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‘This young man. He’ll notice, he’ll protest to Seb Mortlake, who might even believe him.’
‘Not if he is in the north of Scotland. I have a favour up there that I can call in.’
‘But if the painting was not rejected and returned to owner, there would have to be a report and a valuation.’
‘There is.’
Slade drew another sheet from his pocket and gave it to Fanshawe. The gallery owner read the anodyne text, referring to a work, probably early Florentine, artist unknown, title unknown, no provenance. Valued at £6,000 to £8,000. He leaned back, raised his port glass in a toast and remarked, ‘Those beatings I gave you at school must have had some effect, Perry. You’re as straight as a sidewinder on speed. All right, you’re on.’
Two days later Trumpington Gore received a letter. It was from the House of Darcy on headed paper. There was no signature, but a stamp from the Old Masters department. It asked him to sign an enclosed form authorizing the auctioneers to proceed with the sale of his painting, which they valued at £6,000 to £8,000. There was a return-addressed envelope with stamp. Though he did not know it, the address would bring the letter, unopened, to Peregrine Slade’s desk.
He was ecstatic. With even £6,000 he could stagger on for another six months, which surely would include further acting work. Summer was a favoured time for film-making on outside locations. He signed the authority form and sent it back.
On the 20th of the month Peregrine Slade rang the director of Old Masters.
‘Seb, I’m in a bit of a bind and I wonder if you could do me a favour.’
‘Well, of course, if I can, Perry. What is it?’
‘I have a very old friend with a place in Scotland. He’s a bit absent-minded and he clean forgot about the expiry of the insurance cover on his paintings. Reinsurance is due at the end of the month. The swine in his insurance company are cutting up rough. They won’t reissue without an up-to-date revaluation.’
The valuation for insurance purposes of substantial or even not-so-substantial art collections was a service regularly performed by all the great art houses of London. There was of course a useful fee involved. But advance notice was habitually much longer.
‘It’s a bugger, Perry. We’ve got the big one in four days and we’re working our tails off down here. Can’t it wait?’
‘Not really. What about that young lad you took on a couple of years ago?’
‘Benny? What about him?’
‘Would he be mature enough to handle it? It’s not a huge collection. Mainly old Jacobean portraits. He could take our last valuation, add a bit and bingo. It’s only for insurance.’
‘Oh, very well.’
On the 22nd Benny Evans left on the night train for Caithness in the far north of Scotland. He would be gone a week.
On the morning of the sale, which Slade would be taking himself, he mentioned to Mortlake that there was one extra lot, not in the catalogue, an afterthought. Mortlake was perplexed.
‘What extra lot?’
‘A small daub that could be Florentine. One of those off-the-street things that your young friend Master Evans handled. The tail-end jobs that he had a look at after you had left for Christmas.’
‘He never mentioned it to me. I thought they had all been returned to owner.’
‘My fault entirely. Slipped my mind. Must have slipped his as well. I happened to be in to clear up some details just before Christmas. Saw him in the corridor. Asked him what he was doing. He said you had asked him to look at the last forty-odd of the hand-ins.’
‘True, I did,’ said Mortlake.
‘Well, there was one he thought might be worth a try. I took it off him to have a look, got distracted, left it in my office and forgot all about it.’
He offered Mortlake the modest valuation that purported to come from Benny Evans and certainly bore his signature, let the director of Old Masters read it, then took it back.
‘But do we have authority?’
‘Oh yes. I called the owner yesterday when I saw the damn thing still in my office. He was more than happy. Faxed the authority through last night.’
Seb Mortlake had a lot more on his plate that morning than an anonymous daub with no attribution and a valuation close to his personal basement price of £5,000. His star offering was a Veronese, along with an exceptional Michele di Rodolfo and a Sano di Pietro. He grunted his assent and hurried to the auction room to supervise the running order. At ten a.m. Peregrine Slade mounted his rostrum, took his gavel in hand and the auction began.
He loved taking the most important auctions. The elevated position, the command, the control, the waggish nods to well-known dealers, bidders and pals from the inner coterie of the fine-art circuit of London, and the silent recognition of agents he knew would be there to represent some really mega player in the circus who would never dream of appearing personally.
