On May 15th, he attended the auction. He had already been sent a catalogue, and the Corder figure was one of the final lots on the list, but he was there from the beginning, studying the form, spotting the six or seven dealers who between them seemed to account for three-quarters of the bids. They made him apprehensive after what he had once read about rings that conspired to keep the prices low, and he was even more disturbed to find that a number of items had to be withdrawn after failing to reach their reserve prices.
As the auction proceeded, Buttery felt increasingly nervous. This wasn’t just the Corder figure that was under the hammer; it was his rendezvous with Mrs D’Abernon, his initiation into fleshly pleasures. He had waited all his adult life for the opportunity, and it couldn’t be managed on a low budget. She was a rich, sophisticated woman, who would expect to be treated to the best food and wines available.
‘And so we come to Lot 287, a very fine Staffordshire figure of the murderer, William Corder...’
A pulse throbbed in Buttery’s head and he thought for a moment he would have to leave the sale room. He took deeper breaths and closed his eyes.
The bidding got under way, moving rapidly from £500 to £750. Buttery opened his eyes and saw that two of the dealers were making bids on the nod at an encouraging rate.
‘Eight hundred,’ said the auctioneer.
There was a pause. The bidding had lost its momentum.
‘At eight hundred pounds,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Any more?’
Buttery leaned forward anxiously. One of the dealers indicated that he had finished. This could be disastrous. Eight hundred pounds was below the reserve. Perhaps they had overvalued the figure.
‘Eight-fifty on my left,’ said the auctioneer, and Buttery sat back and breathed more evenly. Another dealer had entered the bidding. Could he be buying for the V and A?
It moved on, but more slowly, as if both dealers baulked at a four-figure bid. Then it came.
‘One thousand pounds.’
Buttery had a vision of Mrs D’Abernon naked as a nymph, sipping champagne in a hotel bedroom.
The bidding continued to twelve hundred and fifty pounds.
The auctioneer looked around the room. ‘At twelve hundred and fifty pounds. Any more?’ He raised the gavel and brought it down. ‘Hudson and Black.’
And that was it. After the auctioneers’ commission had been deducted, Buttery’s cheque amounted to eleven hundred and twenty-five pounds.
Three days later, in his blazer and white trousers, he waited at the rendezvous. Mrs D’Abernon arrived twenty minutes late, radiant in a primrose yellow dress and wide-brimmed straw hat, and pressed her lips to Buttery’s, there on the cathedral steps. He handed her the box containing an orchid that he had bought in Orleans that morning. It was clearly a good investment.
‘So romantic! And two little safety-pins!’ she squeaked in her excitement. ‘Darling, how thoughtful. Why don’t you help me pin it on?’
‘I reserved a table at the Hotel de Ville,’ he told her as he fumbled with the safety-pin.
‘How extravagant!’
‘It’s my way of saying thank you. The Corder figure sold for over a thousand pounds.’
‘Wonderful!’
They had a long lunch on the hotel terrace. He ordered champagne and the food was superb. ‘You couldn’t have pleased me more,’ said Mrs D’Abernon. ‘To be treated like this is an almost unknown pleasure for me, Mr Buttery.’
He smiled.
‘I mean it,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t mean to complain about my life. I am not unloved. But this is another thing. This is romance.’
‘With undertones of wickedness,’ commented Buttery.
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re here by courtesy of William Corder.’
Her smile returned. ‘Your murderer. I was meaning to ask you: why did he kill poor Maria?’
‘Oh, I think he felt he was trapped into marriage,’ Buttery explained. ‘He was a philanderer by nature. Not a nice man at all.’
‘I admire restraint in a man,’ said Mrs D’Abernon.
‘But, of course,’ Buttery responded, with what he judged to be the ironic smile of a man who knows what really pleases a woman.
It was after three when, light-headed and laughing, they stepped through the hotel foyer and into the sunny street.
‘Let’s look at some shops,’ Mrs D’Abernon suggested.
One of the first they came to was a jeweller’s. ‘Aren’t they geniuses at displaying things?’ she said. ‘I mean, there’s so little to see in a way, but everything looks exquisite. That gold chain, for instance. So elegant to look at, but you can be sure if I tried it on, it wouldn’t look half so lovely.’
‘I’m sure it would,’ said Buttery.
‘No, you’re mistaken.’
‘Let’s go in and see, then. Try it on, and I’ll give you my opinion.’
They went in and, after some rapid mental arithmetic, Buttery parted with three thousand francs to convince her that he really had meant what he said.
‘You shouldn’t have done it, you wicked man!’ she told him, pressing the chain possessively against her throat. ‘It was only a meal you promised me. I can’t think why you did it.’
Buttery decided to leave her in suspense. Meanwhile, he suggested a walk by the river. They made their way slowly down the Rue Royale to the Quai Cypierre. In a quiet position with a view of the river, they found a salon de thé, and sipped lemon tea until the shadows lengthened.
‘It’s been a blissful day,’ said Mrs D’Abernon.
‘It hasn’t finished yet,’ said Buttery.
‘It has for me, darling.’
He smiled. ‘You’re joking. I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.’
‘I couldn’t possibly manage dinner after the lunch we had.’
‘Call it supper, then. We’ll eat late, like the French.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m going to get an early night.’
He produced his knowing smile. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I’ll get the bill.’
Outside, he suggested taking a taxi and asked where she was staying.
She answered vaguely, ‘Somewhere in the centre of town. Put me off at the cathedral, and I can walk it from there. How about you? Where have you put up?’
‘Nowhere yet,’ he told her as he waved down a cab. ‘My luggage is at the railway station.’
‘Hadn’t you better get booked in somewhere?’
He gave a quick, nervous laugh. She wasn’t making this easy for him. ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary.’ The moment he had spoken, he sensed that his opportunity had gone. He should have sounded more masculine and assertive. A woman like Mrs D’Abernon didn’t want a feeble appeal to her generosity. She wanted a man who knew what he wanted and took the initiative.
The taxi had drawn up and the door was open. Mrs D’Abernon climbed in. She looked surprised when Buttery didn’t take the seat beside her.
He announced, ‘I’m taking you to lunch again tomorrow.’
‘That would be very agreeable, but—’
‘I’ll be on the cathedral steps at noon. Sweet dreams.’ He closed the door and strode away, feeling that he had retrieved his pride and cleared the way for a better show the next day. After all, he had waited all his life, so one more night in solitary was not of much account.
So it was a more assertive Buttery who arrived five minutes late for the rendezvous next day, found her already waiting and kissed her firmly on the mouth. ‘We’re going to a slightly more exotic place today,’ he told her, taking a decisive grip on her arm.
It was an Algerian restaurant on the fringe of the red light district. Halfway through their meal, a belly dancer came through a bead curtain and gyrated to taped music. Buttery clapped to the rhythm. At the end, he tossed the girl a five-franc piece and ordered another bottle of wine.