of a stag in the Scottish Highlands, by an unknown nineteenth-century hand, made the auctioneer wince—a momentary lapse which drew laughter from the crowd. It was an unfortunate slip, even if entirely understandable, but it did nothing to inhibit two telephone bidders who of course had not seen the wince and who bid against each other to drive the price up well above the estimate.
Then the McInnes came up, and Jamie reached over and touched Isabel lightly on the arm. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. Her palm was slightly moist. But if I were bidding, I would be shaking, he thought.
“Nervous?” he whispered.
“No,” she said. And then a moment later, “Yes, of course.”
The bidding started low. The house had a bid in hand which had been put in for a client, and then it climbed. Isabel came in T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S
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after the fourth bid, with a bid of ten thousand pounds, but that was immediately raised by a telephone bidder. Then somebody from the back of the hall put in a bid and the price went up another thousand. Jamie turned in his seat to see who it was, but there were heads in the way. Isabel now raised her card again and a thousand pounds was added. There were consulta-tions on the telephone and a nod—another thousand.
At twenty thousand, Isabel was the highest bidder. The auctioneer looked up from his desk and surveyed the room.
“It’s going to be you,” whispered Jamie. “You’re going to win.”
“I’m not sure . . .” she began.
Jamie was alarmed. “Not sure you want it?”
The auctioneer glanced at Isabel and then looked over her head towards the back. He nodded at the bidder. “Twenty-one thousand pounds.”
“No,” said Isabel, slipping her numbered bidding card into her pocket.
The auctioneer looked at her enquiringly and she shook her head. Then he looked at his two colleagues with the telephones: both indicated that they were going no further. The auctioneer repeated the bid from the back and then dropped his hammer, a short tap, his hand covering the small wooden head.
Jamie looked at Isabel, who was reaching for the bag at her feet. “Bad luck,” he whispered.
Isabel shrugged. “That’s what auctions are about. They tell us something rather important, don’t you think?”
“That what matters—”
Isabel completed the sentence for him. “Is money. Yes. It doesn’t matter how much somebody likes something or deserves to get it—it’s money that decides things. A simple lesson.” She stuffed her catalogue into the bag.
Bidding had started on the next item, and they waited until 6 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h this had finished before they rose to their feet and began to make their way towards the back of the room. A couple who had been standing at the end of the row quickly took their vacant seats, smiling thankfully at Jamie, who had looked back at them.
Isabel turned to Jamie. “Did you see who got it?” she asked.
“There were heads in the way,” he said. “But it was somebody over there.” He pointed to the back, which was lined with thirty or forty people who had not managed to find a seat. “One of them, I think.”
Isabel looked at the crowd of people: any one of them could have been the bidder.
“Why do you want to know?” asked Jamie, from beside her.
“Pure curiosity,” she said. And she realised that there was no reason for her to know who had outbid her.
She stopped. There was a familiar face in the crowd, a man standing on the edge, examining his catalogue.
“Peter?”
Her friend, Peter Stevenson, looked up from his catalogue and smiled at Isabel. “I saw you,” he said quietly— the bidding had begun on another painting. “I saw you bidding for that McInnes. You must have wanted it an awful lot.”
Isabel made a gesture of acceptance. “All’s fair in love and auctions.”
Love. Peter glanced at Jamie, who was standing behind her: he thoroughly approved of the relationship between Isabel and Jamie and had once, at a dinner party, spoken up when somebody had made a pointed remark about the disparity in age between Isabel and her new boyfriend.
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“Well, I’m sorry,” whispered Peter. “Walter Buie obviously wanted it more than you did.”
Isabel was interested. “He was the other bidder?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “He left immediately afterwards. But he was standing quite close to me. Just over there.” He looked at Isabel enquiringly. “Do you know him?”
Isabel thought. The name was vaguely familiar, but probably just because it was a rather unusual Scottish name. She had met Buies before, but not this one.
“He’s a lawyer,” said Peter. “He was with one of the large firms, but got fed up and set up by himself doing
