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 emphasize "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.