An Offer in Writing

On Monday morning, an envelope was waiting on Eleanor’s workbench. It contained a letter on thick cream paper, signed by Crispin Vale. “Dear Miss Whitlock,” it began. “I understand that you have an exceptional eye. An eye of that quality should not be wasted on cleaning other people’s pictures.” He offered her a position at his gallery in London, with a salary almost twice what she earned at Ashby & Lyle.

The last paragraph was less friendly. “I would, of course, expect the right kind of discretion about certain recent discoveries. A conservator who spoke too soon about a signature might find that galleries no longer trust her judgement.” Eleanor read the letter twice. It was not a job offer, she thought; it was a price, and it was being paid for her silence.

She did not tear it up. Instead she put it in her bag and went to the sale records, which she had always found more interesting than the paintings. In the files of the last five years she found three lots, all described as “minor works”, that had been withdrawn at the last minute and sold privately to the same buyer. The buyer was Crispin Vale. The man who had arranged each sale was Julian Ashby.

Eleanor sat very still. It did not prove that anything illegal had happened. Private sales were common, and Ashby was entitled to make them. But all three pictures had later appeared in a London sale with new attributions and prices ten times higher. Had Ashby known? Or had Vale simply been cleverer than everybody else?

At lunchtime she telephoned the Lang household, and Oliver, the grandson, answered in a tired voice. He told her that Mr Ashby had visited the previous Thursday with a contract. “Gran signed it,” he said. “It says the picture goes to auction on the fourteenth, but there is a clause I did not really understand. Something about the auctioneer’s right to sell by private treaty before that date.” Eleanor closed her eyes. That clause meant that Ashby could sell Lot 114 to Vale at any moment, at any price, without telling anyone.

She looked at the calendar. Seven days were left. She needed two things that she did not have: proof that the signature was genuine, and proof of where the painting had been before 1958. There was one person in Bath who might be able to help with both. She picked up the telephone and called the county archive.