Going Once

Vale’s proposal was simple. If Eleanor stayed silent until Friday, he would pay her twenty thousand pounds. If she refused, he would make sure that she never worked in the art world again. “Honest people are often poor,” he said, closing his umbrella. “You do not have to be.” Eleanor looked at him for a long moment. “No, thank you,” she said, and she walked back into the rain.

Dr Frost arranged for a laboratory to examine the signature, and the results arrived on Thursday night: it belonged to the same period as the paint beneath it. At the same time, Oliver Lang found his grandfather’s receipt in an attic drawer, which confirmed the purchase in 1958. Eleanor finally had the proof that she needed.

On the morning of the auction, Eleanor spoke to Mrs Lang, who was sitting in the front row in a blue hat. “If the picture is what you say it is,” the old woman said, “a museum should have the chance to buy it. But I still have to pay for the care home.” Before Eleanor could speak, she went on. “I do not want a secret sale. I want everyone to know the truth, and I want the best price that an honest bidder can pay.”

Julian Ashby walked to the rostrum at half past two, as calm as ever. When he reached Lot 114, he began to read the usual description: “A seascape, English school.” Eleanor stood up. “Excuse me, Mr Ashby,” she said, loudly enough for the whole room to hear. “I have a statement from the owner, and I believe that the catalogue entry is wrong.” A murmur ran round the room. In the third row, Crispin Vale folded his arms.

Mrs Lang rose slowly and read from a card. The painting, she announced, was a work by Edwin Carrow, and it would be sold openly, with the full evidence of its history. The bidding began at fifty thousand pounds and reached two hundred thousand in four minutes. At the back, the director of the Victoria Gallery raised her catalogue and did not lower it again. “Going once,” said Ashby, in a voice that had lost its calm. “Going twice…” The hammer fell at three hundred and ten thousand pounds.

A month later, Eleanor read about the sale in the newspaper. The Victoria Gallery had bought the painting, Mrs Lang had moved to a bright room with a view of the garden, and Julian Ashby had resigned. Eleanor was working in the same workroom, but there was a new name on the door: Head of Conservation. On her desk lay a parcel with a note in careful handwriting: “Lot 115. I think there may be a second signature. — M. Frost.”