The Seller

According to the rules of the house, Eleanor was not supposed to contact sellers directly. On Saturday morning she did so anyway. The address on the consignment form was a narrow terraced house with a green door and a garden full of overgrown roses. The woman who opened it was so small and upright that Eleanor’s prepared speech vanished at once.

Mrs Beatrice Lang was eighty-four, and she listened to the whole story with her hands folded in her lap. “Carrow,” she said when Eleanor had finished. “My husband always said that painting was a bargain. He bought it from a man at a station in 1958 for five pounds, and he hung it above the stairs for sixty years.” She smiled faintly. “I never liked it. It was too grey.”

“Mrs Lang, if the signature is genuine, the painting could be extremely valuable,” Eleanor said carefully. “You may prefer to wait before selling it.” The old woman shook her head. “I cannot wait. My grandson Oliver has arranged everything. The care home on Marsh Road costs more than my pension, and this sale is the only way to pay for it. Mr Ashby told me that the picture was worth about three hundred pounds.”

While they were talking, a car stopped outside. A man in an expensive coat walked up the path and rang the bell. He introduced himself as Crispin Vale, a dealer, and said that he had been passing and wished to make an offer for “a small picture” before the auction. “Two thousand pounds, in cash, today,” he said, glancing at Eleanor as if she were part of the furniture. “That is nearly seven times the estimate.”

Mrs Lang looked at Eleanor. Eleanor said nothing, because anything she said would sound like an accusation. She also knew that Vale had not been passing: the house stood in a street that led nowhere. Then Mrs Lang surprised them both. “Thank you, Mr Vale,” she said politely, “but I have promised the picture to Mr Ashby. I like to keep my promises.” Vale’s smile did not move, but his eyes became cold.

When the dealer had gone, the old woman poured the tea with a perfectly steady hand. “That man was not passing,” she said. “I may be old, Miss Whitlock, but I have not been a fool since 1962. Now tell me honestly: what is my husband’s painting really worth?” Eleanor hesitated. “I do not know yet,” she said. “But I promise you that I shall find out before anybody sells it.”