Orchestrated Death by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page A

exist in complete isolation from each other
     that made the whole thing possible. What absolute shits weare, he thought, but it was without any real conviction. Oh pray she’s not working today! And that she’s got a razor in her
     bathroom with a half-way decent blade. He got up and padded in the direction of the splashing.
    The man from Sotheby’s, Andrew Watson, apart from being tall, slim, blond, and impeccably suited, was also possessed of that
     unmistakably upper-class beauty that stems from generations of protein diet and modern sanitation. It gave him the air of
     possessing youth and wisdom in equal, incompatible proportions. Actually, he couldn’t possibly be as young as he looked, and
     be as senior as he was. Atherton’s upbringing in Weybridge and his grammar-school education were weighing heavily on him.
     He felt, by comparison, as huge and ungainly as a behemoth. He saw himself looming dangerously over the other man as if he
     might crush him underfoot like a butterfly. And Andrew Watson’s aftershave was so expensively subtle that for some time Atherton
     put it down to imagination.
    All that apart, however, he was quite endearingly excited by the violin, the more endearingly because Atherton guessed he
     wanted to display only a calm, professional interest. After a long and careful examination, prolonged conference with a colleague,
     and reference to a book as thick as an eighteenth-century Bible, Watson seemed prepared to go over every inch of the fiddle
     again with a magnifying glass, and Atherton stirred restively. He had other things to do. And he wanted to be around when
     Mrs Gostyn was brought in. There had been no reply from her telephone that morning, so Atherton had arranged for one of the
     uniformed men to go round and fetch her.
    At last Watson came back to him. ‘May I ask where you obtained this instrument, sir?’
    ‘You may ask, but I’m not at liberty to tell you,’ Atherton replied. It was catching, that sort of thing. ‘Is it, in fact,
     a Stradivarius?’
    ‘It is indeed, and a valuable one – a very valuable one. My colleague agrees with me that this is a piece made by Antonio
     Stradivari in Cremona in 1707, which has alwaysbeen known by the name of La Donna – The Lady,’ he translated kindly. Atherton nodded gravely.
    ‘There is, as you see, a particular grain to the wood forming the back of the instrument, which is very unusual and distinctive,’
     Watson went on, turning it over to demonstrate. Atherton looked, saw nothing very distinguishable, and nodded again. Watson
     resumed. ‘The piece was very well known, and its history is well documented right up to the Second World War, when it disappeared,
     as so many treasures did, during the Nazi occupation of Italy. Since then there’s been a great deal of speculation as to its
     fate, naturally. It would be of great interest –’ his voice took on an urgency ‘– not just to me personally, but to the world,
     to know how it has come to light again.’
    Atherton shook his head. ‘If I could tell you, I would. You’re quite sure this is the genuine thing?’
    ‘Oh, quite! There are many features which make it unique. For instance, if you look at the scroll, here –’
    ‘I’m happy to take your word for it,’ Atherton said hastily.
    Watson looked hurt. ‘You can, of course, ask for a second opinion. I could recommend –’
    ‘I’m sure that isn’t necessary,’ Atherton smiled politely, trying not to overshadow him with his colossal, Viking bulk. ‘Can
     you give me an estimate of its value?’
    ‘With a piece of this importance, it’s always hard to say. It would depend entirely on who was at the auction, and there are
     often great surprises when rarities like this come to be sold. Prices can go far beyond expectations. But if you were to ask
     me to place it at auction for you, I should recommend that you put it in with a reserve price of at least seven or eight hundred