Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(86)

CHAPTER 31





‘LOT NUMBER TWENTY-ONE, THE MAX Ernst,’ said the auctioneer. ‘I have an opening bid of seven thousand pounds. Eight thousand,’ he announced after turning his attention to the other side of the room. ‘Do I see nine thousand?’ he asked, to be greeted with a nod. ‘Ten thousand?’ he suggested to the former bidder, but received no response. He brought the hammer down with a thud, ‘Sold, for nine thousand pounds.’

‘So how much profit did we make on that one?’ asked Christina.

‘I originally paid eight thousand for it,’ said Beth, ‘but after Christie’s have deducted the seller’s premium, we’ll be lucky to break even.’

‘How unlike you.’

‘Everybody loses sometime. The trick is not to make a habit of it.’

‘Are you thinking of buying anything else today?’

‘There’s a Graham Sutherland watercolour of Coventry Cathedral that I’m interested in. Lot twenty-seven. But on this occasion, I’ll be representing a client.’

‘Why don’t they bid for themselves?’

‘Whenever this particular client attends an auction, she gets carried away. So she tells me her upper limit and then I bid on her behalf.’

‘How much do you charge for your services?’

‘Five per cent of the hammer price.’

‘Lot twenty-seven,’ proclaimed the auctioneer. ‘The Graham Sutherland. I have an opening bid of six thousand pounds. Do I see seven?’

Beth raised her paddle high in the air. ‘Thank you, madam. Eight thousand?’ He received an immediate response from a telephone bidder. ‘Do I see nine?’ Once again, Beth raised her paddle.

‘Ten thousand?’ asked the auctioneer, and back came her rival. ‘Eleven thousand?’ He smiled hopefully at Beth, who shook her head, as it was above her agreed limit. ‘Sold, for ten thousand pounds,’ declared the auctioneer as he wrote down the paddle number of the phone bidder.

Beth’s heart was still thumping, and she wondered how many years it would be before it didn’t do so whenever she was bidding. She hoped it never would.

‘That won’t pay for lunch,’ said Christina. ‘Are we going to be given another chance of getting our money back?’

‘Possibly. But Lot thirty-four is the only one I’m still interested in.’

Christina flicked through the pages of her catalogue until she came to a painting of a woman lying in a field of corn, by Andrew Wyeth. ‘I like it,’ she whispered.

‘Did I hear you correctly?’ asked Beth.

‘You did. It reminds me of a Pissarro Miles now has after I foolishly parted with my half of his collection. If he hadn’t stolen all my money,’ she said wistfully, ‘I’d buy the Wyeth and start my own collection.’

Words Beth thought she’d never hear, but then Christina never failed to surprise her.

‘Why are you so keen on this particular painting?’ Christina asked.

‘Wyeth’s an American artist, and has a devoted following in the States, particularly in Pennsylvania, where he was born. If I can get hold of it, I’ll put it back on the market with Freeman’s, the leading auction house in the state.’

‘Cunning,’ said Christina. ‘Unless of course there are any Americans sitting in the room.’

‘We’re about to find out,’ said Beth as the auctioneer announced, ‘Lot thirty-four, the Andrew Wyeth. What am I bid?’

‘Will you—’

‘Shush!’ said Beth.

‘I’m looking for an opening bid of five thousand pounds. Five thousand?’ he repeated, several times.

‘Why aren’t you bidding?’ asked Christina.

‘Shush,’ repeated Beth.

‘Do I see four thousand?’ he asked, trying not to sound desperate. Just when it looked as if he would have to call the lot in, Beth slowly raised her paddle. Her heart was at it again, and it only started to return to normal when the auctioneer’s hammer eventually came down and he said, ‘Sold, for four thousand pounds to the lady seated on the aisle.’ Beth raised her paddle a second time so that the auctioneer could record her paddle number on his sales sheet.

‘That’s it for today,’ said Beth, getting up from her place. As she and Christina were making their way out of the sales room, a man rushed past them and grabbed her seat. ‘A good morning’s work,’ declared Beth, before walking across to the sales counter and writing out a cheque for ￡4,400.

‘So if you sell it for anything over four thousand four hundred, we’ll make a profit,’ said Christina as they stepped out onto Bond Street.

‘I wish,’ said Beth. ‘We first have to cover the packing costs, shipping and insurance, not to mention the American auctioneer’s seller’s premium. Five thousand would be nearer the mark before we can even start thinking about a profit.’

They had only walked a few more yards when they heard a voice behind them shouting, ‘Mrs Warwick?’

Beth turned to see the man who had seemed in such a hurry when he’d passed them in the aisle. He came to a halt, and caught his breath before saying in a broad American accent, ‘I got held up at a board meeting. I’d intended to bid for the Wyeth, and wondered, if you’re a dealer, would you consider selling it to me? I’d be willing to pay five thousand.’