive coverage in the press the following morning. That’s when they’ll find out, and by then it will be too late because I will have banked the money. I do hope you’ll be able to come to the auction next Thursday evening, Priscilla, and then you can join me for dinner afterwards at Annabel’s to celebrate. I’ve even booked Perry’s favourite table. It will be just like old times.’
‘Old times,’ repeated Priscilla, as a waiter appeared and served coffee. ‘Which reminds me, do you ever hear from your ex, following your little coup with Mellor Travel?’
‘If you mean Giles, he sent me a Christmas card for the first time in years, but I didn’t return the compliment.’
‘I see he’s back on the front bench.’
‘Yes, he’s been pitched against his sister. But he’s so wet, I expect he regularly lets her off the hook,’ Virginia added as she took a sip of coffee.
‘And now she’s a baroness.’
‘She’s a life peer,’ said Virginia. ‘Anyway, she only got her place in the Lords because she backed Margaret Thatcher when she stood for the leadership of the Tory party. It’s almost enough to make one consider voting Labour.’
‘To be fair, Virginia, the press all seem to agree that she’s doing a rather good job as a health minister.’
‘She’d be better off spending her time worrying about the health of her own family. Drink, drugs, three in a bed, assaulting the police, and her granddaughter ending up in jail.’
‘It was only for one night,’ Priscilla reminded her. ‘And she was back at the Slade the following term.’
‘Someone must have pulled some very long strings to make that possible,’ said Virginia.
‘Probably your ex-husband,’ suggested Priscilla. ‘He may be in opposition, but I suspect he still has a lot of clout.’
‘And what about your husband?’ asked Virginia, wanting to change the subject. ‘I hope all’s well with him,’ she added, hoping to hear otherwise.
‘He’s still producing a hundred thousand jars of fish paste a week, which allows me to live like a duchess, even if I’m not one.’
‘And is your son still doing the PR for Farthings Kaufman?’ asked Virginia, ignoring the barb.
‘Yes, he is. In fact, Clive’s hoping it won’t be long before they ask him to join the main board.’
‘It must help with Robert being an old friend of the chairman.’
‘And how’s your son?’ asked Priscilla, trading blow for blow.
‘Freddie is not my son, as you well know, Priscilla. And when I last heard, he’d run away from school, which would have solved all my problems, but unfortunately he returned a few days later.’
‘So who takes care of him during the holidays?’
‘My brother Archie, who lives off the income from the family distillery, which Father promised to me.’
‘You haven’t done too badly, duchess,’ said Priscilla, looking back down at the Sotheby’s catalogue.
‘You may well be right, but I’m still going to make certain it’s me who has the last laugh,’ said Virginia as a waiter appeared by their side, unsure who he should present the bill to. Although Virginia had invited Priscilla to join her for lunch, she was painfully aware that if she wrote a cheque it would bounce. Still, all that was about to change.
‘My turn next time,’ said Virginia. ‘Annabel’s on Thursday night?’ she added, looking the other way.
When Priscilla Bingham returned to her home in the Boltons, she left the Sotheby’s catalogue on the hall table.
‘Quite magnificent,’ said Bob when he spotted the cover. ‘Are you considering bidding for them?’
‘Nice idea,’ said Priscilla, ‘but you’d have to sell an awful lot more fish paste before we could consider that.’
‘Then why are you interested?’
‘They belong to Virginia, and she’s having to put them up for sale because the Hertford family have found a way of cheating her out of her monthly allowance.’
‘I’d like to hear the Hertfords’ side of the story before I make a judgement on that,’ said Bob, as he flicked through the catalogue looking for Lot 43. He let out a low whistle when he read the estimate. ‘I’m surprised the family were willing to part with them.’
‘They weren’t. The duke left them to Virginia in his will without the slightest idea what they were worth.’
Bob pursed his lips, but said nothing.
‘By the way,’ said Priscilla, ‘are we still going to the theatre tonight?’
‘Yes,’ replied Bob. ‘We’ve got tickets for The Phantom of the Opera, and the curtain goes up at seven thirty.’
‘Then I still have time to change,’ said Priscilla as she headed upstairs.
Bob waited for her to disappear into the bedroom before he picked up the catalogue and slipped into his study. Once he was seated at his desk, he turned his attention to Lot 43 and took his time studying the provenance of the two vases. He began to understand why they were considered so important. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a large brown envelope and slipped the catalogue inside. He wrote on it in bold capitals:
THE DUKE OF HERTFORD
CASTLE HERTFORD
HERTFORDSHIRE
Bob had dropped it into the postbox on the corner and returned home before Priscilla got out of the bath.