19

It was coming toward the end of the sale when Mark Pearson first noticed the woman standing in the doorway.

He had no idea how long she had been there; it could have been all afternoon. She was slight, but striking: cropped hair and swathed in an enormous velvet coat despite the heat of the day. The crowds had thinned a little since lunchtime; on the second afternoon of the sale they had now sold over nine hundred lots. The last was English and Continental furniture, John Brigham’s dresser among them. Mark glanced at his watch; the final lot was number 983. He estimated that it would take another forty minutes.

The salesroom was very hot. They had opened the top windows but it had only served to increase the flow of sultry air; eventually they had opened the back delivery doors, and the bidders had a view out into the marketplace and the hills beyond. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Amanda had taken telephone bids all day; she had just finished and came over to him as the bidding for the last lot was completed.

“Robert is here,” she whispered.

Taking his eyes from the woman in the coat, Mark followed the inclination of his wife’s head. Robert was standing in the doorway, too, watching Catherine as she took the bidding.

“How do you think he looks?” Amanda asked.

“Indifferent,” Mark said.

They looked at him together; it was true. Robert looked bored, leaning heavily against the doorjamb and loosening his tie. He stepped aside as the woman whom Mark had noticed earlier edged past him and began to walk slowly down the central aisle, looking from left to right for a place to sit.

Catherine was taking the bids. She saw the woman and the catalogue in her hand. Sitting down eventually, the woman began to fan herself with it. At first Catherine thought it was a bid; she glanced again toward her, then went on. After a moment or two, she was aware of her sitting forward occasionally to peer at various items. The woman’s expression was noncommittal, but Catherine felt nevertheless that not only the items, but the whole salesroom, was under inspection.

It came to the final ten lots.

“Lot 972,” Catherine said. “A Dutch walnut and floral marquetry bureau, inlaid with various woods and enclosing a fitted stepped interior. A thousand pounds?”

There was silence.

“Five hundred, then.”

Five was bid; within a few seconds three or four dealers were bidding against each other. The pace slackened around three thousand.

“Three five?” Catherine asked the nearest man.

“Three two.”

“Three four?” But there was no responding bid.

“For the first time of asking, at three thousand two hundred …”

“Three five,” said the woman.

Catherine looked at her. “New bid in the center of the room,” she acknowledged. “At three thousand five hundred …”

“Three six,” said the dealer.

“Three seven,” the woman responded.

A murmur went round the room. Some of those who had been leaving turned back at the doors. The dealers, all familiar to one another, craned their necks to see who the bidder was.

The man paused. He was staring down at his catalogue. It was Stuart, the dealer whom Catherine and Mark knew well. He was glaring down at his catalogue, aware that he was up against a private bidder and annoyed that his own price should be forced higher. “Eight,” he murmured.

“Three thousand eight hundred.” Catherine looked back at the woman. She was met with a direct stare and a smile that surprised her. Then, a shake of the head.

“Staying at three thousand eight,” Catherine confirmed. She saw that Stuart had colored. The woman seemed so laid-back that he had assumed it had been nothing more than a whim for her to bid, a whim that had just cost him six hundred pounds.

“Going now at three thousand eight hundred,” Catherine said.

She glanced once again at Stuart’s competitor. There was something vaguely familiar about her, she thought. The woman’s smile suddenly broadened. “Four thousand,” she said.

The dealer gave up, sighing loudly and returning to the chair that he had been sitting in.

“Any advance on four thousand …”

There was no opposition; Catherine brought down the gavel. “And the name?”

“Brigham,” was the reply.

Amanda, standing at the rear, grabbed Mark’s arm. “What did she say?” she whispered.

“Brigham,” he repeated.

They looked at each other. “It’s his wife,” Amanda said.

“He hasn’t got a wife,” Mark told her. “She died twelve years ago. Catherine told me.”

“Well, he can have remarried, can’t he?”

“She could be anything,” Mark told her. “A sister, a cousin …” He looked anxiously at Catherine. She had paused only for a second before passing on to the next lot. The woman was sitting back in her chair, apparently perfectly relaxed.

“She doesn’t look bothered,” Mark said.

“Is she supposed to?”

“Well, if she were his wife and had come here to find Catherine,” Mark pointed out in a whisper, “you might expect her to look a bit more thunderous than that.”

It took just half an hour to complete the sale; in all that time, the woman did not move.

When Catherine was finished, she left the podium and as she walked down the aisle, only then did the woman stand to meet her. She held out her hand.

“I’m Helen Brigham,” she said.

Catherine smiled, returning the handshake. “I had just about worked it out,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. John didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I haven’t told him,” Helen said. “It’s a surprise. Though he asked me the other day, of course. When he was up in town. When we met for lunch.”

“For lunch,” Catherine repeated. She frowned, confused.

“I’m just dying to see this new house of his,” Helen said.

Catherine looked closely at the other woman. She could see no resemblance at all between this small, dark-haired woman and her brother. John was tall and ascetic-looking, thin, sometimes to the point of looking drawn; this woman was quite different.

“And you live in London?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

There was an awkward pause. Catherine was still silently trying to work out which day John had met Helen. He hadn’t told her about it. “Well,” Catherine said eventually, “you bought a lovely piece.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But not as nice as anything that John has.”

“Well …”

“I expect he’s shown you the entire collection.”

“I’ve seen … yes,” Catherine agreed, confused by the pointedness of the question.

“All his secrets,” Helen said. “Every one?” She lowered her voice. “My God, you must have been thrilled.”

They were interrupted by Mark and Amanda.

“This is John’s sister,” Catherine said. She felt utterly confused suddenly. All his secrets. When we met for lunch. She gazed at Helen’s profile as she turned toward Amanda; at the thick silk collar of the coat, the theatrical coloring of it; at the cruelly cropped hair and the pale face beneath it. “This is Mark Pearson, and his wife, Amanda. Amanda, this is Helen.”

“Do you have a house down here you’re thinking of furnishing?” Mark asked. “That is a lovely bit of nineteenth century you got yourself.”

“No,” Helen said. “The desk can go to John’s for now.”

She looked around her at the room, and at the customers, now gradually filing out. “You have quite a setup here,” she said. “John said it was a small venture. But this is quite big.” She turned back to Mark. “So, ‘Pearsons.’ This is yours.”

“Not exactly,” Mark said. “Catherine and I are partners.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine saw Robert coming toward them. He had grown tired of waiting; impatience was written all over him. She tried to signal that she would come and talk to him, but he was making his way past the last of the crowds and Mark had already turned. Politely, he held out his hand.

Helen looked from one to the other inquiringly.

“Helen,” Catherine said. “This is Robert Sergeant, my husband.”

There was a second’s pause. “Really?” Helen asked. “How interesting. I’m John’s sister. John Brigham.” She extended her hand and Robert took it.

“Robert lives in London, too,” Catherine said, lost for any other way to explain herself. There was an almost palpable tremor of embarrassment.

“Whereabouts?” Helen asked.

He named a street. Catherine had no idea of where it was. It was the first time he had even ventured the information that he had a flat, an address, rather than a hotel.

“Near the Cavenish?” Helen was saying.

“Not far.”

“I know it.”

“Robert’s mother lives in Bedford Square,” Catherine added.

Helen smiled, and nodded. “Does she?” she murmured.

Robert extracted his hand with a smile. “I need to have a word with you,” he told Catherine.

They excused themselves, Catherine walking back to the podium and Robert following her. They stood between the wall and the display cabinet, where two customers were waiting to be given their purchases. The steward glanced at Catherine, holding the receipts book for her to countersign.

She turned her back, lowering her voice. “What did you want?” she asked.

“Should I know who John is?” Robert asked.

“He’s a customer,” Catherine said.

He looked acutely at her before replying. “I’ve been to the estate agents,” he said. “They had two people interested before I walked out of the door. They want to see the house tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Catherine echoed. “All right.” And all the while, she was thinking: all his secrets … all his secrets … you must have been thrilled…

“Can you be there during the day?”

“What?” she said, distracted. “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at my appointments for tomorrow. I can be, I suppose. Are you going back to London?”

“Tonight,” he told her. “Now. In fact, an hour ago if this sale hadn’t taken so bloody long.”

“I’ll see to the house,” she said.

He put his hand on her arm. “I went back there today,” he said. “They wanted all the stuff about council tax and water rates. I couldn’t remember. I went back to check in the study.”

She held his gaze.

“You aren’t living there,” he said. “Are you?”

“It’s nothing to do with you where I live,” she replied.

“I was thinking …” he said. And he laughed a little to himself and shook his head. “I was thinking how much I had hurt you. I was feeling guilty. You alone in the house.”

“You should,” she told him.

The steward touched Catherine’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If you would just …” And he held out the receipts book. She signed; he returned to the cabinet; all three standing there looked at the couple alongside them.

“I’m not talking to you here,” Catherine whispered. “And I’m not discussing something like this.”

She made to turn away from him. He caught her elbow.

“You didn’t waste much time, did you?”

She pulled her arm away, furious. “You’ve got a bloody nerve,” she hissed. “What does it matter to you? You don’t want me, Robert. You left me for someone else, remember?”

“There isn’t anyone,” he said.

There was a beat of astonishment. “What?”

He stayed silent, his lips pressed tightly in a kind of grimace. Then he seemed to take hold of himself; he straightened, pushed back his shoulders, looked around the room. He put his hand in his pocket, took out a business card, and gave it to her.

“This is the estate agent,” he said. “Ring them.”

He turned away, and went back to the group in the center of the room.

Helen was in the process of writing out a check, leaning on a table.

She signed with a flourish and handed it to Amanda. Catherine watched Robert talk briefly to Mark; then Helen touched him on the arm. He lowered his head to listen to her and eventually nodded.

They went out of the room together.