‘Yes.’
‘When was that?’
‘About a fortnight ago.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘I see.’ There was a pause, and I asked him what exactly he had meant, saying she had disappeared.
‘Gone away,’ he said, ‘leaving no address. Most extraordinary. There’s a mortgage on the house, and we’re negotiating with the mortgagors on the basis of your valuation. Obviously she can’t sell the property unless they agree to termination and are satisfied there will be sufficient funds to cover everything as a result of the sale. And now she’s gone. I had written to her twice – there’s no phone there, you see – and when she didn’t reply, I told one of my staff who had to call on a client in Woodbridge yesterday to go on up to Aldeburgh and see her. She didn’t answer the door, and when he enquired of the neighbours, he was told she had left. At least, they had seen her leaving in a taxi with two large suitcases. That was on Saturday, and no forwarding address. He enquired of the neighbours, the local shops, and checked with Aldeburgh Post Office. Milk and paper delivery had been stopped and the bills paid. I thought you might be able to help.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, I haven’t seen her since her father died. That was three or four years ago. You’ve met her recently, and I was wondering whether she’d given you any indication she might be going away – to stay with a relative or friends. She can’t have had an easy time of it these last few years, looking after that brother of hers. He was very badly injured, you know. Now, can you help me at all?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I told him. ‘I was expecting a letter from her myself, and she certainly didn’t say anything about going away.’
‘You talked to her, then?’
‘For a short time, just before I left when she brought me some tea.’ I started to tell him then about the wood carvings and Carlos Holland, but he interrupted me.
‘Yes, but what was her frame of mind? I’m just trying to decide whether I ought to do something about it. I can’t ever remember a client going off suddenly like this without a word when we’re trying to get a mortgage position cleared up. And it was at her request, I may say. But the point is this … well, life hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses for her, first her father, then her brother – I wondered whether you’d been able to form any opinion of her mental state. She’d no relatives in the country, nobody she can turn to, I do know that.’
‘If you’re worried she may be suicidal,’ I said, ‘you can forget it. That was not her mood at all.’ And I added, ‘She’s got another brother, I believe. Why not contact him? Presumably you have his address.’
‘I don’t think that would help. He’s out in the Pacific somewhere.’
‘Had she any money of her own at all, money she could use to fly out there?’
‘I can’t answer that.’ There was a pause, and then the high, crisp voice said, ‘Well, thank you. Thank you very much for your help.’ And he put the phone down.
There were a lot of papers piled on my desk, but it was difficult to concentrate, wondering if I had been justified in declaring so categorically she was not in a suicidal state. Nothing in our conversation had indicated that she had any friends in England, and though she apparently had the money to pay her bills and hire a taxi, that didn’t mean she had enough to do whatever it was she had in mind. And here I was with a bid of £1,500, which I had offered to increase, and no means of contacting her.
And then, just as I was packing up to leave, stuffing Rowlinson’s papers into my briefcase so that I could refresh my memory before he came to see me that evening, the girl in the outer office rang through to say a Mr Berners was on the phone wanting to speak to me personally. I told her to find out what it was about, but she had already done that; all he would say was that a Miss Holland had told him to contact me.
I thought perhaps it was to give me her address, but when he was switched through, it was the stamps he was interested in. He was a dealer, and he had heard from somebody in the trade there was a collection available that included proofs of a stamp he thought might interest a client of his. ‘When I go to see Miss Holland, I find she don’t have the collection any longer. You have it, so now I am asking you what time tomorrow is convenient for me to see it.’
‘When was it you saw Miss Holland?’ I asked.
‘On Thursday. Last Thursday afternoon.’
He had an accent I couldn’t place, and it irritated me. ‘How did you get her address?’
‘From a Mr Keegan who is making some enquiries of me. He made a note of it when he is asked to consider the authenticity of the die proofs. So now, when can I see the proofs please?’
I remembered there had been a label with her name and address on the brown paper she had wrapped the albums in and I had used the same wrapping before putting them in a plastic bag and giving them to Tubby. ‘I am afraid the collection is not available for viewing here.’
‘But you are handling the sale, Mr Slingsby. If it is not with you, where is it please?’
‘It’s being valued. My instructions at the moment do not go beyond obtaining a valuation.’
‘I do not understand. Miss Holland tells me you are handling the sale for her and I must go to you to see the proofs.’
‘I think you misunderstood her.’
‘No, I do not misunderstand her. She said to go and see Mr Slingsby, and she gave me your address in Chelmsford. So, if you are handling the sale, you cannot just tell somebody who is interested to go away. It is your duty to co-operate and make the collection available for anybody to view who wishes.’
‘I don’t need to be told my duty,’ I said sharply. A door slammed down the corridor, and I looked at my watch: rush hour already. ‘If you give me your address, Mr Berners, I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I’ve contacted Miss Holland.’
‘Do you have the valuation yet?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I also have a firm offer which I have passed on …’
‘How much?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’
‘Okay then, the valuation. How much does your dealer friend value it at?’
There was something about the way he said ‘your dealer friend’ that I didn’t like. ‘I think you will have to ask Miss Holland that.’
‘How can I? She is gone abroad, and I am asking you because you are handling the sale.’
‘I am not handling the sale,’ I repeated angrily, irritated beyond measure at his insistence. ‘All I have agreed to do is obtain a valuation.’ By that time his words had registered, and I asked him how he knew she had gone abroad.
‘She tell me, of course. She tell me when she said you would be selling the collection for her. Now, this dealer friend of yours – he has valued the stamps and I take it also made the offer for them. In the circumstances, I think you have to tell me one figure or the other. It would be most unethical for an agent to conceal a professional valuation in order to protect his friend’s bid for a property. Eh, Mr Slingsby? So, now you give me the figure please.’
I was greatly tempted just to slam the phone down, but he was so obviously a trouble-maker it didn’t seem worth it. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘the collection has been valued at one thousand three hundred and twenty pounds.’
‘And the proofs? I am only interested, I think, in the die proofs. I take it he has valued them separately.’
‘Yes, at two hundred and twenty pounds.’
‘Ah yes, of course, two hundred and twenty pounds. How many die proofs are there?’
‘Three, two on one page, one on the other.’
‘Can you describe them for me?’
I did so, and he said, ‘Good. That confirms what I have been told, that these are die proofs of the Solomons Seal. Kindly do not dispose of them until I have had the opportunity to view and put in a bid. I will call at your office in Chelmsford tomorrow afternoon, say, three o’clock. Please have the stam
ps available then.’ And before I could say anything more, he put the phone down.
I sat there for a moment, thinking back over the conversation, still annoyed by his manner and the inferences he had drawn. But for all I knew the valuation might be too low, particularly for the Trinidad ship stamp. I reached for the phone again and dialled Tubby’s number. Fortunately he was at home, and his voice sounded cheerful as he said, ‘She’s accepted, has she? I’m probably paying over the odds, but—’
‘No, she hasn’t accepted,’ I told him. ‘She’s gone off somewhere, leaving no address, and now there’s somebody else showing an interest.’
‘Who?’
‘A man called Berners. A dealer.’
‘I see.’ His cheerfulness had suddenly evaporated. ‘So you want the collection back?’
‘He’s coming in to see it tomorrow.’ And I told him briefly what the man had said, adding, ‘It appears your profession is not so gentlemanly, after all.’
‘Berners is not exactly typical,’ he growled. There was a pause. ‘You want to pick up the stamps right away, do you?’
‘I think it would be best. I’m not a stamp dealer, and I didn’t like his attitude.’
‘All right.’ I was just about to ring off when he added, ‘I was going to phone you this evening anyway. Something very odd has come to light. Tell you about it when I see you.’
Chapter Two
That evening the traffic was particularly heavy, and by the time I reached Woodham Ferrers I was running short of time. Tubby’s cottage overlooked the Crouch, and when I finally got there, I found he had some half-dozen pages from the collection laid out on his desk and there was a pile of books with markers in them stacked to one side. ‘You in a hurry?’ he asked as he poured me a whisky. ‘I could knock up an omelette later, or we could go down to the pub for a bite if you doubt my cooking.’
‘Is this going to take long?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got a client coming to see me at seven. I mustn’t keep him waiting.’
He sighed. ‘No, it won’t take long, Roy. Come over to the desk here and see what I’ve dug up about this collection.’ He switched on an Anglepoise lamp. ‘Newfoundland and Western Australia. That’s what was puzzling you, wasn’t it? I spotted it at once, of course, but I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure. I’m not sure yet, not really. How the hell did he manage to get hold of the dies? Or did he choose the designs and employ an engraver to copy them?’ He reached for the page that showed proofs of the frame and centre of the stamp separately. The seal first. Now that, unless I can’t tell a copy from the original, is the seal from the American Bank Note Company’s printing of the Newfoundland 1865 five cent brown.’ He picked up the Gibbons catalogue from the top of the pile on his desk, opening it at a marker. ‘There’s the picture of it, under the Codfish two cent stamp. Seal-on-Icefloe. Now compare that with the die proof. Same shape, same background, same blank area of white representing the icefloe. Agreed?’
‘Looks the same.’ But I hadn’t called on him for a lecture on stamp design. ‘Who is this man Berners?’ I asked.
‘I’ll come to him in a moment,’ he said impatiently. ‘Just concentrate on this now.’ He selected another page from the collection. ‘Here is an example of the stamp itself – a five cent blue, the edges rouletted, not perforated. It was issued in 1876, and like the two previous issues, it was printed in New York by the American Bank Note Company. Nice condition, too, except that it’s stuck down tight and the original gum lost. Worth, I suppose, a tenner or so, but if it had been the five cent brown of 1865, it would have been worth a lot more.’ He looked up at me, smiling. ‘Like angling, isn’t it, the big fish always just out of reach.’
He turned to the end of the catalogue. ‘Now take a look at the frame. This is less obvious, but I’m pretty certain it’s the Perkins Bacon design for the first Western Australian stamp, the black one penny of 1854.’ He held the catalogue under the light so that I could see. ‘Almost square, but slightly rectangular, with a sort of four-leaf-clover-shaped cross in each corner. The words “Western Australia” on the two sides, “Postage” at the top and “One Penny” at the bottom.’ He placed the page with the die proof alongside the illustration so that I could compare it. ‘The die proof omits the words, of course. Presumably they were to be included, together with the value, in the roller die from which they would prepare the final plate before going to press.’
‘Any idea what the words would have been?’ I asked.
‘No, I haven’t been able to find that out. Not yet.’ He put the page back on the desk and closed the catalogue. ‘You might ask Arnold Berners that. He was the dealer who purchased the cover I mentioned in my letter, so he will know.’
‘Why didn’t you contact him then?’
He gave a little shrug, smiling at me. ‘I’m a collector as well as a dealer. No point in alerting the opposition when you’ve made up your mind you want a thing.’
‘That’s not very ethical when you’ve been asked for a valuation.’ I didn’t tell him I was behaving just as badly, trying to raise his offer without telling him.
‘Perhaps not, but my offer was fair, even generous. I doubt he’ll offer more. Anyway, he operates from Switzerland. Presumably he came over for last week’s Harmer’s auction and stayed on to see some of his clients,’ And he added on a note of envy, ‘The little bastard has managed to get his hands on some of the Arab oil money.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘No, none of us do. Operating out of Switzerland with clients like that, he can outbid us any time he wants. But mostly he buys privately. Two months ago he acquired a unique collection of Japanese Malayan Occupation stamps for a figure that is believed to have been in the region of eighteen thousand pounds. That’s a hell of a price, but then he’s like a professional burglar – he never grabs anything unless he knows he has a market.’ He was gazing down at the pages of the collection left out on his desk. ‘I can’t match him if he’s got a wealthy client interested in this. Did he say he had a client interested?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded, and there was a trace of wistfulness in his voice as he said, ‘Probably the same one he sold the cover to. I wonder what he charged the poor devil for that? A lot more than the two hundred and twenty pounds he paid for it at auction, I’ll bet.’ And he added, ‘It carried the only example of this very odd stamp in existence. What do you suppose happened to the others? Went down with the ship, eh?’ He shook his head. ‘And I don’t even know what the finished label looks like. There was no illustration of it in the auction catalogue. Josh dug it out for me. It just said: Cover with unrecorded ship label in deep blue with Port Moresby cancellation dated 17 July, 1911, also Australia 1909-11 Postage Due 2d. cancelled at Cooktown. Some stains, otherwise fine, unusual. The estimated value was fifty pounds plus.’
‘Berners referred to it as the Solomons Seal,’ I said.
‘Did he now?’ He leaned forward and picked up the page containing the proof of the entire stamp. ‘So that’s one more piece of the jigsaw fallen into place. Presumably Holland’s ships operated out of the Solomon Islands. Anything else he told you?’
I shook my head.
‘Oh, well, no point in going on, not now that I know Berners is after the collection.’ He began to gather the pages, putting them back in their albums. ‘Whoever has that cover is probably prepared to pay over the odds for the die proofs, and there’ll be others after them when they realise …’ He gave a little shrug, his words hanging in the air. ‘Another Scotch?’
‘No.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ve got Rowlinson coming in to see me, and I’m running it fine as it is.’
‘The frozen food man?’ And when I nodded, he said, ‘Wish more of my clients were as successful as that. Tell him to put his money into stamps. One of the few things that have never gone down in value.’ He put the albums back in their original wrapping and handed the parcel to me. ‘For the sake of the girl, inform Berners you’ve got an offer of twenty
-five hundred pounds. See what he says to that.’
I stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘A figure like that, it could frighten him off.’
He nodded, a speculative look in those bright blue eyes. ‘If it does, then I’ve got the collection, haven’t I?’ And he added, ‘But I doubt whether it will, not if his client is rich.’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘I had better have that offer of yours in writing.’
‘Don’t trust me, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t trust anybody making a bid like that.’ My voice was sharpened by disappointment, the sense of opportunity lost. But at least it disposed of my own offer. I couldn’t outbid him at that figure.
He sat down at his desk and pulled a sheet of notepaper from a drawer. ‘You’re sharp, Roy,’ he said heavily. ‘What I had in mind was for you to quote him my offer so that he’d be forced to pay Miss Holland a thumping price.’ He was gazing questioningly at me. ‘Then, if it did scare him off, you’d let me have the collection for the figure I originally offered.’
‘That would be dishonest,’ I said.
He stared up at me a moment longer, not saying a word; then he wrote down his revised bid and signed it with a flourish. ‘You know, I must be mad,’ he said, slipping it into an envelope and handing it to me. ‘But it’s not often I’ve wanted anything as badly as I want that collection.’
Solomons Seal Page 4
