Hammond Innes: Solomons Seal

It all began so quietly, so very ordinarily — a routine job, something any junior in an estate agent’s office could have handled. The only difference that morning was that my mood did not match the brightness of the day. I was, in fact, in an odd frame of mind when I arrived at the house, the girl I had been living with married to a farmer, myself turned forty, and now the very real prospect of being out of a job.

The instructions to sell the contents of The Passage, River Road, Aldeburgh, had come from Rose, Walker amp; Chandler, a London firm of solicitors based in Chelmsford. They also wanted an indication of the market value of the house itself. I had glanced at their letter briefly, lying on the beach after a swim. The contents of the house were the property of a Mr Timothy Holland, whose family they had acted for over many years. He was now seriously ill and had been moved into a nursing home. During his illness he had apparently been looked after by an unmarried sister, so that I was expecting to be greeted by a faded spinster as I stood there on the doorstep in the blazing sun.

It was four years since I had started working for Browne, Baker amp; Browne, always with a partnership in mind, and now that one of them had died suddenly the vacancy had gone to Sam Baker’s nephew. Maybe he did have a better education and London auction room experience, but it was still plain bloody nepotism, and that’s what I had told the senior partner when I had stormed in to see him the night before. It hadn’t exactly helped, my temper getting the better of me and the old man sitting there like a half-poisoned owl, peering at me over his glasses and informing me, very coldly, that a partnership was out of the question, I hadn’t the right temperament.

Half my life gone and nothing to show for it — just an old car, an older boat, a few nice pieces of furniture and some stamps. No education, no qualifications, no bloody future, and now this piddling little contents sale thrust on me because Packer was in hospital, a listing and valuation job any junior clerk in the office could have done. I jabbed my finger on the bell, feeling hot and sticky with salt after my bathe. There was no passage anywhere to explain the name on the brick porch, and the house itself was little more than a glorified bungalow, much like its neighbours except that the paint was peeling from the window frames and there was a general air of neglect. This did not extend to the front garden, however, which was full of roses and carefully tended.

The door opened, and a woman’s voice said, ‘Mr Packer?’

‘No, my name’s Roy Slingsby.’ And when I explained that Packer was in hospital and I had come in his place, she thanked me for keeping the appointment. ‘Come in, please.’ I couldn’t see her very clearly, the hallway dark after the glare of the sun. In any case, it was the contents I had come to catalogue, and my eyes went immediately to a wooden carving on a rather ornate mahogany side table. I couldn’t place the design of it, which annoyed me, for I was certain I had seen something like it quite recently on a commemorative issue.

‘Where would you like to begin?’

‘Oh, here will do,’ I said, putting my briefcase down on the table. ‘This figure-’ I bent forward to examine it. ‘African?’

‘No. South West Pacific’ She had one of those gentle, implacable voices, a slight huskiness in it, and I thought I detected a certain hostility, as though she hadn’t yet come to terms with her brother’s absence, the protective instinct still strong. ‘I think it’s from the Mortlocks, or maybe New Britain — I can’t remember. Does it say on the bottom?’

I picked it up and turned it over. A small square of paper had been gummed to the base, and in tiny, spidery writing, the ink faded and slightly smudged, I could just make out the words: Gift from Rev. G. Robinson, Rabaul 1908. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said as I read it out to her. ‘New Britain — Rabaul is in New Britain.’ She sounded ill at ease, as though conscious that her resentment of my intrusion was uncalled for. ‘They belonged to my grandfather. I’m afraid they’re — well, a little crude, if you see what I mean. But exciting.’ She gave a quick, nervous laugh. ‘I wouldn’t like to have to sell them. They’re all I’ve got left … ’ Her voice trailed away on a note of sadness, or was it something else? The atmosphere of the house was strangely oppressive.

The carving was in some black heavy wood not unlike ebony, but rougher, perhaps ironwood, and it was certainly crude, the frightening features elongated to what was almost a beak and an exaggerated phallus equally long. ‘This isn’t the only one you have, then?’

‘No.’

I hesitated, looking down at it and wondering at the primitive mind that had carved this travesty of the human figure. I both repelled and fascinated, so that I guessed it was good of its kind, and now that I knew where it had come from, I could remember seeing similar carvings in the junk shops of Singapore.

She must have sensed my reaction, for she said hesitantly, ‘You think it’s valuable, do you?’

I looked at her then, seeing her eyes staring at me, dark-ringed and very large in the gloom of the hallway, her face framed in a frizzy cap of golden-red hair that was almost orange and matched the freckles on her clear skin. She wore no make-up, her mouth a tight defensive line and her nose oddly flattened as though it had been broken at some time. ‘Look, Miss Holland,’ I said, feeling the need to reassure her, ‘it’s entirely up to you what you sell and what you keep. You say it’s not to go on the list and it won’t.’ And then, out of curiosity, I asked her how many of them she had.

She shook her head a little awkwardly. ‘I — can’t remember. I stored some of them away in a trunk in the loft. If you want to see them … it’s very dusty, I’m afraid. I haven’t had time to go up there for so long. But I suppose, if they’re valuable …’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think they’re valuable, just interesting. If it was a case of insurance, or you did decide to include them in the sale, then I think I would advise an expert opinion. Primitive art of this sort is a specialised field, and I haven’t the faintest idea what they’re worth.’ I put the carved figure back in its place. ‘I’ll exclude them, shall I?’ I was certain that was what she wanted, though she was very hesitant, thinking it over a few moments before she finally gave a quick, decisive nod.

‘Yes. I wouldn’t want them to go for next to nothing at a local sale. It will be a local sale, won’t it?’

‘Yes, Ipswich probably. Or we may feel we could get a better price by putting the furniture into our Chelmsford auction room.’ I had already glanced through into the sitting room, my eyes, accustomed now to the gloom, taking in the worn chintz covers, the threadbare carpet, the rather sparse furniture and the absence of antiques. It was all down-market stuff, and I hoped she wasn’t relying on the sale to support her brother in the nursing home for long.

‘And those carvings, they would go to London?’

‘I would think so.’

‘Good, then I can always change my mind, if I have to.’

‘So long as you can find somebody to house them in the meantime.’ I said it jokingly, but her eyes remained large and serious, and she didn’t smile. I opened my briefcase and got out my clipboard. ‘Now, if you care to leave me to work steadily through the house from room to room, I’ll make the inventory.’

‘And you’re valuing everything, aren’t you?’ When I told her it was only a rough valuation, she said, ‘So long as I have some idea what we can expect to get out of the sale.’ She stood there for a moment longer, staring past me into the sitting room, a withdrawn look on her face, so that I didn’t know whether she was regretting the need to part with treasured possessions, which is something one gets used to in this business, people feeling the accumulation of inanimate objects as somehow personal to themselves, or whether she was thinking of her brother and mentally trying to equate the sale proceeds to the nursing home charges. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ she added, suddenly making an effort at brightness.