Page 68 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“I still like it,” he said generously. “Obviously I’ve seen a few, but du Maurier is always popular, and it’s in good nick,” he added, carefully examining the cover and the edges of the pages. “Bit of fading on the cover...” he mused.
“And, did I say, it’s signed by the author?” Charlie pointed out, leaning over to point at the flyleaf.
“So it is,” Richard said, throwing Charlie an admiring glance. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised, given she’ll have been in your neck of the woods a fair bit. Nice one. I’d put it in with a three grand reserve. Something similar went for just over five grand a year or so ago. That do you?”
He looked at Charlie and then at Jules, who nodded, swallowing. She hoped they had a few books of that caliber. Aunt Flo could afford something better than that grotty old flat on the Whitchurch Estate then.
However, Richard then dismayed them by dismissing a couple of other books as less interesting. “Honestly?” he said, noticing their downcast faces. “They’re perfectly sellable. I’d put ’em up online yourself and keep your fingers crossed. It’ll save you my extremely generous auctioneer’s commission. Best of luck with them.”
Jules was beginning to think the good news was all over. Well, she couldn’t knock it, the du Maurier was promising at least.
Then, finally, with some reverence, Charlie brought out the grimoire, unwrapping it and laying it reverentially on its sheet of tissue in front of Richard for his perusal.
“This,” he said, “is an original manuscript dating—judging by content and materials—from the mid-seventeenth century. Full transcript here,” Charlie added, handing over the printout, before reeling off some information about materials and research he had carried out on origins that left Jules in awe. Charlie knew his stuff.
Richard seemed to think so too, judging by the beady, admiring look he gave him, before returning his attention to the grimoire itself.
“Cross-referencing with contemporaneous sources, the author was Bridget Capelthorne of Portneath,” Charlie went on. “The grimoire suggests she was a wisewoman within the community—a witch, if you will—which ties in with historical records that she was tried at Exeter Assizes in 1685, convicted of witchcraft, and hanged for it shortly after,” Charlie finished, looking at Richard anxiously for his feedback.
“Good work,” he said, this time giving Charlie a long, appraising look.
“Is it... I mean, does it seem like mid-seventeenth century to you?” Charlie asked.
Richard, having whipped a pair of white cotton gloves out of his pocket, was carefully turning the pages and picking it up to examine the binding. “It looks right to me.”
“I mean, obviously, tests need to be done, comparisons made...” Charlie chuntered on.
“Let me stop you there,” said Richard, holding up his hand. “I’ve said it looks ‘right.’ When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you get an instinct. I think you’re bang on, and you’ve timed this well. There’s alotof interest in this type of material at the moment. Witches and witchcraft are a big thing.”
“Plus,” contributed Jules, “we think poor Bridget—my relative, actually—was the last witch in England to be hanged.”
At that, Richard’s head snapped up. “Ilikeit,” he said admiringly, before pausing, considering for a moment. “I mean, I’m sorry to hear it,” he added insincerely, “but, yep, Ireallylike it. That kind of background info makes a big difference. What we had a moment ago was an intriguing artifact. What we have now”—he extended an open hand to Jules with a reverential nod—“is astory.”
“What do you think it might be worth?” ventured Charlie, encouraged by Richard’s obvious interest.
Richard sighed, placing it down gently and holding his hands out to his sides. “Value? Could be a few grand.Willbe a few grand. Potentially tens of thousands. Potentially, the sky’s the limit.”
“The sky...?” echoed Charlie faintly.
“Well, it’s not the Codex Leicester,” Richard qualified. “But it’s nice. Very nice.”
Jules gave Charlie a puzzled look. “Tell you later,” Charlie muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“So, um, what’s next?” asked Jules, trying to keep her voice level.
“Well, assuming you would like Sotheby’s to deal with it for you?” He raised his eyebrows in inquiry, to see both Charlie and Jules nodding their heads animatedly. “I’d like to get our researchers on it,” he went on, “brief our PR team, list it—the next auction would be the end of November—I would say we would be just in time to get it into that as one of our top catalog items.”
“That’s ages away,” said Jules, a tiny bit disappointed. This was all so vague. She had been hoping to go back to Aunt Flo with a bit more of a specific idea and an earlier answer than that.
“We need to do the groundwork to get you the best price,” Richard explained. “Our teams obviously have lists of people who might be potential buyers: private collectors, museums, and so on. Communicating with them, building up interest, getting some advance coverage... these things take a little time.”
“Of course, of course,” said Charlie hastily, shooting an anxious glance at Jules for fear this god of the auction rooms would take offense at her impatience.
But Richard seemed to have become immensely cheered by the grimoire, beaming at the two people in front of him with palpable bonhomie. “Jolly good work,” he said, addressing Charlie. “What’s your background?”
Charlie gabbled something about his qualifications, experience, and impending doctorate, but Richard cut him short: “Ever thought about auctioneering?”
Charlie nodded. “Absolutely,” he said.
