As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  It was a cold Monday morning in May, and I may not have been at my brightest but I could have sworn I recognized the customer who was in deep conversation with one of our new counter assistants. It worried me that I couldn’t quite place the middle-aged lady who was wearing a coat that would have been fashionable in the thirties and looked as if she had fallen on hard times and might be having to sell off one of the family heirlooms.

  Once she had left the building I walked over to the desk and asked Cathy, our most recent recruit, who she was.

  “A Mrs. Bennett,” said the young girl behind the counter. The name meant nothing to me so I asked what she had wanted.

  Cathy handed me a small oil painting of the Virgin Mary and Child. “The lady asked if this could still be considered for the Italian sale. She knew nothing of its provenance, and looking at her I have to say I wondered if it might have been stolen. I was about to have a word with Mr. Lawson.”

  I stared at the little oil and immediately realized it had been Charlie’s youngest sister who had brought the painting in.

  “Leave this one to me.”

  “Certainly, Lady Trumper.”

  I took the lift to the top floor and walked straight past Jessica Allen and on into Charlie’s office. I handed over the picture for him to study and quickly explained how it had come into our possession.

  He pushed the paperwork on his desk to one side and stared at the painting for some time without saying a word.

  “Well, one thing’s for certain,” Charlie eventually offered, “Kitty is never going to tell us how or where she got hold of it, otherwise she would have come to me direct.”

  “So what shall we do?”

  “Put it in the sale as she instructed, because you can be sure that no one is going to bid more for the picture than I will.”

  “But if all she’s after is some cash, why not make her a fair offer for the picture?”

  “If all Kitty is after was some cash, she would be standing in this office now. No, she would like nothing better than to see me crawling to her for a change.”

  “But if she stole the painting?”

  “From whom? And even if she did there’s nothing to stop us stating the original provenance in our catalogue. After all, the police must still have all the details of the theft on their files.”

  “But what if Guy gave it to her?”

  “Guy,” Charlie reminded me, “is dead.”

  I was delighted by the amount of interest the press and public were beginning to take in the sale. Another good omen was that several of the leading art critics and collectors were spotted during the preview week studying the pictures on display in the main gallery.

  Articles about Charlie and me began to appear, first in the financial sections, then spreading over to the feature pages. I didn’t care much for the sound of “The Triumphant Trumpers,” as one paper had dubbed us, but Tim Newman explained to us the importance of public relations when trying to raise large sums of money. As feature after feature appeared in newspapers and magazines, our new young director became daily more confident that the flotation was going to be a success.

  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 emphasi
ze “the” 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 forty-seven 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 thousand?” 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 catalogue, 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 T
elegraph, 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.

  The Telegraph correspondent rang my office the day the interview appeared and informed me that his paper intended to fly the distinguished cleric over at their expense so that he could study the painting firsthand and thus establish its provenance beyond doubt. Our legal advisers warned us that we would be unwise not to allow the bishop to view the painting; to deny him access would be tantamount to acknowledging we were trying to hide something. Charlie agreed without hesitation and simply added, “Let the man see the picture. I’m confident that Tommy left that church with nothing other than a German officer’s helmet.”

  The next day, in the privacy of his office, Tim Newman warned us that if the Bishop of Reims identified the picture as the original Bronzino, then the launch of Trumper’s as a public company would have to be held up for at least a year, while the auction house might never recover from such a scandal.

  The following Thursday the Bishop of Reims flew into London, to be greeted by a bank of photographers whose flashbulbs popped again and again before the monsignor was driven off to Westminster, where he was staying as a guest of the archbishop.

  The bishop had agreed to visit the gallery at four the same afternoon, and anyone walking through Chelsea Terrace that Thursday might have been forgiven for thinking Frank Sinatra was about to make a personal appearance. A large gathering had formed on the curbside as they waited keenly for the cleric’s arrival.