As the Crow Flies

Once she had left the building I walked over to the desk and asked Cathy, our most recent recruit, who she was.

“A Mrs. Bennett,” said the young girl behind the counter. The name meant nothing to me so I asked what she had wanted.

Cathy handed me a small oil painting of the Virgin Mary and Child. “The lady asked if this could still be considered for the Italian sale. She knew nothing of its provenance, and looking at her I have to say I wondered if it might have been stolen. I was about to have a word with Mr. Lawson.”

I stared at the little oil and immediately realized it had been Charlie’s youngest sister who had brought the painting in.

“Leave this one to me.”

“Certainly, Lady Trumper.”

I took the lift to the top floor and walked straight past Jessica Allen and on into Charlie’s office. I handed over the picture for him to study and quickly explained how it had come into our possession.

He pushed the paperwork on his desk to one side and stared at the painting for some time without saying a word.

“Well, one thing’s for certain,” Charlie eventually offered, “Kitty is never going to tell us how or where she got hold of it, otherwise she would have come to me direct.”

“So what shall we do?”

“Put it in the sale as she instructed, because you can be sure that no one is going to bid more for the picture than I will.”

“But if all she’s after is some cash, why not make her a fair offer for the picture?”

“If all Kitty is after was some cash, she would be standing in this office now. No, she would like nothing better than to see me crawling to her for a change.”

“But if she stole the painting?”

“From whom? And even if she did there’s nothing to stop us stating the original provenance in our catalogue. After all, the police must still have all the details of the theft on their files.”

“But what if Guy gave it to her?”

“Guy,” Charlie reminded me, “is dead.”

I was delighted by the amount of interest the press and public were beginning to take in the sale. Another good omen was that several of the leading art critics and collectors were spotted during the preview week studying the pictures on display in the main gallery.

Articles about Charlie and me began to appear, first in the financial sections, then spreading over to the feature pages. I didn’t care much for the sound of “The Triumphant Trumpers,” as one paper had dubbed us, but Tim Newman explained to us the importance of public relations when trying to raise large sums of money. As feature after feature appeared in newspapers and magazines, our new young director became daily more confident that the flotation was going to be a success.

Francis Lawson and his new assistant Cathy Ross worked on the auction catalogue for several weeks, painstakingly going over the history of each painting, its previous owners and the galleries and exhibitions in which each had been exhibited before they were offered to Trumper’s for auction. To our surprise, what went down particularly well with the public was not the paintings themselves but our catalogue, the first with every plate in color. It cost a fortune to produce, but as we had to order two reprints before the day of the sale and we sold every catalogue at five shillings a time, it wasn’t long before we recovered our costs. I was able to inform the board at our monthly meeting that following two more reprints we had actually ended up making a small profit. “Perhaps you should close the art gallery and open a publishing house,” was Charlie’s helpful comment.

The new auction room at Number 1 held two hundred and twenty comfortably. We had never managed to fill every seat in the past, but now, as applications for tickets kept arriving by every post, we quickly had to sort out the genuine bidders from the hangers—on.

Despite cutting, pruning, being offhand and even downright rude to one or two persistent individuals, we still ended up with nearly three hundred people who expected to be found seats. Several journalists were among them, but our biggest coup came when the arts editor of the “Third Programme” phoned to inquire if they could cover the auction on radio.

Charlie arrived back from America two days before the sale and told me in the brief moments we had together that the trip had proved most satisfactory—whatever that meant. He added that Daphne would be accompanying him to the auction—“Got to keep the major clients happy.” I didn’t mention the fact that I had quite forgotten to allocate him a seat, but Simon Matthews, who had recently been appointed as my deputy, squeezed a couple of extra chairs on the end of the seventh row and prayed that no one from the fire department would be among the bidders.

We decided to hold the sale at three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, after Tim Newman advised us that timing was all important if we were to ensure the maximum coverage in the national papers the following day.

Simon and I were up all night before the auction with the saleroom staff, removing the pictures from the walls and placing them in the correct order ready for sale. Next we checked the lighting of the easel which would display each painting and finally placed the chairs in the auction room as close together as possible. By pulling the stand from which Simon would conduct the auction back by a few feet we were even able to add another row. It may have left less room for the spotters—who always stand by the side of the auctioneer during a sale searching for the bidders—but it certainly solved fourteen other problems.

On the morning of the auction we carried out a dress rehearsal, the porters placing each picture on the easel as Simon called the lot number, then removing it once he had brought the hammer down and called for the next lot. When eventually the Canaletto was lifted up onto the easel, the painting displayed all the polished technique and minute observation which had been the hallmark of the master. I could only smile when a moment later the masterpiece was replaced by Charlie’s little picture of the Virgin Mary and Child. Despite considerable research, Cathy Ross had been quite unable to trace its antecedents, so we had merely reframed the painting and attributed it in the catalogue as sixteenth-century school. I marked it up in my book at an estimated two hundred guineas, although I was fully aware that Charlie intended to buy back the little picture whatever the price. It still worried me how Kitty had got hold of the oil, but Charlie told me continually to “stop fussing.” He had bigger problems on his mind than how his sister had come into possession of Tommy’s gift.

On the afternoon of the auction some people were already in their seats by two-fifteen. I spotted more than one major buyer or gallery owner who had not previously encountered a packed house at Trumper’s and consequently had to stand at the back.

By two forty-five there were only a few seats left, and latecomers were already crammed shoulder to shoulder down the side walls, with one or two even perched on their haunches in the center aisle. At two fifty-five Daphne made a splendid entrance, wearing a finely tailored cashmere suit of midnight-blue which I had seen featured in Vogue the previous month. Charlie, whom I felt looked a little tired, followed only a pace behind. They took their seats on the end of the seventh row for sentimental reasons he had explained. Daphne appeared very satisfied with herself while Charlie fidgeted impatiently.

At exactly three o’clock I took my place next to the auctioneer’s stand while Simon climbed the steps to his little box, paused for a moment as he scrutinized the crowd to work out where the major buyers were seated, then banged his gavel several times.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Welcome to Trumper’s, the fine art auctioneers.” He managed somehow to emphasi