‘Depends how much it goes for,’ said William. Inspector Cole looked puzzled. ‘Sorry,’ said William, snapping back into the present. ‘My mind was somewhere else.’
Booth Watson ordered a glass of Courvoisier VSOP.
He checked his watch: 6.37. The first lot was due to come under the hammer at seven o’clock. He knew exactly how long it would take to walk from the Ritz to Christie’s, and as the Raphael was lot twenty-five, he wasn’t in any hurry.
‘Your cognac, sir.’
Beth began to pace around her office like a caged tiger. At seven o’clock she locked the door to make sure she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Tim Knox had dropped by earlier in the afternoon to confirm that the trustees had agreed she could bid up to two million pounds for the Raphael. However, they hoped she’d get it for less, and their million wouldn’t be required. She checked her watch and poured herself yet another black coffee as she waited for the phone to ring.
The man from Christie’s had rung just before midday to brief her. ‘I’ll call you on this number when the auctioneer reaches lot twenty,’ he’d said. ‘That will give you more than enough time to prepare. Mr Pylkkänen has told me he’ll open the bidding at £500,000. I’ll keep you informed about the progress of the sale, and you can tell me when you want to join in the bidding. But more important, be sure to let me know when you’ve reached your limit. If yours is the closing bid, you’ll have fourteen days to complete the purchase, and after you’ve done so we’ll deliver the painting to the museum.’
‘When should I expect your call?’ asked Beth.
‘A little after seven thirty. It might be wise to put me on speaker phone. I’ve known customers to drop their handset during the bidding, and one accidentally cut himself off and didn’t get back in time to make the closing bid. Good luck,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of a better home than the Fitzmolean for the Madonna di Cesare.’
Beth recalled the last person who had said that.
Booth Watson drained his balloon of vintage brandy, considered ordering a second but thought better of it, and called for the bill. He wrote out a cheque and added a handsome tip on behalf of his client.
He had walked the short distance from the Ritz to Christie’s a few days before — nine minutes — to attend a rare stamp auction, conducted by the same auctioneer who would be on the podium this evening.
He entered the saleroom at 7.42, and took his reserved seat, which he’d selected after some considerable thought. Three rows from the back on the left-hand side. He’d even practised raising his paddle just high enough for the auctioneer to spot him without anyone in front of him having any idea who was bidding.
When the phone on her desk rang, Beth grabbed it as if it were a lifeline.
‘We’ve reached lot twenty, Mrs Warwick,’ said the Christie’s rep. ‘Can you hear me clearly?’
‘Yes,’ said Beth, before pressing the hands-free button and replacing the receiver. She could hear a voice in the background saying, ‘Sold for forty-two thousand pounds,’ followed by the thud of a hammer coming down.
She turned to the next page of her catalogue and was checking lot twenty-one, just as William entered the saleroom.
Not unlike the opening night of a West End show, was William’s first thought. Every seat had been taken long before the curtain went up. He tucked himself in behind a group of chattering dealers, from where he had a clear view of the auctioneer, while remaining inconspicuous. He scanned the room, but failed to spot anyone he recognized. It didn’t help that he was looking at the backs of most of their heads, while he couldn’t see some of those seated on the far side of the room.
‘Lot number twenty-one.’
Booth Watson studied his catalogue. A still life by Pieter Claesz failed to reach its reserve price, and the auctioneer brought his hammer down with a thud and murmured, ‘Pass,’ to confirm there hadn’t been a successful bidder. That was unlikely to be the fate of the Raphael, which the press had dubbed the star attraction of the autumn sales.
‘Lot twenty-two,’ declared the auctioneer, sounding more hopeful. ‘A drawing of Antwerp Cathedral by Peter Paul Rubens. I have an opening bid at the table of twenty thousand pounds. Do I see twenty-two?’ He did, and the drawing eventually sold for £33,000, just below its high estimate.
Beth didn’t need to check her pulse to be aware that every time the hammer came down, it rose another few beats.
‘Lot twenty-three. A self-portrait by Frans Hals, oil on panel. I’ll open the bidding at fifty thousand pounds.’
William continued to concentrate on the bidders. A woman in the third row raised her paddle. Her bid was followed by an anonymous phone bidder whose representative stood behind a long table on a raised platform on the right-hand side of the room. His hand was cupped over the receiver so that only his client could hear what he was saying.
William looked closely at the dozen or so gallery assistants who were waiting on the phones for the lot they had been entrusted with by their anonymous clients. He wondered which of them was on the line to Beth.
‘One hundred and twenty-five thousand,’ said the auctioneer, as another bidder raised his paddle.
‘Sold!’
‘It can’t be too much longer,’ said Christina, as the cat leapt onto her lap and settled down.
‘Booth Watson will phone the moment the painting’s been sold,’ said Miles.
‘You don’t seem at all nervous,’ she said, looking across at a husband she couldn’t afford to divorce.
‘Why should I be? BW will get hold of it whatever the hammer price.’
‘Even if it goes for more than a million?’
‘No reason it should sell for more than the high estimate,’ said Miles, matter-of-factly.
Christina continued to stroke the cat, which began to purr contentedly.
‘The auctioneer has just opened the bidding for lot twenty-four,’ said the voice over the phone. ‘It shouldn’t be long now. Are you ready, madam?’
More than ready, Beth wanted to tell him, but satisfied herself with, ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Sold for ninety thousand pounds,’ she heard in the background. There followed what felt like an interminable pause, before she finally heard the words, ‘Lot number twenty-five, Raphael’s Madonna di Cesare.’
There was an outbreak of excited chattering in the saleroom as the masterpiece was placed on an easel in front of the podium, for all to see. The auctioneer waited until he had complete silence, which made Beth even more nervous.
‘I have an opening bid of five hundred thousand pounds. Do I see six hundred thousand?’
‘Do you wish to bid, madam?’ asked the voice over the phone.
‘Yes,’ replied Beth firmly.
‘I have six hundred thousand on the phone,’ said the auctioneer, turning to his left.
Booth Watson looked across at the line of assistants standing patiently on the right-hand side of the room. Only one of them had a hand cupped over the receiver of his phone, whispering to his client. He knew exactly who was on the other end of the line.
‘I’m looking for seven hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer. He didn’t have to wait long for Booth Watson to raise his paddle.
‘Seven hundred thousand has been bid by a gentleman seated near the back of the room,’ said the voice over the phone. ‘Will you go to eight hundred thousand, madam?’
‘Yes,’ said Beth without hesitation.
William also knew who was on the other end of the line, but he wasn’t able to see who was bidding against her. He couldn’t risk taking a step forward for fear of being spotted.