The Art of the Matter

He stood in the doorway, false buck teeth and heavy glasses, and a piebald tom emerged from the sitting room behind her to stare contemptuously at him. He enthused over the beauty of the animal, calling it ‘puss’.

‘Come here, Alamein, come to Mummy,’ she called.

Alamein: a battle in North Africa in 1942 where her father had died when she was a baby of one. In Ladbroke Grove Suzie logged on again and punched it up. For the Darcy database Miss Priscilla Bates, private and confidential secretary to Peregrine Slade, was P-Bates ALAMEIN. And she had right of access to all her employer’s private e-mails. Pretending to be her, Suzie downloaded a hundred personal letters.

It was a week before Benny made his selection.

‘He has a mate on the Arts pages of the Observer. There are three letters here from the same man, Charlie Dawson. Occasionally Dawson hears of things going on at Christie’s or Sotheby’s and tips Slade off. He’ll do.’

Using her cyber-skills, Suzie created a letter from Charlie Dawson to Peregrine Slade for later use. Benny was meanwhile studying the catalogue for the next major Darcy sale. Dutch and Flemish Old Masters, scheduled for 20 May. After a while he tapped the illustration of one small oil on paper, laid on canvas.

‘That one,’ he said. Suzie and Trumpy peered at it. A still life showing a bowl of raspberries: a blue and white Delft bowl and beside it several seashells. An odd composition. The bowl stood on the edge of an old and chipped table.

‘Who the hell is Coorte?’ asked Trumpington Gore. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Not many have, Trumpy. Quite minor. School of Middleburg, Holland, mid-seventeenth century. But a tiny life’s work, barely more than sixty pictures worldwide. So . . . rare. Always painted the same sort of stuff. Strawberries, raspberries, asparagus and sometimes seashells. Boring as hell, but he has his fans. Look at the estimated price.’

The catalogue suggested £120,000 to £150,000.

‘So why Coorte?’ asked Suzie.

‘Because there is a Dutch lager billionaire who is obsessed by Coorte. Been trying for years to corner the world market in his fellow countryman. He won’t be there, but his representative will. Holding a blank cheque.’

On the morning of 20 May the House of Darcy was humming with activity. Peregrine Slade was again taking the sale personally and had gone down to the auction hall when Miss Bates noted that he had incoming mail. It was nine a.m. The sale started at ten. She read the message for her employer and, suspecting from what it said that it might be important, she used the laser-jet printer to run off a copy. With this in her hand she locked the office and scurried after him.

Slade was checking the position and function of his microphone on the podium when she found him. He thanked her and scanned the letter. It was from Charlie Dawson and could be exceedingly helpful.

‘Dear Perry, I heard over dinner last night that a certain Martin Getty blew into town. He is staying with friends and hopes to remain incognito.

‘You probably know he has one of the leading thoroughbred studs in Kentucky. He also has a very private, never seen, art collection. It occurred to me he might be in town for that reason.

‘Cheers, Charlie.’

Slade stuffed the letter in his pocket and walked outside to the table of paddle girls in the lobby. Unless a bidder at one of these auctions is well known to the auctioneer, it is customary to fill out a form as an intending bidder and be issued with a ‘paddle’, a plastic card with a number on it.

This can be raised to signify a bid, but more importantly to identify a winning bidder, who will hold it up for the clerk to note the number. That gives name, address and bank.

It was still early, nine fifteen. There were only ten filled-out forms so far, and none mentioned a Martin Getty. But the name alone was enough to set Slade’s tastebuds watering. He had a quick word with the three lovely girls behind the table and went back to the hall.

It was a quarter to ten when a shortish man, not particularly smart, approached the table.

‘You would like to bid, sir?’ said one of the girls, drawing a form towards her.

‘I surely would, young lady.’

The Southern drawl was lazy as molasses.

‘Name, sir?’

‘Martin Getty.’

‘And address?’

‘Over here o

r back home?’

‘Full residential, if you please.’