Grumbling, I did a quick sketch. Sometimes I think it’d be quicker to do every frigging thing myself. “Finish all three of these by seven-ish, then I can age them sharpish.”
“All this haste’s not my usual behavior,” Duncan said.
“Times,” I said irritably, “are changing at Tachnadray.”
Honestly. You sweat blood trying to rescue people, and what thanks do you get?
Michelle’s first lesson in the perils of auctioneering. Explaining an auction’s difficult enough. Explaining a crooked one to an unsullied soul like Michelle was nearly impossible. We were in the Great Hall.
“Auctioneers speak distinctly, slowly, in this country, love. It’s in America they talk speedy gibberish.”
For the purpose I was the auctioneer, she the tallygirl with piles of paper. She listened so solemnly I started smiling. Older women are such good company.
“There’s a word we use: stream. Always keep a catalog in front of you clipped open, no matter what. The cards from which you compiled the catalog are in your desk. Those two, the catalog and cards, are your stream. Right?”
“Maybe I should have the cards on my desk,” she mused.
“You think so?” Casually I leaned my elbow over so one card pile fell to the floor. “See?
A customer could accidentally do that, and steal a few cards while pretending to help as you picked them up. Then he’d know what we paid.”
“But that’s unfair!” she flamed.
“Look, Michelle.” I knelt to recover the scattered cards. “The people coming are all sorts. Some’ll be ordinary folk who’ve struggled to get a day off from the factory.
Others will come in private planes. But they’ll all share one terrible, grim attribute: They will do anything for what we’ve got. They’ll beg, bribe, steal.” God give me strength and protect me from innocence. I rose, dusted my knees. “Cards,” I reminded her, “in the desk. Catalog on top.”
“Now I’m a customer.” I swaggered up. She got herself settled, penciled a note. “I ask, Where’ll the stream be at twelve-thirty, missus?”
She thought. “You’re asking what lot number the auction will have reached by then?”
“Well done.”
“But how do we actually sell things?”
“Say I’m the auctioneer. Tallygirl’s on the left, always, except in Sotheby’s book sales, where they know no better. Not real gentlemen, see.” I chuckled at the old trade slight.
“I call out, Lot Fifty-One, Nailsea-type Glass Handbell—”
“No. Fifty-One is a gentleman’s Wedgwood 1790 stock pin, blue-dip jasper with a George Stubbs horse in white relief—”
“Michelle,” I said, broken. “I’m pretending.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“The auctioneer calls out the catalog number, Lot Whatever, and then says, ‘Who’ll start me off?’ or something. The bids commence, and finally Trembler calls, ‘Going, going, gone!’ or, ‘Once, twice, gone!’ depending on how he feels. Once he bangs a hammer, that’s it. He’ll also say a name—Smith of Birmingham, say. It’s your job to instantly write out a call chit. It’s the bill, really. Lot Fifty-One, two hundred quid, Smith. So you get that chit across to Mr. Smith quick as a flash. That entitles Smith to pay Mrs.
Moncreiffe. Her only job is to accept payment, stamp the call chit ‘Paid in Full,’ and tick her list.”
“Must I provide Mr. Trembler with a hammer?”
“No, love. Auctioneers always have their own. Trembler’s isn’t a real gavel. It’s only a decorated wooden reel his sister’s lad made him.”
“How sweet.” She smiled, scribbling like the clappers.
Apologetically I cleared my throat for the difficult bit. “Er, now, Michelle, love. There’s a few rules.”
“Never issue a call chit unless I’m sure?” she offered knowingly.
“Eh? Oh, yes. Good, good.” This was going to be more difficult than I’d supposed.
“Ahm, sometimes, love, you might not actually hear some of the bids. If so, you mustn’t mention it. Trembler will see them, because…” I tried to find concealing words. Because he’d be making them up, “taking bids off the wall.” “Because, he’s had special training, see? Bidders have secret signs arranged with Trembler beforehand. It’s silly, but that’s how they like doing it. They’re all rivals.”
I ahemmed again. “And there’s another thing. There’ll be two telephones against the windows. People will be telephoning bids in for particular lots. The, er, assistants bidding from the phones are treated as genuine—er, sorry, I meant as if bidders were genuinely here.”
“Telephonists to receive call chits,” Michelle mouthed, pencil flying.
“I’ll draft call chits with you when Trembler arrives. One last thing, love. Never, never contradict Trembler. Never look doubtful. Never interrupt.”
“What if I think he’s made a mistake?”
I took her face in my hands. “Especially not then, love.”
She moved back, looking. “All this is honest, isn’t it?”
