A Kind of Grief by A. D. Scott Page A

last legs. Then, as though sensing someone was watching, he turned around, scanned the crowds, and seeing Joanne, one of the few strangers at the gathering, he paused.
    She could feel him trying to place her. And almost smiled as if to say friend . Then he was gone.
    Next came a set of tools—hammers, a hand saw, a bow saw, various screwdrivers and pliers, all in a nice folding wooden box with compartments of various size. The auctioneer expected brisk bidding, as they were all of superior quality. Three competing bidders dropped out when they saw who was determined to have them.
    â€œTwa pund an’ five shillings? Do I hear ten? No? Sold to Mr. Novak.” Bang went the hammer.
    Calum leaned closer to Joanne. “Mr. Novak, it was him who had helped Miss Ramsay renovate the house.”
    Mrs. Mackenzie heard her son even though he had spoken quietly to Joanne. “Another one o’ they foreigners,” she commented loudly. “And, so I heard, she and him spoke German thegether.”
    â€œMum.” Calum was smiling when he chastised her. She took no offense. Or notice.
    â€œNext, this wee drawing—some o’ you will recognize it.” The auctioneer’s assistant was holding it high. A murmur ran around the steading. “Nice frame, though no so sure about the picture.” That raised a laugh. “Five pounds? No? Three? One pound?”
    A local antique dealer nodded.
    â€œOne pound thirty shillings?”
    Now McAllister joined in.
    â€œTwo pounds?”
    Another figure, male, standing in the gloom of the far corner, raised a hand.
    The auctioneer continued. “Three pounds?”
    McAllister.
    â€œFour pounds?”
    The stranger.
    â€œFive?”
    McAllister.
    Joanne was staring at the other bidder. There was something about him. “Calum, do you know that man? The other bidder?”
    Calum stared, then whispered, “Aye, it’s Dougald Forsythe, the man from the Art College. But why would he be here?”
    McAllister didn’t hear. Thank goodness, Joanne thought. She was uncertain how her husband would react but knew it would be on the high end of the wrath scale.
    The bidding had reached twenty pounds in about fifty seconds. Then forty pounds. There had been a buzz of conversation amongst the onlookers and not a few comments on the reappearance of the art critic, but when the bidding reached fifty pounds and kept climbing, the intakes of breath over every ten-pound rise in the bidding was as clear as the hissing from a flock of geese.
    At eighty pounds, Joanne said, “Stop, McAllister, I don’t want it that badly.” But her husband was dogged when he wanted something. He had his hands in his pockets, she knew his fists would be clenched, and his voice had dropped to almost a growl. She knew when that happened to let him be.
    At one hundred pounds, he dropped out.
    â€œAt one hundred and ten pounds, to the gentleman in the far corner . . .” The auctioneer looked at McAllister, who shook his head. “Going once, twice, sold.”
    A huge upswell of voices greeted the price. Even the auctioneer had to pause to recover his breath. He took out a large spotted hankie, wiped his forehead, and nodded at the equally astonished spectators. This was a tale he and they would be telling for a long time to come. One hundred and ten pounds for a scribble o’ a deed bird that they ca’ art —that would be the least of the comments. Already one wag had called out, “Aa’ daft them southerners.”
    â€œPsst, Hec.” Joanne bent over to whisper to him, right in his ear, as she sensed Mrs. Mackenzie’s interest. “Get a photo of the man who won the bid. But don’t let him, or McAllister, know what you’re doing.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    When it came to his profession, she trusted him absolutely and knew from past experience that once Hector was decided, he was as obstinate as her