At last Lady Malypense failed to respond to the last “do I hear . . . ?” As if the gavel were a cue, the actress and her claque abruptly marched out, looking daggers at the portly victor.
The anonymous collection, “the property of a gentleman,”
was now offered in lots. Most were items of military history, in which Sylvester took no special interest; her field was early 20th century literature, particularly English —that is, British.
Eventually lot 60, a first edition account of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s exploits during the Cretan resistance of World War II, went under the gavel. Sylvester would have liked to have had that book, and she bid on it—not that she cared about Crete or a half-forgotten war, but Leigh Fermor was a fine describer of places—but its price rose swiftly higher than she was willing to go. Soon the auctioneer said “sold” and the room immediately fell silent.
“Lot 61. Lawrence, T. E., The Seven Pillars of Wisdom”
—as the director spoke, a solemn young man bore the heavy book forward and held it aloft, turning it slowly from side to side. “Printed in linotype on Bible paper, recto only, double columns. Bound in full tan morocco, edges gilt, in marbled slipcase. Inserted loose in the front, two leaves, handwritten, one a note in dedication ‘to Jonathan’ and signed by the author ‘at Farnborough, 18 November 1922,’ the other being comments written in pencil, in a hand thought to be that of Robert Graves. This very rare book is one of eight printed by the Oxford Times Press in 1922 at the author’s behest, three of which were destroyed by him, and three others presumed lost. The reserve is five hundred thousand pounds.”
He had hardly concluded his description when the bidding commenced. A little rustle of excitement rippled through the room as the auctioneer recited increasingly greater numbers, almost without pausing: “Six hundred thousand, I am bid six hundred thousand . . . six hundred and fifty thousand . . . seven hundred thousand.” No one spoke, but fingers were flickering and heads were nodding, at the dealers’ table and elsewhere in the room, so rapidly that the auctioneer did not even have time to acknowledge those who had made the bids.
“Eight hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds,”
said the auctioneer. For the first time there was a momentary pause before he got a response. It was clear that many bidders were approaching their limits. By the rules of the game, the higher the price, the higher the minimum advance; the price was now so high that the minimum advance was five thousand pounds. “Am I bid eight hundred and eighty thousand pounds?” the auctioneer asked matter-of-factly.
Quaritch and a single other bookseller responded. The auctioneer’s gaze flickered to the transept on his left; evidently whoever was seated there, out of sight, had also bid.
“Am I bid eight hundred and eighty-five thousand?”
“Nine hundred thousand pounds,” Sondra Sylvester said, speaking for the first time. Her voice in the crowded room was new, rich, darkly colored, a voice—it was obvious to everyone—accustomed to giving orders. The auctioneer nodded at her, smiling in recognition.
At the front table the gentleman from Quaritch, who was in fact representing the University of Texas, seemed unperturbed—the humanities department of Texas had an extensive Lawrence collection and was no doubt prepared to go to extreme lengths to acquire the prize—but the remaining rival bookseller leaned back in resignation, dropping his pencil.
“I am bid nine hundred thousand pounds. Am I bid nine hundred and five?” The auctioneer glanced to his left once, twice, then announced, “One million pounds.”
An appreciative groan rumbled through the audience.
The man from Quaritch glanced curiously over his shoulder, made a note on the pad in front of him—and declined to bid further, having reached his client’s top. The minimum advance was now ten thousand pounds.
“One million ten thousand pounds,” Sylvester said. She sounded confident, more confident than in fact she felt.
Who was in the transept? Who was bidding against her?
The auctioneer nodded. “I am bid . . .” He hesitated as he glanced to his left, then momentarily fixed his gaze there. He turned to look straight at Sondra Sylvester and almost shyly indicated the transept with a spasm of his hand. “I am bid one million, five hundred thousand pounds,” he said, his voice carrying to her with peculiar intimacy.
A collective hiss whiffled through the audience. Sylvester felt her face grow stiff and cold. For a moment she did not move, but there was little point in calculating her resources; she was soundly beaten.
“I am bid one million and five hundred thousand. Am I bid one million five hundred thousand and ten?” The auctioneer was still looking at her. Still she did not move.
He averted his gaze then, politely, looking without seeing into the bright eyes of his delighted audience. “I am bid one million five hundred thousand.” The gavel hovered over the block. “For the last time . . . I have a bid of one million five hundred thousand.” The gavel descended.
“Sold.”
The audience burst into applause, spiced with little cries of delight. Who was being applauded, Sylvester wondered bitterly—a deceased author, or a spendthrift acquisitor?
Porters ceremoniously removed the printed relic from public view. A few people leaped up, scuttling for the door as the auctioneer cleared his throat and announced. “Lot 62, miscellaneous autographs . . .”
Sylvester sat where she was, not moving, feeling the eyes of the curious burning into her. In the depths of her disappointment she was curious, too, to know who had outbid her. She rose slowly and moved as quietly as she could toward the aisle. Inching toward the transept wing, standing beside it, waiting there patiently as the sale continued . . . more and more people leaving throughout the final routine minutes . . . and then it was over. Sylvester stepped in front of the transept wing.
She confronted a young man with chopped auburn hair, wearing a lapel button in his conservative suit that identified him as a member of the staff. “You were the one?”
“On behalf of a client, of course.” His accent was mid- Atlantic—American, cultured, East Coast. His face was handsome in an odd way, soft-eyed and freckled.
“Are you free to divulge . . . ?”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Sylvester, I’m under strict instructions.”
“You know me.” She scrutinized him: very handsome, rather appealing. “Are you free to tell me your own name?”
He smiled. “My name’s Blake Redfield, ma’am.”
“That’s some progress. Perhaps you would like to join me for lunch, Mr. Redfield?”
He inclined his head in the merest sketch of a bow.
“You are very gracious. Unhappily . . .”
She watched him a moment. He seemed in no hurry to leave; he was watching her as closely as she was watching him. She said, “Too bad. Another time?”
“That would be delightful.”
“Another time, then.” Sylvester walked briskly out of the room. At the entrance she paused, then asked the girl to call a taxi; while she waited she asked, “How long has Mr. Redfield been with the firm?”
“Let me see”—the red-cheeked girl twisted her little rosebud mouth charmingly as she made the effort to recall —”perhaps a year, Mrs. Sylvester. He’s not a regular employee, really.”
“No?”
“More like a consultant,” said the girl. “Books and manuscripts, 19th and 20th centuries.”
“So young?”
“He is rather, isn’t he? But quite the genius, to hear the assessors speak of him. Here’s your taxi now.”
“I’m sorry I troubled you.” Sylvester hardly glanced at the square black shape humming driverless at the curb. “I think, after all, that I’ll walk a bit.”
Her pace was determined, not meditative; she needed to let her angry blood circulate. She strode rapidly down the street toward Piccadilly, turning east through the maze of all the little Burlingtons and across the end of Saville Row, her destination a shop near Charing Cross Road, an ancient and, in the past, sometimes disreputable place presently wearing a veneer of renewed respectability.
She reached it in no time. Gold letters on a plate glass window announced “Hermione Scrutton, Bookseller.”
While she was still half a block from the shop she saw Scrutton herself at the green-enameled door, twisting a decorative iron key in a decorative iron lock while putting her eye to the eye of a bronze lion head that served as a doorknocker, but which also contained the retina-reader that triggered the door’s real lock.
By the time Scrutton got the door open, Sylvester was close enough to hear the spring-mounted brass bell clamor as she entered.
Moments later the same bell announced Sylvester’s arrival; from an aisle of crumbling yellow volumes Scrutton emerged, having seen to the alarm system. She was a stocky, bushy-browed imp in brown tweeds, a gold ascot at her throat, a bald patch visible through her thin graying hair, the color high on her cheeks—which were incongruously tan to begin with—and a smile playing on her mobile red lips. “My dear Syl. Can’t say. Ah, really. Mm, simply devastated . . .”