The auctioneer was younger than his grey hair, his voice a practised monotone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we move on now please. Thank you.’ The room fell silent, the traffic in Market Square a distant hum. ‘Lot 668. Nice piece this, exotic wood, inlaid with ivory. Edwardian writing box. What do I hear – £100?’
Dryden recognized the piece. Not his mother’s – his uncle’s father’s – it had stood on the landing table at Buskeybay. The auction room crowd stirred, a brief competition pushing the price up to £180.
Dryden jumped as the auctioneer’s gavel crashed down, his nerves still shredded by the night’s ordeal. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to Russ, ‘I just wanna go home. To the boat. Can’t this wait…?’
But Russell wasn’t listening. He was watching a porter in brown overalls set a heavy-framed picture on an artist’s easel. The colours were muted, a shepherd watching a moon slip from behind a mackerel sky, while between the trees of the forest the faces of imps and fairies watched. Dryden felt sick with recognition, remembering the image on the website of the Ashmolean Musuem and, clearer than that, a pool of blood in the Long Gallery of Osmington Hall, and the neat puncture hole in the skull of Jerome Roma. Two men had died looking at this picture: Richard Dadd’s A Moonlight Vision.
‘Bid,’ said Russell: ‘For Christ’s sake, bid.’
‘Yes – here we are,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Unsigned, possibly early Victorian, I think. Not to every one’s taste, I know – but one day, who knows? Nice frame as well – gold leaf on cedar. It must be worth £50 alone. What do I hear then… £80? Who’ll start me off at £80…£75?’
A hand went up from the seats in the front row. Dryden’s pulse picked up, the fear of not being seen making his hand jerk up above his head.
‘Eighty, sir? Thank you. Eighty pounds from the gentleman to this side.’
Dryden hissed at Russ. ‘Why am I bidding for my own painting?’
‘Just bid. And win. It’s a money-go-round – you can’t lose. But don’t overdo it – they’ll know.’
By the time they got to £400 there were three bidders.
Dryden, transfixed by the auctioneer’s hammer, grabbed Russell’s arm until he knew it would hurt. ‘Why don’t I just stop the auction – tell ’em it’s a big mistake?’
‘What can you prove? The auction’s begun – you can’t stop now. Once it’s sold it’d take years to get it back. You reckon Vee’s got years?’
By the time they got to £1,000 they were back to the original two bidders. For a smalltown back-room auction this was sensational money and all the eyes in the room turned to Dryden each time he raised the bid. At £1,600 there was a long pause.
‘One thousand six hundred from the gentlemen to the side; do I hear any more? One seven – thank you, sir. In the front row we have one thousand seven hundred.’
Dryden raised again, quickly, in contrast to his competitor’s caution.
As the auctioneer counted out £1,800 for the first, second and third times Dryden had an almost overwhelming urge to outbid himself. The man in the front row, who’d bet on instinct, was shaking his head. Sweat stood out on Dryden’s forehead and he felt dizzy, elated, as the seconds dragged out in silence.
‘Sold!’ A scattering of applause circled the room.
‘Let’s get it,’ said Dryden, stumbling forward. ‘Then it’s explanation time. It’d better be good.’
They queued with the other buyers before a desk in the midst of the chaotic storeroom. Dryden paid £1,800 by credit card, plus the auction room fee of 10 per cent and VAT, his signature a spidery stressed-out scrawl.
Gaetano was parked off the rank under an autumnal plane tree. A large yellow leaf, the last, fell to the windscreen and the Italian swished it away with the wipers. Dryden slipped the brown paper off the picture and set it on the bonnet. There was no doubt: Richard Dadd’s A Moonlight Vision, value in excess of £1m. He lifted the canvas and smelt it. There was still a hint of the original oils, but overwhelmed by another odour which made him shiver: damp earth.
Russell was light on his feet, dancing, keen to exit.
‘What am I supposed to believe?’ said Dryden.
The teenager beamed. ‘Simple, I guess. The Italians worked at Buskeybay in the war, yeah? This bloke in the tunnel – Amatista – my guess is he stashed the picture in your uncle’s barn for safekeeping until he could get it out on the market. He never got to collect.’ He shrugged again. ‘So, here’s the picture. It’s just been sold legit – tax paid and everything. Now you can give it back to Vee – no complications, no questions? Yeah?’