As the Crow Flies (66 page)

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 emphasize little” in a most agreeable
fashion. As he called for Lot Number 1 a hush came over the room. I checked the
painting in my catalogue although I think I knew the details of all fifty-nine
lots by heart. It was a depiction of St. Francis of Assisi by Giovanni Battista
Crespi, dated 1617. I had the little oil marked in our code as QIHH pounds, so
when Simon brought down the hammer at two thousand, two hundred seven hundred
pounds more than I had estimated, I felt we were off to a good start.

Of
the fifty-nine works on sale the Canaletto had been left until Lot Number 37 as
I wanted an atmosphere of excitement to build before the painting reached the
stand, while not leaving it so late that people started to drift away. The
first hour had raised fortyseven thousand pounds and we still had not come to
the Canaletto. When eventually the four-foot-wide canvas was placed in the
glare of the spotlight, a gasp came from those in the audience who were seeing
the masterpiece for the first time.

“A
painting of St. Mark’s Basilica by Canaletto,” said Simon, “dated 1741” as if
we had another half dozen stored away in the basement. “Considerable interest
has been shown in this item and I have an opening bid of ten thousand pounds.”
His eyes scanned the hushed room, as I and my spotters searched to see where
the second bid might come from.

“Fifteen
thousand,” said Simon as he looked towards a representative from the Italian
government who was seated in the fifth row.

“Twenty
thousand pounds at the back of the room” I knew it had to be the representative
from the Mellon Collection. He always sat in the second to back row, a
cigarette dangling from his lips to show us he was still bidding.

“Twenty-five
thousand,” said Simon, turning again towards the Italian government
representative.

“Thirty
thousand.” The cigarette was still emanating smoke: Mellon remained in the
chase.

“Thirty-five
thousand.” I spotted a new bidder, sitting in the fourth row to my right: Mr.
Randall, the manager of the Wildenstein Gallery in Bond Street.

“Forty
thousand,” said Simon as a fresh puff of smoke emanated from the back. We were
past the estimate I had given Daphne, although no emotion showed on her face.

“Do
I hear fifty thousandth,” said Simon. This was far too big a hike at this stage
in my opinion. Looking towards the box, I noticed that Simon’s left hand was
shaking.

“Fifty
thousand,” he repeated a little nervously, when a new bidder in the front row,
whom I didn’t recognize, started nodding furiously.

The
cigarette puffed once again. “Fifty-five thousand.”

“Sixty
thousand.” Simon had turned his attention back in the direction of the unknown
bidder, who confirmed with a sharp nod that he remained in the hunt.

“Sixty-five
thousand.” The Mellon representative still kept puffing away, but when Simon
turned his attention back to the bidder in the front row he received a sharp
shake of the head.

“Sixty-five
thousand then, the bid is at the back of the room. Sixty-five thousand, are
there any more bidders?” Once again Simon looked towards the underbidder in the
front row. “Then I’m offering the Canaletto at sixty-five thousand pounds,
sixty-five thousand pounds for the second time, then it’s sold for sixty-five
thousand pounds.” Simon brought the gavel down with a thud less than two
minutes after the first bid had been offered, and I marked ZIHHH in my
catalogue as a round of applause spontaneously burst from the audience
something I had never experienced before at Number 1.

Noisy
chatter broke out all over the room as Simon turned round to me and said in a
low voice, “Sorry about the mistake, Becky,” and I realized that the jump from
forty to fifty thousand had been nothing more than a bout of auctioneer’s
nerves.

I
began to compose a possible headline in tomorrow’s papers: “Record amount paid
for Canaletto in auction at Trumper’s.” Charlie would be pleased.

“Can’t
see Charlie’s little picture fetching quite that sum,” Simon added with a
smile, as the Virgin Mary and Child replaced the Canaletto on the stand and he
turned to face his audience once again.

“Quiet
please,” he said. “The next item, Lot Number 38 in your catatogue, is from the
school of Bronzino.” He scanned the room. “I have a bid of one hundred and
fifty” he paused for a second “pounds for this lot. Can I ask for one hundred
and seventy-five? Daphne, whom I assumed was Charlie’s plant, raised her hand
and I stifled a smile. “One hundred and seventy-five pounds. Do I see two
hundred?” Simon looked around hopefully but received no response. “Then I’ll
offer it for the first time at one hundred and seventy-five pounds, for the
second time, for the third time then...”

But
before Simon could bring the gavel down a stocky man with a brownish moustache
and graying hair, dressed in a tweed jacket, checked shirt and a yellow tie,
leaped up from the back of the room and shouted, “That painting is not ‘from
the school of,’ it’s an original Bronzino, and it was stolen from the Church of
St. Augustine, near Reims, during the First World War.”

Pandemonium
broke out as people stared first at the man in the yellow tie, then at the
little picture. Simon banged his gavel repeatedly but could not regain control
as the journalists began to scribble furiously across their pads. I glanced
across to see Charlie and Daphne, their heads bowed in frantic conversation.

Once
the outcry had died down, attention began to focus on the man who had made the
claim. He remained standing in his place.

“I
believe you are mistaken, sir,” said Simon firmly. “As I can assure you, this
painting has been known to the gallery for some years.”

“And
I assure you, sir,” replied the man, “the painting is an original, and although
I do not accuse the previous owner of being a thief, I can nevertheless prove
it was stolen.” Several in the audience immediately glanced down at their
catalogues to see the name of the most recent owner. “From the private
collection of Sir Charles Trumper” was printed in bold letters along the top
line.

The
hubbub, if anything, was now even louder, but still the man remained standing.
I leaned forward and tugged Simon’s trouser leg. He bent over and I whispered
my decision in his ear. He banged his gavel several times and at last the
audience began to quiet. I looked across at Charlie who was as white as a
sheet, then at Daphne, who remained quite calm and was holding his hand. As I
believed there had to be a simple explanation to the mystery, I felt curiously
detached. When Simon had finally restored order he announced, “I am advised
that this lot will be withdrawn until further notice.”

“Lot
Number 39,” he added quickly as the man in the brown tweed jacket rose and
hurriedly departed from the room, pursued by a gaggle of journalists.

None
of the remaining twenty-one items reached their reserve prices, and when Simon
brought the gavel down for the final time that afternoon, although we had
broken every house record for an Italian sale, I was only too aware what the
story in the next day’s papers was bound to be. I looked across at Charlie who
was obviously trying his best to appear unruffled. Instinctively I turned
towards the chair which had been occupied by the man in the brown tweed jacket.
The room was beginning to empty as people drifted towards the doors and I
noticed for the first time that directly behind the chair sat an elderly lady
sitting bolt upright, leaning forward, her two hands resting on the head of a
parasol. She was staring directly at me.

Once
Mrs. Trentham was sure she had caught my eye, she rose serenely from her place
and glided slowly out of the gallery.

The
following morning the press had a field day. Despite the fact that neither
Charlie nor I had made any statement our picture was on every front page except
that of The Times alongside a picture of the little oil of the Virgin Mary and
Child. There was hardly a mention of the Canaletto in the first ten paragraphs
of any report and certainly no accompanying photograph.

The
man who made the accusation had apparently disappeared without trace and the
whole episode might have died down if Monsignor Pierre Guichot, the Bishop of
Reims, hadn’t agreed to be interviewed by Freddie Barker, the saleroom
correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, who had uncovered the fact that Guichot
had been the priest at the church where the original picture had hung. The
bishop confirmed to Barker that the painting had indeed mysteriously
disappeared during the Great War and, more important, he had at the time
reported the theft to the appropriate section of the League of Nations responsible
for seeing that, under the Geneva Convention, stolen works of art were returned
to their rightful owners once hostilities had ceased. The bishop went on to say
that of course he would recognize the picture if he ever saw it again the
colors, the brushwork, the serenity of the Virgin’s face; indeed the genius of
Bronzino’s composition would remain clearly in his memory until the day he
died. Barker quoted him word for damning word.