This Was a Man

by Jeffrey Archer

  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as he could muster, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to have to inform you that lot number forty-three has been withdrawn from the sale.”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.

  “Lot forty-four,” said Poltimore, not missing a beat. “A black glazed mottled bowl of the Song Dynasty…” but no one was showing the slightest interest in the Song Dynasty.

  The penned-in journalists were trying desperately to escape and discover why Lot 43 had been withdrawn, aware that an article they had hoped might stretch to a couple of columns in the arts section was now destined for the front page. Unfortunately for them, the Sotheby’s experts had become like Chinese mandarins, lips sealed and noncommunicative.

  A posse of photographers broke loose and quickly surrounded the duchess. As their bulbs began to flash she turned to Priscilla for solace, but her friend was no longer there. The Lady Virginia swung back to face the Lady Camilla; two queens on a chess board. One of them about to be toppled, while the other, a woman who never left the castle unless she had to, gave her adversary a disarming smile and whispered, “Checkmate.”

  38

  “THE ARISTOCRATS’ CLAUSE.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Virginia as she looked across the desk at her QC.

  “It’s a common enough clause,” said Sir Edward, “often inserted as a safeguard in the wills of members of wealthy families to protect their assets from generation to generation.”

  “But my husband left the vases to me,” protested Virginia.

  “He did indeed. But only, and I quote the relevant clause in his will, as a gift to be enjoyed during your lifetime, after which they will revert to being part of the current duke’s estate.”

  “But they were thought to be of no value,” said Virginia. “After all, they’d been languishing below stairs for generations.”

  “That may well be so, your grace, but this particular aristocrats’ clause goes on to stipulate that this applies to any gift deemed to have a value of more than ten thousand pounds.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Virginia, sounding even more exasperated than before.

  “Then allow me to explain. A clause of this type is often inserted to ensure that aristocratic estates cannot be broken up by females who are not of the bloodline. The most common example is when a member of the family is divorced and the former wife tries to lay claim to valuable pieces of jewelry, works of art, or even property. For example, in your particular case, you are permitted to live in the Dower House on the Hertford estate for the rest of your life. However, the deeds of that property remain in the duke’s name, and on your demise the house will automatically revert to the family estate.”

  “And that also applies to my two vases?”

  “I’m afraid it does,” said the elderly silk, “because they are without question worth more than ten thousand pounds.”

  “If only I’d disposed of them privately,” said Virginia ruefully, “without the duke’s knowledge, no one would have been any the wiser.”

  “If that had been the case,” said Sir Edward, “you would have been committing a criminal offense, as it would be assumed that you knew the true value of the vases.”

  “But they would never have found out if…” said Virginia, almost as if she were talking to herself. “So how did they find out?”

  “A fair question,” said Sir Edward, “and indeed I asked the Hertfords’ legal representatives why they hadn’t alerted you to the relevant clause in the late duke’s will as soon as they became aware that the sale was taking place. Had they done so, it would have avoided any unnecessary embarrassment for either side, not to mention the lurid headlines that appeared in the national press the following day.”

  “And why didn’t they?”

  “It seems that someone sent the family a copy of the Sotheby’s catalogue, which aroused no interest at the time as none of them recognized the vases, even though they were displayed on the cover.”

  “Then how did they find out?” repeated Virginia.

  “It was evidently the duke’s nephew, Tristan, who raised the alarm. He is apparently in the habit of sneaking down to the kitchen during the school holidays. He thought he recognized the vases on the cover of the catalogue and told his mother where he’d last seen them. Lady Camilla contacted the family solicitor, Mr. Blatchford, who wasted no time in obtaining a court order to prevent the sale. Having done so, they took the next train to London, and arrived, to quote Mr. Blatchford, in the nick of time.”

  “What would have happened if they had arrived after the hammer had come down?”

  “That would have caused the family an interesting dilemma. The duke would have been left with two choices. He could either have allowed the sale to proceed and collected the money, or sued you for the full amount, in which case I’m bound to say that, in my opinion, a judge would have had no choice but to come down in favor of the Hertford estate, and might even have referred the case to the DPP to decide if you had committed a criminal offense.”

  “But I didn’t know about the aristocrats’ clause,” protested Virginia.

  “Ignorance of the law is not a defense,” said Sir Edward firmly. “And in any case, I suspect a judge would find it hard to believe that you hadn’t selected the vases most carefully, and knew only too well what they were worth. I should warn you, that is also Mr. Blatchford’s opinion.”

  “So will the vases have to be returned to the duke?”

  “Ironically, no. The Hertfords must also abide by the letter of the law, as well as the spirit of your late husband’s will, so the vases will be sent back to you to enjoy for the rest of your life. However, Mr. Blatchford has informed me that if you return them within twenty-eight days, the family will take no further legal action, which I consider is generous in the circumstances.”

  “But why would they want the vases now, when they’ll get them back anyway in the fullness of time?”

  “I would suggest that the possibility of them banking a million pounds might well be the answer to that question, your grace. I understand Mr. Poltimore has already been in touch with the duke and informed him that he has a private buyer in Chicago lined up.”

  “Has the man no morals?”

  “However, I would still advise you to return them by October nineteenth if you don’t want to face another lengthy and expensive court case.”

  “I will, of course, take your advice, Sir Edward,” said Virginia, accepting she had been left with no choice. “Please assure Mr. Blatchford that I will return the vases to Clarence by October nineteenth.”

  * * *

  An agreement was struck between Sir Edward and Mr. Blatchford that the two Ming Dynasty vases would be returned to the fourteenth Duke of Hertford at his home in Eaton Square, on or before October 19th. In exchange, Clarence had signed a legally binding agreement that no further action would be taken against Virginia, Dowager Duchess of Hertford, and he also agreed to cover her legal costs for the transaction.

  Virginia had a long liquid lunch with Bofie Bridgwater at Ma
rk’s Club on October 19th and didn’t get back home to Chelsea until nearly four, by which time the lights in the square had already been turned on.

  She sat alone in the front room of her little flat and stared at the two vases. Although she had only possessed them for a few months, as each day passed, she had come to appreciate why they were regarded as works of genius. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she was going to miss them. However, the thought of another legal battle and Sir Edward’s exorbitant fee, catapulted her back into the real world.

  It was Bofie who had pointed out, just after they’d opened their second bottle of Merlot, the significance of the words “on or before,” and it amused Virginia to think she could at least have a little fun at Clarence’s expense.

  After a light supper, she ran herself a bath, and lay among the bubbles giving considerable thought to what she should wear for the occasion, as this was clearly going to be a closing-night performance. She settled on black, a color her late husband had always favored, especially after escorting her back to Eaton Square following an evening at Annabel’s.

  Virginia didn’t hurry herself, aware that her timing had to be perfect, before the curtain could come down. At 11:40 p.m., she stepped out of the flat and hailed a taxi. She explained to the driver that she would require some help in putting two large vases in the back. He couldn’t have been more obliging, and once Virginia had settled herself on the backseat, he asked, “Where to, madam?”

  “Thirty-two Eaton Square. And could you drive slowly, as I wouldn’t want the vases to be damaged.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  Virginia sat on the edge of the seat, a hand placed firmly on the rim of each vase while the cabbie drove the short distance from Chelsea to Eaton Square, never moving out of first gear.

  When the cab finally pulled up outside No. 32, memories of her time with Perry came flooding back, reminding Virginia once again just how much she missed him. The driver climbed out and opened the back door for her.

  “Would you be kind enough to put the vases on the top step,” she said as she climbed out of the cab. She waited until the driver had done so before adding, “If you could wait, I’ll only be a few moments, then you can drive me back home.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  Virginia checked her watch: nine minutes to twelve. She had kept her side of the bargain. She pressed the doorbell and waited until she saw a light on the third floor go on. A few moments later a familiar face appeared at the window. She smiled up at Clarence, who opened the window and peered down at her.

  “Is that you, Virginia?” he asked, trying not to sound exasperated.

  “It most certainly is, my darling. I’m just returning the vases.” She looked again at her watch. “I think you’ll find it’s seven minutes to midnight, so I’ve kept my side of the bargain.” A second light came on and Camilla leaned out of another window and said, “And only just in time.”

  Virginia smiled sweetly up at her stepdaughter. She was about to walk back to the taxi, but paused for a moment to give the two vases one last look. She then bent down, and with all the strength she could muster, lifted one of them high above her head like an Olympic weightlifter. After holding it there for a moment, she allowed it to slip from her fingers. The exquisite five-hundred-year-old national treasure bounced down the stone steps, before finally shattering into a hundred pieces.

  Lights began to go on all over the house, and the words “fucking bitch” were among the more restrained of Camilla’s opinions.

  Warming to her task, Virginia stepped forward as if to take a curtain call. She picked up the second vase and, like the first, raised it high above her head. She heard the door open behind her.

  “Please, no!” shouted Clarence, as he leapt forward, arms outstretched, but Virginia had already let go of the vase and, if anything, the second irreplaceable Chinese masterpiece broke into even more pieces than the first.

  Virginia walked slowly down the steps, making her way carefully through a mosaic of blue and white broken porcelain, before climbing into the waiting taxi.

  As the driver began the journey back to Chelsea, he looked in his rearview mirror to see his passenger had a smile on her face. Virginia didn’t once look back to survey the carnage, because this time she’d read the legal document clause by clause, and there was no mention of what condition the two Ming vases should be in when they were returned “on or before October 19th.”

  As the cab turned right out of Eaton Square, the clock on a nearby church struck twelve.

  SEBASTIAN CLIFTON

  1984–1986

  39

  “YOU ASKED TO SEE ME, chairman.”

  “Can you hang on for a moment, Victor, while I sign this check? In fact, you can be the second signatory.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “Karin Barrington, following her triumph in the London Marathon.”

  “Quite right,” said Victor, taking out his pen and signing with a flourish. “A fantastic effort. I don’t think I could have done it in a week, let alone in under four hours.”

  “And I’m not even going to try,” said Seb. “But that wasn’t why I needed to see you.” His tone changed, once the small talk the English so delight in before getting to the point, had been dispensed with. “I need you to step up to the plate and take on more responsibility.”

  Victor smiled, almost as if he knew what the chairman was about to suggest.

  “I want you to become deputy chairman of the bank, and my right hand.”

  Victor didn’t attempt to hide his disappointment. Seb wasn’t surprised, and only hoped he would come around, if not immediately, at least in the long term.

  “So who’ll be your chief executive?”

  “I intend to offer that job to John Ashley.”

  “But he’s only been with the bank for a couple of years, and rumor has it that Barclays are about to invite him to head up their Middle East office.”

  “I’ve heard those rumors too, which only convinced me we couldn’t afford to lose him.”

  “Then offer him the deputy chairmanship,” said Victor, his voice rising. Sebastian couldn’t think of a convincing reply. “Not that there would be much point,” continued Victor, “because you know only too well he would see that role as nothing more than window dressing, and rightly turn it down.”

  “That isn’t how I see it,” said Seb. “I consider it to be not only a promotion, but an announcement that you are my natural successor.”

  “Balls. Have you forgotten we’re the same age? No, if you make Ashley the CEO, everyone will assume you’ve decided he’s your natural successor, not me.”

  “But you’d still be in charge of foreign exchange, which is one of the bank’s most lucrative departments.”

  “And reports directly to the CEO, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Then I’ll make it clear that in future you report directly to me.”

  “That’s nothing more than a sop, and everyone will know it. No, if you don’t feel I’m up to being managing director, you’ve left me with no choice but to resign.”

  “That’s the last thing I want,” said Sebastian, as his oldest friend gathered his papers and left the room without another word. Victor closed the door quietly behind him.

  “That went well,” said Seb.

  * * *

  “You’ve been putting it off for years,” said Karin after she’d read the letter.

  “But I’m over sixty,” protested Giles.

  “It’s the Castle versus the Village,” she reminded him, “not England against the West Indies. In any case, you’re always telling me how much you wished I’d seen your cover drive.”

  “In my prime, not in my dotage.”

  “And,” continued Karin, ignoring the outburst, “you gave your word to Freddie.” Giles couldn’t think of a suitable reply. “And let’s face it, if I can run a marathon, you can certainly turn out for a village cricket match.” Words that finally silenced h
er husband.

  Giles read the letter once more and groaned as he sat down at his desk. He extracted a sheet of paper from the rack, removed the top from his pen, and began to write.

  Dear Freddie,

  I would be delighted to join your team for …

  * * *

  “Aren’t they magnificent?” the young man said as he admired the seven drawings that had been awarded the Founder’s Prize.

  “Do you think so?” replied the young woman.

  “Oh yes! And such a clever idea to take the seven ages of woman as her theme.”

  “Oh, I missed that,” she said, looking at him more closely. The young man’s clothes rather suggested he hadn’t looked in a mirror before leaving for work that morning. Nothing matched. A smart Harris Tweed jacket paired with a blue shirt, green tie, gray trousers, and brown shoes. But he displayed a warmth and enthusiasm for the artist’s work that was quite infectious.

  “As you can see,” he said, warming to the task, “the artist has taken as her subject a woman running a marathon, and has depicted the seven stages of the race. The first drawing is on the starting line, when she’s warming up, apprehensive but alert. In the next,” he said, pointing to the second drawing, “she’s reached the five-mile mark, and is still full of confidence. But by the time she’s reached ten miles,” he said, moving on to the third drawing, “she’s clearly beginning to feel the pain.”

  “And the fourth?” she asked, looking more carefully at the drawing, which the artist had described as “the wall.”

  “Just look at the expression on the runner’s face, which leaves you in no doubt that she’s beginning to wonder if she’ll be able to finish the course.” She nodded. “And the fifth shows her just clinging on as she passes what I assume must be her family cheering. She’s raised an arm to acknowledge them, but even in the raising of that arm, with a single delicate line the artist leaves you in no doubt what a supreme effort it must have been.” Pointing to the sixth drawing, he continued effusively, “Here we see her crossing the finishing line, arms raised in triumph. And then moments later, in the final drawing, she collapses on the ground exhausted, having given everything, and is rewarded with a medal hung around her neck. Notice that the artist has added the yellow and green of the ribbon, the only hint of color in all seven drawings. Quite brilliant.”