The Butcherbird (30 page)

It was rumoured that the doyenne of party organisers, Popsie Trudeaux, had supplied the guest list for the evening, although Sotheby’s denied this. They said they had no need for anyone’s list except their own. But other than the art dealers, the crowd was suspiciously similar to that in attendance at the party of all parties, the opening of the Biddulph Gallery.

And that was the other piece of delicious gossip tantalising the unnaturally pursed lips of every Botoxed woman in the saloon. Was it true, could it be true, that the museum trustees were plotting to remove the Biddulph name? Surely not? He had given the money, after all. Perhaps it wasn’t his to give, but did that matter? If someone coughed up, surely they were entitled to expect what was promised. It was only decent behaviour; otherwise there was anarchy—you couldn’t rely on anyone. The general consensus was that the name should stay. After all, there were many other institutions and university chairs and whatnot named after brigands and bounders and bankrupts, weren’t there? Someone in the crowd began to draw up a list of such persons to present to the chairman of trustees, who was standing at the front of the room, but soon realised it was unwise. The list was long.

Naturally, the subject of all this speculation, this delicious lip-pursing chin-stroking gossip, the former master of this proud vessel, which was itself to be humbled in another auction the next day, a show auction admittedly since the buyer was already identified, this ghost who may have browsed through these poetry books, have rubbed these bronzes with loving hands, he was a presence by his absence. But everyone else was here.

And there was a party mood, despite the lack of alcohol, despite the lack of real music. This was a festive occasion. It was true one of their number had fallen. That was, in its way, sad. But there were two mitigating factors. First, he’d never really been one of them, not really. Second, they hadn’t fallen.

Whether Popsie Trudeaux had provided the guest list or not, she was intent on providing as much of her ample bosom as possible, to anyone who wanted it. Particularly to the Sotheby’s vice president from New York. He was travelling alone. She’d ascertained that in the first thirty seconds of their conversation. He was visibly under fifty and came from an old Boston family.

New York was apparently merely a useful place of commerce for him. Old Boston families were rich, at least in the books Popsie read, which admittedly were few. And, surprisingly, he appeared to be interested in women. Not necessarily in her yet, but the man needed to relax, to have the tensions of travel eased away. She would do what she could. He was in conversation with Archie Speyne, who was said to be here to direct the museum’s bidding on the Matisse, but she drew the vice president away to ask his advice on certain artworks, on which she had no intention of bidding. People melted when asked for their advice.

And they always gave more of it than you really needed.

There was one other notably absent figure. The distinguished presence of Sir Laurence Treadmore, a presence that was known to have graced these rooms in better times, was nowhere to be seen. The Sotheby’s folk were bitterly disappointed. Desperate phone calls had been made to any number of his intimate acquaintances, of which he had none, in order to lure this bird into their bower, but to no avail. They hadn’t desired Sir Laurence as a bidder—they were aware he was seldom that—but as a phenomenon of the moment, as someone who had transcended mere public recognition and risen into the social firmament. For Sir Laurence was the only member of the cast in the HOA tragedy who had been lionised in the press as a messiah, a possible saviour, a man of integrity who had tried to hold back the forces of fraud and manipulation and trickery that were threatening to engulf the company. He’d spoken out for the shareholders, all the shareholders—why he was even buying shares himself, as an expression of confidence in the future of the company. He’d committed to remaining as chairman and had temporarily taken over an executive role until a new chief executive could be found. What more could be asked of a busy man?

It was said there were recordings of Sir Laurence pleading with Jack Beaumont and Mac Biddulph to investigate possible wrongdoing, more than once it was rumoured, but nothing had been done. For obvious reasons, in Mac’s case. The question of Jack Beaumont’s behaviour was more complex. The recent articles in the press, one headlined ‘A Corporate Gladiator’, had thrown confusion over what had seemed another unfortunate, but oddly satisfying, fall. People rose, people fell. But they seldom rose again; the resurrection was not a popular social phenomenon. Yet a great deal of factual material, cogently argued, had been presented in those articles, the second of which the authorities had tried to ban. The paper had won a court battle in order to publish, which had apparently boosted its circulation considerably.

And then there was the wife. She’d appeared on ‘60 Minutes’ and had been, well, majestic. Everyone said it. When the interviewer tried to badger her with intrusive, personal questions, unnecessary, irrelevant questions, she’d batted them away to the boundary. She’d just looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Is this a stone you’re sure you want to throw? Would you like to tell your wife now, on camera, that you’ve never looked at another woman? Or would you rather ask me questions of substance? It’s up to you.’

God, she was wonderful. Everyone knew Tony Playford was a pants man from way back, but to pin him like that, on television, it was riveting. And she’d only cried once, at the end, and not in self-pity. She was being asked about some lawyer who was helping them, who’d died, who she’d never met, and she cried when she was speaking of him, let the tears roll down her face, never tried to brush them away. That was the picture the papers ran the next day. And her final line, it was almost Shakespearean, as if someone had written it for her, and yet she’d delivered it from the gut. ‘The world is not cloaked in grey, not stained with soot. There are still those who can distinguish black from white. My husband is one such man.’ It ran as the caption under her picture. It was a triumph.

But also confusing. Were they now in or out? Prime-time television and front pages, flattering ones that is, were not to be sneezed at, but there was still a lingering odour. Better to wait and see. Anyway, they weren’t here and hadn’t been invited.

Popsie Trudeaux had been abandoned, temporarily she assumed, by her charming vice president and had scooped up Archie Speyne to fill in the time. ‘You can tell me, Archie dear, what’s really happening with the Biddulph Gallery. You know I’m always discreet.’

Archie knew something rather different, but then discretion was not a quality he admired in anyone. Where would he be with it, he always thought. However, the question of the naming of the gallery was causing him some concern. He’d argued for naming rights in perpetuity and the trustees had overridden him. Now it seemed they had been proven right. Besides, if the Biddulph name was removed, Mac would hardly be likely to sue. Maybe Archie could sell the rights again and keep the original donation as well. But there were other donors whose names were on galleries who were nervous, upset at any suggestion these could be summarily removed. What did they have to hide, Archie wondered.

But back to discretion. How much to let slip to Popsie, how much to hold back? Art was all very well in its place, namely in his museum, but these were the dilemmas that sent Archie’s heart racing. ‘You know I can’t say anything, Popsie, but if the trustees did decide to make a change, to preserve the museum’s integrity, not that I’m saying they will, but if they did, where would I find another philanthropist as generous as Mac Biddulph? Or whoever’s money it was. You see what I mean?’

Popsie did see what he meant. She saw it very clearly. It was a sparkling diamond in a dull crowd, a jewel in a sandbox. How to sift it from the dross, set it in platinum and wear it for the world, that was the question.

‘Yes, I imagine it’ll be very difficult for you particularly, Archie, having brought Mac Biddulph in with such a fanfare. A great coup at the time, but things change, don’t they?’ She saw Archie blanch at these remarks and felt pity for the little fellow.

She should comfort him, help him. ‘I’ve one or two thoughts on a suitable replacement. Perhaps not quite the same money up front, but then you’ve finished the gallery now, the roof is on so to speak. You don’t really need the money anymore, do you? But to have an impeccable name, someone you can put forward to the trustees the minute they decide, if they decide. Don’t you think that would be preferable?’

When they parted, Archie virtually skipped across the polished boards in search of a bar from which to order champagne, even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t sniff a bubble before the Matisse was on the block. But of course there was no bar, no bubbles. Sotheby’s wanted everyone sober tonight.

The room hushed as the auctioneer stepped, or more accurately leapt, to the podium. He was so charming, so athletic, always immaculately dressed, so knowledgeable and likeable, a few had even invited him to their homes, and not only for valuations. He was the manager of Sotheby’s in Sydney and, in an unusual arrangement, would handle the auction jointly with the striking blonde woman standing beside him. She had hair that fell to her wrists and eyes that, once they were locked onto yours in a bidding frenzy, reached deep into your pockets. She would handle the middle section of the vast list, but the manager was their favourite.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, what a pleasure to enjoy your company on such a night.’

They applauded. They actually applauded the arrival of an auctioneer, as if he were a conductor. The stage was set. It was only a matter of how high the prices might soar. The answer was soon known. The first few items were modest paintings by mid-career artists. They were knocked down for more than double the estimates. The Aboriginal works brought three and four times the highest estimate and the sculptures likewise. The Henry Moore maquette, a small bronze no more than eight inches high, went for a hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Someone bought a marble desk set of vaguely Italian origin, estimated at six to eight hundred dollars, for nine and a half thousand dollars. An ashtray went for nine hundred dollars. By the time a short break was called for the changeover at the podium, the room was abuzz. Sydney had never seen anything like it. It was Jackie Onassis, it was Andy Warhol—it was Mac Biddulph. And he was alive.

Maxwell Newsome felt a hand on his arm and turned to see the Pope standing beside him. ‘Hello, John. I didn’t expect to see you here. This isn’t your sort of scene normally, is it?’

‘No. But I’m interested in some of the sculptures. For my son. He’s a sculptor.’

‘Is he indeed? Wonderful to have creative blood in the family. I’m afraid all we know how to do is make money.’ Max laughed at his own witticism, but received no encouragement. ‘Sad occasion, though, in many ways. Very sad. Distressing to me, obviously. Mac’s an old friend.’

The Pope leaned towards him. ‘Yes. I gather you traded for him a good deal?’

Max’s body stiffened under the cashmere, but his facial expression changed not at all. ‘Occasionally. Mac kept things pretty close to the chest.’

‘I’m hearing, Max, that all those shares he sold might have been consolidated into one entity. That HOA might have a new significant shareholder. Have you heard anything to that effect?’

Max’s smile remained as Madame Tussaud would have wished. ‘Very unlikely, old chap. They’d have to file a notice if that was so. Nothing’s come to light. Certainly not known to me.’

The Pope nodded. ‘I just thought you might have heard a whisper.’ He turned to leave but Max held him with a question.

‘What’s your interest, John? Are you into HOA?’

‘No. I just like to keep in touch. Good luck for the rest of the evening.’

Seats were being resumed for the final session of the auction. It would commence with the Matisse. Even though Archie Speyne was about to spend someone else’s money, even though he wasn’t bidding himself, his legs were shaking, his stomach was hollow, and he was sweating under the light jacket with the ivory buttons—but he loved it. The thrill of the chase, the despair of losing, the fear of winning. It was all around the room. Adrenalin and testosterone, no ice, shaken not stirred.

But it soared, the Matisse, took flight into the outer reaches of Archie’s budget in five bids, hands flying from the telephone bidders, cards flapping around the room. What would he do? They had to have it, the museum, it was theirs by rights. It should have been gifted, by Mac, by the banks, by someone. He looked to his chairman of trustees in the front row. One more bid? A nod of approval. The museum’s stooge raised the bidder’s card. A responding call from the telephone desk. It was gone.

He was sickened, gutted. It was indecent. Nouveau riche people throwing money at things they had no real knowledge of, no deep love for. It should have been his; he meant the museum’s. He stumbled into the night in search of sustenance, physical or emotional.

But no one else left, even though the lesser items were now on the block, even though stomachs were rumbling and not even a hipflask had been sighted. How could you afford to leave? Who knew if something unexpected might spring from a lacquered box?

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to a special item. A rare collection of poetry books. A connoisseur’s item, this one. We have the perfect audience for it, I believe. All first editions. All signed by the authors. To be sold in one line, ladies and gentlemen. What shall we say for it? One hundred thousand to get started? Do I have eighty? Eighty then. Eighty to get on. Thank you, sir, eighty.

Ninety? Ninety it is then. One hundred? Thank you, madam. A hundred and ten? On the phone. A hundred and ten. Against you, madam. One twenty? New bidder. Thank you, sir, one twenty. It’s one twenty in the centre here. Against you, madam. Against you, sir, at the front. Do I have one thirty? Are we all done? Any further from the phone? I’m going to sell then. At one twenty, one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, all done, all—’