The New Collected Short Stories (7 page)

Elizabeth immediately raised her catalogue above her head.

‘Thank you, madam. I have a bid at the table of sixty thousand. Do I see seventy?’ he asked, his eyes fixed on Elizabeth.

Her catalogue shot up again.

‘Thank you, madam. I have a bid at the table of eighty thousand. Do I see ninety?’ This time Elizabeth seemed to hesitate before raising her catalogue slowly.

‘I have a bid at the table of one hundred thousand. Do I see a hundred and ten?’

Everyone in the room was now looking towards Elizabeth, except Hugh, who, head down, was staring at the floor. He obviously wasn’t going to have any influence on the bidding. ‘If
there are no further bids, I shall have to withdraw this lot and place it in the afternoon sale. Fair warning,’ declared Mr Botts. As he raised his hammer, Elizabeth’s catalogue
suddenly shot up.

‘One hundred and ten thousand. Thank you, madam. Are there any more bids? Then I shall let this fine piece go for £110,000.’ He brought down his hammer and smiled at Elizabeth.
‘Congratulations, madam, it is indeed a magnificent example of the period.’ She smiled weakly back, a look of uncertainty on her face.

Cornelius turned round and winked at Frank, who remained impassively in his seat. He then rose from his place and made his way to the podium to thank Mr Botts for a job well done. As he turned
to leave, he smiled at Margaret and Elizabeth, but neither acknowledged him, as they both seemed to be preoccupied. Hugh, head in hands, continued to stare down at the floor.

As Cornelius walked towards the back of the hall, he could see no sign of Timothy, and assumed that his nephew must have had to return to London. Cornelius was disappointed, as he had hoped the
lad might join him for a pub lunch. After such a successful morning he felt a little celebrating was in order.

He had already decided that he wasn’t going to attend the afternoon sale, as he had no desire to witness his worldly goods coming under the hammer, even though he wouldn’t have room
for most of them once he moved into a smaller house. Mr Botts had promised to call him the moment the sale was over and report how much the auction had raised.

Having enjoyed the best meal since Pauline had left him, Cornelius began his journey back from the pub to The Willows. He knew exactly what time the bus would appear to take him home, and
arrived at the bus stop with a couple of minutes to spare. He now took it for granted that people would avoid his company.

Cornelius unlocked the front door as the clock on the nearby church struck three. He was looking forward to the inevitable fall-out when it sank in to Margaret and Elizabeth how much they had
really bid. He grinned as he headed towards his study and glanced at his watch, wondering when he might expect a call from Mr Botts. The phone began to ring just as he entered the room. He chuckled
to himself. It was too early for Mr Botts, so it had to be Elizabeth or Margaret, who would need to see him urgently. He picked up the phone to hear Frank’s voice on the other end of the
line.

‘Did you remember to withdraw the chess set from the afternoon sale?’ Frank asked, without bothering with any formalities.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Cornelius.

‘Your beloved chess set. Have you forgotten that as it failed to sell this morning, it will automatically come up in the afternoon sale? Unless of course you’ve already given orders
to withdraw it, or tipped off Mr Botts about its true value.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Cornelius. He dropped the phone and ran back out of the door, so he didn’t hear Frank say, ‘I’m sure a telephone call to Mr Botts’s
assistant is all that will be needed.’

Cornelius checked his watch as he ran down the path. It was ten past three, so the auction would have only just begun. Running towards the bus stop, he tried to recall what lot number the chess
set was. All he could remember was that there were 153 lots in the sale.

Standing at the bus stop, hopping impatiently from foot to foot, he scanned the road in the hope of hailing a passing taxi, when to his relief he saw a bus heading towards him. Although his eyes
never left the driver, that didn’t make him go any faster.

When it eventually drew up beside him and the doors opened, Cornelius leapt on and took his place on the front seat. He wanted to tell the driver to take him straight to Botts and Co. in the
High Street, and to hell with the fare, but he doubted if the other passengers would have fallen in with his plan.

He stared at his watch – 3.17 p.m. – and tried to remember how long it had taken Mr Botts that morning to dispose of each lot. About a minute, a minute and a half perhaps, he
concluded. The bus came to a halt at every stop on its short journey into town, and Cornelius spent as much time following the progress of the minute hand on his watch as he did the journey. The
driver finally reached the High Street at 3.31 p.m.

Even the door seemed to open slowly. Cornelius leapt out onto the pavement, and despite not having run for years, sprinted for the second time that day. He covered the two hundred yards to the
auction house in less than record pace, but still arrived exhausted. He charged into the auction room as Mr Botts declared, ‘Lot number 32, a long-case clock originally purchased from the
estate of . . .’

Cornelius’s eyes swept the room, coming to rest on an auctioneer’s clerk who was standing in the corner with her catalogue open, entering the hammer price after each lot had been
sold. He walked over to her just as a woman he thought he recognised slipped quickly past him and out of the door.

‘Has the chess set come up yet?’ asked a still-out-of-breath Cornelius.

‘Let me just check, sir,’ the clerk replied, flicking back through her catalogue. ‘Yes, here it is, lot 27.’

‘How much did it fetch?’ asked Cornelius.

‘£450, sir,’ she replied.

Mr Botts called Cornelius later that evening to inform him that the afternoon sale had raised £902,800 – far more than he had estimated.

‘Do you by any chance know who bought the chess set?’ was Cornelius’s only question.

‘No,’ replied Mr Botts. ‘All I can tell you is that it was purchased on behalf of a client. The buyer paid in cash and took the item away.’

As he climbed the stairs to go to bed, Cornelius had to admit that everything had gone to plan except for the disastrous loss of the chess set, for which he realised he had only himself to
blame. What made it worse was that he knew Frank would never refer to the incident again.

Cornelius was in the bathroom when the phone rang at 7.30 the following morning. Obviously someone had been lying awake wondering what was the earliest moment they could
possibly disturb him.

‘Is that you, Cornelius?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, yawning noisily. ‘Who’s this?’ he added, knowing only too well.

‘It’s Elizabeth. I’m sorry to call you so early, but I need to see you urgently.’

‘Of course, my dear,’ Cornelius replied, ‘why don’t you join me for tea this afternoon?’

‘Oh no, it can’t wait until then. I have to see you this morning. Could I come round at nine?’

‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I already have an appointment at nine.’ He paused. ‘But I could fit you in at ten for half an hour, then I won’t be late for my meeting
with Mr Botts at eleven.’

‘I could give you a lift into town if that would help,’ suggested Elizabeth.

‘That’s extremely kind of you, my dear,’ said Cornelius, ‘but I’ve got used to taking the bus, and in any case I wouldn’t want to impose on you. Look forward
to seeing you at ten.’ He put the phone down.

Cornelius was still in the bath when the phone rang a second time. He wallowed in the warm water until the ringing had ceased. He knew it was Margaret, and he was sure she would call back within
minutes.

He hadn’t finished drying himself before the phone rang again. He walked slowly to the bedroom, picked up the receiver by his bed and said, ‘Good morning Margaret.’

‘Good morning, Cornelius,’ she said, sounding surprised. Recovering quickly, she added, ‘I need to see you urgently.’

‘Oh? What’s the problem?’ asked Cornelius, well aware exactly what the problem was.

‘I can’t possibly discuss such a delicate matter over the phone, but I could be with you by ten.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve already agreed to see Elizabeth at ten. It seems that she also has an urgent matter she needs to discuss with me. Why don’t you come round at
eleven?’

‘Perhaps it would be better if I came over immediately,’ said Margaret, sounding flustered.

‘No, I’m afraid eleven is the earliest I can fit you in, my dear. So it’s eleven or afternoon tea. Which would suit you best?’

‘Eleven,’ said Margaret without hesitation.

‘I thought it might,’ said Cornelius. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you then,’ he added before replacing the receiver.

When Cornelius had finished dressing, he went down to the kitchen for breakfast. A bowl of cornflakes, a copy of the local paper and an unstamped envelope were awaiting him, although there was
no sign of Pauline.

He poured himself a cup of tea, tore open the envelope and extracted a cheque made out to him for £500. He sighed. Pauline must have sold her car.

He began to turn the pages of the Saturday supplement, stopping when he reached ‘Houses for Sale’. When the phone rang for the third time that morning, he had no idea who it might
be.

‘Good morning, Mr Barrington,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘It’s Bruce from the estate agents. I thought I’d give you a call to let you know we’ve had an offer for
The Willows that is in excess of the asking price.’

‘Well done,’ said Cornelius.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the agent, with more respect in his voice than Cornelius had heard from anyone for weeks, ‘but I think we should hold on for a little longer. I’m
confident I can squeeze some more out of them. If I do, my advice would be to accept the offer and ask for a 10 per cent deposit.’

‘That sounds like good advice to me,’ said Cornelius. ‘And once they’ve signed the contract, I’ll need you to find me a new house.’

‘What sort of thing are you looking for, Mr Barrington?’

‘I want something about half the size of The Willows, with perhaps a couple of acres, and I’d like to remain in the immediate area.’

‘That shouldn’t be too hard, sir. We have one or two excellent houses on our books at the moment, so I’m sure we’ll be able to accommodate you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Cornelius, delighted to have spoken to someone who had begun the day well.

He was chuckling over an item on the front page of the local paper when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was still a few minutes to ten, so it couldn’t be Elizabeth. When he
opened the front door he was greeted by a man in a green uniform, holding a clipboard in one hand and a parcel in the other.

‘Sign here,’ was all the courier said, handing over a biro.

Cornelius scrawled his signature across the bottom of the form. He would have asked who had sent the parcel if he had not been distracted by a car coming up the drive.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He left the package in the hall and walked down the steps to welcome Elizabeth.

When the car drew up outside the front door, Cornelius was surprised to find Hugh seated in the passenger seat.

‘It was kind of you to see us at such short notice,’ said Elizabeth, who looked as if she had spent another sleepless night.

‘Good morning, Hugh,’ said Cornelius, who suspected his brother had been kept awake all night. ‘Please come through to the kitchen – I’m afraid it’s the only
room in the house that’s warm.’

As he led them down the long corridor, Elizabeth stopped in front of the portrait of Daniel. ‘I’m so glad to see it back in its rightful place,’ she said. Hugh nodded his
agreement.

Cornelius stared at the portrait, which he hadn’t seen since the auction. ‘Yes, back in its rightful place,’ he said, before taking them through to the kitchen. ‘Now,
what brings you both to The Willows on a Saturday morning?’ he asked as he filled the kettle.

‘It’s about the Louis XIV table,’ said Elizabeth diffidently.

‘Yes, I shall miss it,’ said Cornelius. ‘But it was a fine gesture on your part, Hugh,’ he added.

‘A fine gesture . . .’ repeated Hugh.

‘Yes. I assumed it was your way of returning my hundred thousand,’ said Cornelius. Turning to Elizabeth, he said, ‘How I misjudged you, Elizabeth. I suspect it was your idea
all along.’

Elizabeth and Hugh just stared at each other, then both began speaking at once.

‘But we didn’t . . .’ said Hugh.

‘We were rather hoping . . .’ said Elizabeth. Then they both fell silent.

‘Tell him the truth,’ said Hugh firmly.

‘Oh?’ said Cornelius. ‘Have I misunderstood what took place at the auction yesterday morning?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid you have,’ said Elizabeth, any remaining colour draining from her cheeks. ‘You see, the truth of the matter is that the whole thing got out of control,
and I carried on bidding for longer than I should have done.’ She paused. ‘I’d never been to an auction before, and when I failed to get the grandfather clock, and then saw
Margaret pick up the Turner so cheaply, I’m afraid I made a bit of a fool of myself.’

‘Well, you can always put it back up for sale,’ said Cornelius with mock sadness. ‘It’s a fine piece, and sure to retain its value.’

‘We’ve already looked into that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But Mr Botts says there won’t be another furniture auction for at least three months, and the terms of the sale
were clearly printed in the catalogue: settlement within seven days.’

‘But I’m sure that if you were to leave the piece with him . . .’

‘Yes, he suggested that,’ said Hugh. ‘But we didn’t realise that the auctioneers add 15 per cent to the sale price, so the real bill is for £126,500. And
what’s worse, if we put it up for sale again they also retain 15 per cent of the price that’s bid, so we would end up losing over thirty thousand.’

‘Yes, that’s the way auctioneers make their money,’ said Cornelius with a sigh.

‘But we don’t have thirty thousand, let alone 126,500,’ cried Elizabeth.

Cornelius slowly poured himself another cup of tea, pretending to be deep in thought. ‘Umm,’ he finally offered. ‘What puzzles me is how you think I could help, bearing in mind
my current financial predicament.’