The Doll Story MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett
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the three men gathered around the small leather casket and peered inside.
* * * *
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” said the bald-headed auctioneer from his podium. Pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles back on his head, he glanced down at the small slip of paper, which contained the necessary information regarding the next item. He read from it: “Lot number ninety-seven.” He cleared his throat as his assistant, who stood nearby, delicately lifted what at first glance appeared to be a very small child, but was in fact a rather scary-looking doll dressed in a very old and tattered white lace dress.
The assistant held it at arms’ length as though loath to handle the doll. There was a look of mild disgust on his face. One could have been forgiven for attributing his facial expression to downright fear or revulsion.
Seated towards the rear of the small gathering of antique collectors, Briggs could feel the sweat pop out on his forehead. His hands felt clammy and he shifted uneasily in his chair. He still wasn’t sure what compulsion had brought him to the auction.
The auctioneer went on: “What we have here is a fine example of an early seventeenth-century mid-European doll. No doubt she would have been the prized possession of a young girl of some standing, as can be deduced from the style and the elegance of her clothing. One would like to think she may have even graced the hands of a young countess at sometime in the past. The lot also includes an as yet untranslated diary, probably written by the doll’s owner, as well as an accompanying small silver crucifix on a silver chain.”
Briggs swallowed a lump in his throat.
“Can we start the bidding at—shall we say, a hundred pounds?” The auctioneer’s gaze panned around the seated crowd. For a moment there was nothing but silence. “Very well, can we say eighty pounds?”
Still no interest.
The auctioneer frowned and puckered his lips. It had on the whole been a very slow day, and he himself was not overly fond of the doll, which had sat on display in a cabinet in the auction room for the past ten days; consequently, he was not all that surprised that no one seemed to want it. It had filled him with a sense of unease whenever he had been close to it, and he would be glad to be rid of it, for a sensible price at least. “Seventy pounds, then. Sixty-five?”
“I will purchase the doll for sixty pounds.”
Heads turned around in the auction hall, and the auctioneer shifted his gaze to the tall, gaunt figure stood to one side. He was dressed in a long black raincoat and his accent was clearly not English, German perhaps.
Briggs eyed the stranger intently, noting what appeared to be a leering smile of triumph on his lean features and a mocking glint in his close-set eyes. For some inexplicable reason, he suddenly had the compulsive thought that it would be dangerous for the doll to fall into the hands of this man. Without fully knowing why, he raised his hand and said: “Seventy.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the rain-coated man riposted: “Eighty.”
Briggs threw him a swift, disapproving glance. A little muscle was beginning to twitch uncontrollably in his left cheek, as a little imp of apprehension began to nag at his innermost thoughts. There was clearly something he found disturbing about the other individual who he had not noticed previously in the auction hall. It was as though he had just mysteriously arrived for that one lot only.
“It would appear that we have finally got some interest in this antique piece,” announced the auctioneer. “Are there any advances on eighty pounds?” His eyes flicked around the seated crowd. He reached for his gavel. “Going once—”
“Ninety pounds,” blurted Briggs. It was more than he could afford, but the compulsion to ensure that the doll did not go into the other’s keep compelled him to make the offer.
“One hundred,” came the stranger’s cold, accented reply as a muttered hush went through the auction hall. It was clear that some of the other bargain hunters and antique collectors had now gotten wind of the possibility that the doll was far more valuable than their previous assessments had ascertained. It was not unusual for two seasoned bidders to compete against one another if they were privy to specialized knowledge regarding the true worth of a given piece.
“One hundred and ten!” rang out a woman’s voice from the front row. Someone new had now entered the bidding arena.
Hope for a good outcome sprung in the auctioneer. He would not be surprised if this developed into a full-blown bidding war, and in which case the doll could well reach something in the region of two hundred pounds. His shock was visible when, the tall, thin man with the raincoat said rather nonchalantly:
“In order to speed up the inevitable, I will purchase the doll for five hundred pounds.”
A great murmuring came from the gathered crowd. This was something none of them had anticipated. It was completely unheard of. Five hundred pounds for an old doll, a tatty notebook containing an untranslated account, and a small silver crucifix!
Briggs’ eyes narrowed. There was something mighty suspicious going on here; something that he felt he had to get to the bottom of. Was it possible that the man who had just made the astonishing bid was a friend or indeed relative of von Shaffer, the old man in whose house the doll had been found? With that thought going through his head, he was only dimly aware of the auctioneer bringing down his gavel to seal the bid.
* * * *
Later that afternoon, Briggs sat behind his desk finishing off some paperwork. There was still quite a lot of cataloguing to do regarding the von Shaffer property. Although most had been auctioned off, albeit at a slight loss, there had been sufficient interest in some of the general paintings and objets d’art to have made it quite worthwhile. Then, of course, there had also been the doll, the sale of which had played strongly on his mind.
There had to be more to it. It did not stand to reason that someone would pay such a price for something, which at face value at least, was rather inferior. After all, it was just a doll. The small diary—if indeed that is what it was—would not fetch much, and the tiny silver crucifix which had on first discovery been found draped over the doll’s head could be worth no more than twenty pounds at current prices. So why had the foreigner been willing to pay whatever sum was required in order to procure the doll?
Determination overcame Briggs. He had to find out more. He had to.
Consulting his small notebook, he found the phone number for the auction hall and made the call. After four rings the phone on the other side was picked up.
“Reids’ auction house. How can I help you?”
“Is that you, Malcolm? It’s Briggs here.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Briggs. A fairly good morning’s work, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, yes. I’m enquiring after one of the lots from the von Shaffer sale—”
“The doll, by chance?” interrupted the other.
“Yes, the doll. I realize that it’s rather an unusual question, but do you by chance have any information on the buyer? Name, address, nationality?”
There was a moment’s pause. Then: “You don’t think there’s anything fishy going on do you?” asked the auctioneer. “The gentleman in question did seem a trifle odd, and I’ve never seen him at any of the auctions here before, although, that said, young Harvey, my assistant, said that he’d seen him looking through the accompanying diary on two occasions. Regardless, he did pay good money, and it was clear that he had his heart set on owning the doll. Heavens knows why, for I found it rather—creepy—if I do say so myself.”
“Creepy?” A cold shiver went through Briggs. For some terrible reason he felt the sudden urge to look over his shoulder to ensure that the doll was not crawling its way across the carpet towards him.
“Well, you know what it’s like. Certain objects can instill a sense of general unease, I suppose.