Bland Beginning (3 page)

Three months later Anthony came down late to breakfast, and noticed with some irritation that his father had
The Times
open at the cricket page. Anthony turned to the sports page of the
Daily Mail.
Not only was Southshire doing badly, but the report of the day’s play was quite inadequate. He sipped his tea, and then rang the bell with unnecessary violence. “Janet,” he said, “this tea’s cold.”

Janet was a tall, thin woman with a drooping nose. “If you’d come down at the right time it would have been hot enough,” she said. “Ten o’clock’s no time for breakfast, is it, Mr Shelton?”

Anthony’s father lowered his
Times
a little. “Don’t be severe, Janet. My son is much disturbed by the political situation.”

“I should think so too,” said Janet. “With this Labour Government ready to murder people in their beds.”

“Last night the Government was saved from defeat by the Liberals,” said Mr Shelton. “A fact that I am sure you deplore as much as I do.”

Janet had her hand on the teapot. “And the tea’s not cold,” she said accusingly.

“Nevertheless, you heard Mr Anthony say that he would like to have a fresh pot.” His smile robbed the words of sting. When she had gone out of the room there was silence while the old man and the young man read their papers. Then Mr Shelton said, “A bad start for Southshire. Beaten by Worcester in their first match, and now Leicestershire have scored four hundred and twenty for five against them.” Anthony stuffed scrambled egg into his mouth and made no reply. “Your absence is lamented in
The Times
report. Listen. ‘Astill and King scored very freely and treated Travers, MacNaughton, and the other Southshire bowlers with a contempt which, we are bound to say, they deserved. It is clear that the county will sadly miss Mr A W Shelton, the talented University fast-medium bowler, who will not be giving the team his support this season.”

Janet brought in some more tea. Anthony fidgeted with a roll. His face was red. “Why do you try to make me look a fool?” he said suddenly. “You know very well I’m not interested in politics.”

The Times came down with a rustle.
“Why do you act like one? You know perfectly well that you’re itching to play for Southshire. Why don’t you?”

“Because I don’t choose to.”

“Very well.” Mr Shelton had regained his customary urbanity. “I am sorry that I was mistaken about your interest in politics. It seemed to me likely that your new-found enthusiasm for art and letters might have extended to other spheres.”

Anthony was always at a disadvantage in discussion with his father, and to avoid argument he turned to the three envelopes that lay beside his plate. They were all franked with penny stamps, and on many days he would not have troubled to open them. Today he did so; and set in train a line of events that led to murder. One of the envelopes contained an offer to lend money on note of hand alone; another was a bill from a garage; the third was a catalogue of a book sale at Messrs Bernard Lintot, Booksellers, of Clark Street, W1 Conscious of his father’s eye upon him, Anthony turned the pages with a pretence of interest he did not feel, until suddenly his eye was caught by a name and an item:

“RAWLINGS, MARTIN.
Passion and Repentance.
Letts and Ableton, 1860.

“The rare first edition, seen through the press by the author, and never publicly distributed. An exceptionally fine copy, in the original parchment boards.”

Anthony pondered for a moment, eating his scrambled egg. Then he looked up, his face brighter than it had been for a week. “I say, Dad, you know a lot about first editions, and all that, don’t you?”

“Well?”

“What would a first edition of old Martin Rawlings’
Passion and Repentance
be worth?”

“A first edition?” His father’s eyebrows were arched. “Let me see the catalogue.” He looked at it and said, “It might be worth sixty pounds, or perhaps a little more. There aren’t many copies in existence, and they rarely come up for sale. You know the history of
Passion and Repentance,
I suppose?” His eyes were amused under the arched brows.

“Well –” Anthony said slowly, and his father laughed.

“You should know about it. After all, old Martin was your fiancée’s grandfather – a fact of which both you and she are prone to remind me. You know that it was rather indiscreet by Victorian standards?”

Anthony nodded his head like a mandarin. “I’ve read what it says in the
Biographical Dictionary
.”

“The story is that Martin Rawlings wrote the poem in 1860, and published it in this little private edition. Then eight years later he decided to risk the scandal of open publication, and within a few weeks the book made him famous.”

“What’s so scandalous about the poems?” Anthony asked.

“Why don’t you read them and find out?” his father suggested, and rose to leave the breakfast table. Then he turned back, and said, “Why do you want to know their value?”

His son blushed. “Well, as a matter of fact, you know Vicky didn’t want an engagement ring and said she wanted something original. I thought, you see, that as she said the other day she hadn’t got a copy of the first edition of this book, she might like –”

“I see.” The lines of Mr Shelton’s brown face might, for a moment, have been carved out of wood. Then he smiled and said, “You might go up to seventy. After all, it will be a kind of family investment.”

It was not until his father had left the house that it occurred to Anthony to wonder why a bookseller’s catalogue should have been sent to him. He looked idly at the envelope, and saw that in fact it was addressed to
R W Shelton, Esq.
The letter R, carelessly written, had been interpreted by Janet as an A. His father’s name was Richard William and the catalogue had, in fact, been meant for him.

The Bentley drew up with enviable smoothness outside Messrs Lintot’s door. Inside, Anthony felt himself to be a rather conspicuous figure in his check jacket, yellow scarf and thick brown shoes. These seemed, somehow, not to be the appropriate wear for a book sale. He held the catalogue firmly in his hand and looked round with a certain bewilderment.

The atmosphere did not seem to him that of a book sale. Some twenty men, and three or four women, were sitting round a long baize-topped table. Some of the men seemed to be asleep, while others indicated their attention only by the slightest movement of their catalogues. Other men were standing round the large room, three walls of which were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and these men too seemed apathetic. Some of them, indeed, were apparently so little interested that they had turned round and were looking at the books on the shelves.

Anthony had been in the room a minute or two before he realised that the sale was in progress. Then the auctioneer, a thin man with a badly-fitting brown wig which did not match his grey moustache, murmured “Lot Number…” and his voice faded so much that Anthony could not hear the number. He tapped the shoulder of a small man standing on his left, who was wearing a bowler hat, a very tight blue suit with a red line in it, and a startling tie decorated with blue and yellow stripes. Like Anthony, this man clutched a catalogue tightly in one hand. When he turned round the man revealed a very red face which, although the room was not hot, shone with perspiration. “Whatcher want?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon,” Anthony said. “Could you tell me which lot they are selling?”

“No idea, chum,” said the man with the red face. As he turned away, Anthony saw that his catalogue was marked in blue with a big cross against Lot 85. And Lot 85 was the first edition of
Passion and Repentance.

Anthony experienced a feeling of mingled annoyance and pleasure. It was disturbing to know that someone else had come to the sale apparently with the express intention of bidding for
Passion and Repentance
, but at the same time the thought of giving a surprise to this rude little man was positively pleasant. But surely the little man could not be a typical frequenter of book sales? While Anthony was pondering this question, a very old man just in front of him, wearing extremely tight trousers and carrying a malacca cane, leaned back and whispered, “We are now at Lot 38. Prices are low.”

“Are they indeed,” said Anthony, much encouraged. What a fine stroke if he could tell his father that he had bought this first edition for much less than the sixty or seventy pounds he had mentioned.

“It is a buyers’ market,” whispered the old man. “A first edition of
Liza of Lambeth
has just sold for fifteen pounds.” Anthony nodded uncomfortably. He had not the least idea whether this figure was low or high.

For the next few minutes he concentrated on watching the procedure of the sale. It was not really hard to follow. First of all, the auctioneer announced the lot by number, then the lot itself or a sample of it was passed round very quickly by an attendant for inspection, and then it was sold. The apathy of the bidders seemed to be simply a technique by which they tried to avoid notice. The lots were disposed of at great speed, very few of them taking more than a minute. Anthony noticed that a shrewd-looking young man seated at the table bought several of them, and he noticed also that the man in the blue suit did not bid at all. Just as he was wondering who the shrewd-looking young man was, the old man with tight trousers leaned towards him again and said, “That’s Foskiss. Buys everything for the ring. Doesn’t give the small men a chance.”

Anthony nodded again, without any idea what the old man meant. Bidding started for a collected edition of Henry James in the Washington Square edition and Anthony, who had no wish to possess the works of Henry James, felt an irresistible desire to bid.

“Four,” murmured the auctioneer. “Four-five, four-ten. Any advance on four-ten?”

“Five,” said Anthony with a boldness that took his own breath away, and caused half the people in the room to turn round and look at him. The auctioneer settled his wig more firmly, and the young man at the table looked up from his catalogue, on which he had been drawing elaborate arabesques. He stared hard at Anthony, and then nodded.

“Guineas,” said the auctioneer happily. “Five guineas against you, sir.”

“Six,” said Anthony, staring defiantly round the room. The young man nodded. “Guineas,” said the auctioneer.

“Seven,” said Anthony, directing his gaze this time straight at the shrewd-looking young man, who ignored him and nodded again. At ten pounds, however, the young man shrugged, murmured something to the man sitting next to him and made no further movement.

“Made you pay through the nose for it,” said the old man with enjoyment. “He’s smart, is young Foskiss.” He blew his nose loudly.

By the time he had given his name and address to the auctioneer’s clerk, Anthony was feeling less triumphant. Whatever could he do with all those books? He suddenly cheered up as he reflected that he could, of course, present them to his father. What a surprise that would give him! He had returned to his place and fallen into a kind of daydream when he suddenly heard the auctioneer say “Lot 85.” A moment later the lot was being displayed. It was carried round like a precious relic, and was revealed as a small volume with a slightly faded blue cover.

“Lot 85,” the auctioneer repeated without emotion. “What am I offered? Thirty-five, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, forty. Thank you. Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-five. Any advance on forty-five?” The shrewd-looking young man raised his catalogue. “Forty-seven. Thank you, Mr Foskiss. Forty-eight, fifty. Fifty pounds offered.” The auctioneer paused.

When should he start bidding? Anthony seemed to have heard somewhere that it was wise to delay your bid as long as possible – it had a good psychological effect. On the other hand, it would be an awful thing if the lot was knocked down suddenly to the unpleasant Foskiss. While his mind was still in this state of indecision Anthony heard himself say “Fifty-two.”

Foskiss raised his catalogue. “Fifty-three.”

“Fifty-five.”

Foskiss now spoke for the first time. “Sixty,” he said.

A five-pound raise! But that was a game that two could play. Feeling as if he were sending down a really fast one to a batsman who had just driven him for four, Anthony said, “Sixty-five.” He looked hard at Foskiss, who was creasing his catalogue pensively. A hoarse voice just beside Anthony said “Seventy.” It was the little man in the blue suit and the bowler hat. Anthony had forgotten all about him, and his marking the lot with a cross. Now the little man’s head was jutting forward, and he looked both comic and menacing.

“Seventy-one,” said Foskiss.

“Seventy-five,” said the man in the blue suit.

“Seventy-six.”

In a voice that hoarseness made almost inaudible, the man in the blue suit said, “Eighty.” The auctioneer looked expectantly at Foskiss, who shook his head sharply. His face was pink with annoyance. This was the time, Anthony thought, to strike a decisive blow. “Eighty-five,” he said. There was a murmur of interest in the room and the old man by Anthony’s side sucked in his breath with shocked surprise. The man in the blue suit stuck his head a little further forward and said, “Ninety.”

“Ninety-five,” said Anthony. He was perfectly cool, he assured himself. It was true that he was far beyond the price his father had mentioned, but surely the fact that this other man was bidding showed that the book must be worth the money? Again the auctioneer settled his wig. He seemed quite bewildered by the turn of events. “Any adv –”

“A ’undred,” said the little man. He took off his bowler hat to wipe his forehead, and revealed a bald red head.

“A hundred pounds,” breathed the auctioneer. “Any advance on a hundred pounds?”

“Guineas,” Anthony said. He had a curious feeling in his knees.

“Guineas,” said the auctioneer. He was now again in control of himself and events. He gave a grey smile to the man in the blue suit and said, “Any advance?” The man jammed his hat back on his head, folded his arms and glared at Anthony.