We settled that after argument. Two new lads had come to help Duncan, relatives of relatives. One was a motor mechanic, the other a school-leaver. That gave me the idea.
Motors mean metal, which means brass rails, which with old stair wood means running sideboards.
“Make a pair of running sideboards. They’re straight in period, Duncan. All it is, three shelves each with a brass rail surround, on a vertical support at each end. Put it on wooden feet instead of casters, French polish to show it’s original, and it’ll look straight 1830.”
Grumbling, I did a quick sketch. Sometimes I think it’d be quicker to do every frigging thing myself. “Finish all three of these by seven-ish, then I can age them sharpish.”
“All this haste’s not my usual behavior,” Duncan said.
“Times,” I said irritably, “are changing at Tachnadray.”
Honestly. You sweat blood trying to rescue people, and what thanks do you get?
Michelle’s first lesson in the perils of auctioneering. Explaining an auction’s difficult enough. Explaining a crooked one to an unsullied soul like Michelle was nearly impossible. We were in the Great Hall.
“Auctioneers speak distinctly, slowly, in this country, love. It’s in America they talk speedy gibberish.”
For the purpose I was the auctioneer, she the tallygirl with piles of paper. She listened so solemnly I started smiling. Older women are such good company.
“There’s a word we use: stream. Always keep a catalog in front of you clipped open, no matter what. The cards from which you compiled the catalog are in your desk. Those two, the catalog and cards, are your stream. Right?”
“Maybe I should have the cards on my desk,” she mused.
“You think so?” Casually I leaned my elbow over so one card pile fell to the floor. “See?
A customer could accidentally do that, and steal a few cards while pretending to help as you picked them up. Then he’d know what we paid.”
“But that’s unfair!” she flamed.
“Look, Michelle.” I knelt to recover the scattered cards. “The people coming are all sorts. Some’ll be ordinary folk who’ve struggled to get a day off from the factory.
Others will come in private planes. But they’ll all share one terrible, grim attribute: They will do anything for what we’ve got. They’ll beg, bribe, steal.” God give me strength and protect me from innocence. I rose, dusted my knees. “Cards,” I reminded her, “in the desk. Catalog on top.”
“Now I’m a customer.” I swaggered up. She got herself settled, penciled a note. “I ask, Where’ll the stream be at twelve-thirty, missus?”
She thought. “You’re asking what lot number the auction will have reached by then?”
“Well done.”
“But how do we actually sell things?”
“Say I’m the auctioneer. Tallygirl’s on the left, always, except in Sotheby’s book sales, where they know no better. Not real gentlemen, see.” I chuckled at the old trade slight.
“I call out, Lot Fifty-One, Nailsea-type Glass Handbell—”
“No. Fifty-One is a gentleman’s Wedgwood 1790 stock pin, blue-dip jasper with a George Stubbs horse in white relief—”
“Michelle,” I said, broken. “I’m pretending.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“The auctioneer calls out the catalog number, Lot Whatever, and then says, ‘Who’ll start me off?’ or something. The bids commence, and finally Trembler calls, ‘Going, going, gone!’ or, ‘Once, twice, gone!’ depending on how he feels. Once he bangs a hammer, that’s it. He’ll also say a name—Smith of Birmingham, say. It’s your job to instantly write out a call chit. It’s the bill, really. Lot Fifty-One, two hundred quid, Smith. So you get that chit across to Mr. Smith quick as a flash. That entitles Smith to pay Mrs.
Moncreiffe. Her only job is to accept payment, stamp the call chit ‘Paid in Full,’ and tick her list.”
“Must I provide Mr. Trembler with a hammer?”
“No, love. Auctioneers always have their own. Trembler’s isn’t a real gavel. It’s only a decorated wooden reel his sister’s lad made him.”
“How sweet.” She smiled, scribbling like the clappers.
Apologetically I cleared my throat for the difficult bit. “Er, now, Michelle, love. There’s a few rules.”
“Never issue a call chit unless I’m sure?” she offered knowingly.
“Eh? Oh, yes. Good, good.” This was going to be more difficult than I’d supposed.
“Ahm, sometimes, love, you might not actually hear some of the bids. If so, you mustn’t mention it. Trembler will see them, because…” I tried to find concealing words. Because he’d be making them up, “taking bids off the wall.” “Because, he’s had special training, see? Bidders have secret signs arranged with Trembler beforehand. It’s silly, but that’s how they like doing it. They’re all rivals.”
I ahemmed again. “And there’s another thing. There’ll be two telephones against the windows. People will be telephoning bids in for particular lots. The, er, assistants bidding from the phones are treated as genuine—er, sorry, I meant as if bidders were genuinely here.”
“Telephonists to receive call chits,” Michelle mouthed, pencil flying.
“I’ll draft call chits with you when Trembler arrives. One last thing, love. Never, never contradict Trembler. Never look doubtful. Never interrupt.”
“What if I think he’s made a mistake?”
I took her face in my hands. “Especially not then, love.”
She moved back, looking. “All this is honest, isn’t it?”
“Michelle,” I said, offended. “Trembler’s a fellow of a Royal Institute. We’ve already certified that Sotheby’s and Christie’s rules govern every lot. We’ve certified compliance with Parliament’s published statutes.” I gave a bitter laugh, almost overdoing it. “If our auction isn’t legal, it won’t be for want of trying.”
Michelle stood to embrace me, misty. “I didn’t mean anything, really I didn’t.”
“Am I interrupting?” Shona, silhouetted in the door light.
“Sealing a bargain.” I thought I was so smooth.
“A … gentleman’s just arrived in Dubneath, calling himself Cheviot Yale. He told Mary he’s for Tachnadray. He’s just waiting, saying nothing.” She was still being accusing.
“His name sounds made up. Is it?”
“No.” I’d not felt so happy for a long time. “That’s the name he was born with. People call him Trembler.”
No way of stopping it now.
The Caithness National Bank manager was delighted with us. A big-eared man with a harf-harf laugh he made political use of during Trembler’s curt exposition. Trembler was doing the con with his Episcopalean voice, always a winner.
“In requesting a separate account,” he intoned, “I don’t wish to impute criticism of the Mistress of Tachnadray.”
“Of course not, sir.” On the desk lay Trembler’s personal card and personal bank-account number at the august Glyn Mills of Whitehall, London. Even when starving, Trembler keeps that precious account in credit. It doesn’t have much in it, but the reputation of an eight-year solvency in Whitehall is worth its weight in gold. Trembler gave a cadaverous smile straight out of midwinter.
“In my profession,” he said grimly, “it falls to me sadly to participate in the demise of reputations of many noble families. Normally, it would be regarded as natural to use the lady’s own account. But international collectors and dealers from London…” Trembler tutted. The banker shook his head at the notion of wicked money-grabbers. “… are of a certain disposition. They demand,” Trembler chanted reproachfully, “financial immediacy. The young Mistress’s authority would carry little weight.”
“Sad. Very sad.” The banker’s portly frame swelled, exhaled a sigh of sympathy.
“Mr. McGunn here tried to persuade me to agree for the auction sale to be administered via the Tachnadray account in Dubneath.” Trembler paused for the manager to shoot me a glance of hatred. I smiled weakly. “I insisted on coming here. Tomorrow morning, first thing, a number of small sums will be paid into the new account.”