Chapter Seventeen #2
Perhaps it was the strange twenty-four hours she’d had, but attending the auction gave Billie strongly conflicting feelings about family, wealth, and property.
She couldn’t help but speculate that some of the pieces represented the downfall of once-great families, or the passing away of loved ones whose most beloved possessions were no longer valued by the living, except as objects to fetch a price.
There was, for instance, the strangely heart-tugging sale of a Victorian writing box embellished with silver and mother-of-pearl inlays and engraved with the name Rose Cox.
Within the velvet-lined box was a card inscribed “In Loving Remembrance” of one Rose Hannah Caroline Klimpton, no doubt the girl’s married name, who’d “Died September 1, 1897, aged 26.” How had this found its way under the hammer?
Such occurrences were not rare, Billie supposed, but something about the sadness of the discarded writing box and its once-cherished owner almost compelled Billie to purchase it.
Auctions were places of loss or discovery, depending on which end you sat.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked in a low voice. He’d clearly felt, if not actually seen, her tense ruminations.
Billie hoped her mother would not soon be forced here, parting with more of her possessions out of desperation rather than choice. And yet, after the war, what did possessions matter except to feed and to clothe and to ensure a roof over one’s head, if even for another day?
Billie was distracted from her reverie by the movement of those heavy velvet curtains.
A black-and-white–clad staff member was slipping through a parting in the all-enveloping drapes around the room, and Billie caught a glimpse of an open door beyond, and a man with his back to the door, his hair as white as snow.
The heavy fabric slid back into place and the vision disappeared.
“And here we have lot 664,” the auctioneer announced.
Sam pointed to the open catalog, and he and Billie exchanged a look.
This was one of the other pieces shown in the advertisement, a necklace.
The auctioneer described it as a rare Art Nouveau piece by the jeweler Georg Kleemann, crafted in silver and featuring opals, freshwater pearls, blue lapis lazuli, and purple amethyst. What made it stand out most, however, was the batwing shape of the main part of the intricate pendant.
Kleemann, the auctioneer explained, had been a well-known figure around the turn of the century, working in Germany in the Jugendstil style.
Was this something that had caught Adin Brown’s interest?
Or was it simply the auction house name, Boucher’s name, that he had reacted to?
Billie cast another look around the room and strained to look back at the entrance.
There was no sign of the boy. If he was present, he was well hidden.
But then, it was a room of hidden things.
Billie longed to get behind those curtains.
An auction house employee in an apron and white gloves began walking through the audience, showcasing the necklace, which was pinned elegantly within a velvet-lined frame, to anyone who indicated interest. Several people signaled almost invisibly to him and, observant as all auction house staff were trained to be, he moved smoothly over to them.
None of them was familiar to Billie, and she felt sure they had not been at The Dancers either of the previous two evenings.
The piece shone in the lights as the auctioneer spoke of the luster of the pearls, the glitter of the amethysts, and the estimated vintage of 1907, the Art Nouveau movement’s peak.
As the employee came down their side of the room, Billie raised a finger and he came over.
It was indeed a beautiful, very unusual piece of jewelry, something she could imagine the French actress Sarah Bernhardt might have worn.
She asked to see the back, and gloved hands turned it for her.
Signed on the reverse were the initials GK in a cartouche and the number 935, signifying sterling silver.
Two more people called the man over to inspect the necklace, neither of whom Billie recognized.
Paddles were raised, money was bid, then, just like that, it was gone.
Twelve hundred pounds. That was enough to kill for, certainly, but was that why Con Zervos had died?
Money was, after all, one of the primary motivations for murder—part of the triad completed by jealousy and power.
But how did that fit in here? With Adin and Con?
After several further pieces did the rounds—rare mantel clocks and pearl necklaces—the lot of rings from the advertisement came up, recognizable by the large Victorian men’s gold ring, set with three round-cut gems—a cognac diamond, a blue sapphire, and a second cognac—that was the advertised showpiece item.
Billie called the rings over, examining the Victorian ring and the write-up for it: “One Round Genuine Sapphire weighing approximately .12 cts. and two round Genuine natural brown Cognac Diamonds totaling approximately .20 cts. Total Gem weight approximately .32 cts. Provenance unknown.”
Again nothing unusual appeared to be at play. Perhaps the clipping had been a red herring after all?
Nothing fitted. Surely Zervos hadn’t had the rings or necklace or, for that matter, the sideboard shown in the advertisement.
He hadn’t had much at all, and now he was dead, along with whatever he might have been able to tell Billie.
Adin didn’t seem to be at the auction, either to bid or to steal.
No, the puzzle was still moving, the pieces not yet coming to rest in their logical places.
What about Boucher himself? Could his name alone have been enough to set the kid off?
Was it an argument over a love interest?
The girl in violet who had seemed too young, out of place at Boucher’s table the other night?
Was it only a coincidence that Boucher had been at The Dancers, a place Adin evidently was desperate to get into?