Hercules and Tempest

The phone on the side table was ringing, shrill and unrelenting as Reginald Eldergrove stepped through the door, returning from lunch with an old school friend.

“Mr. Eldergrove?” It was his secretary, Ms. Harper. Her voice sounded tinny, and he had to press the receiver hard against his ear to hear her. There was a time when he could have heard a pin drop from a mile away, but those days were long gone.

“Yes, yes, what is it?”

“It’s been found, Mr. Eldergrove, Sir. It’s up for auction at Sotheby’s next Tuesday afternoon.”

There was no need for her to specify what had been found, but he asked all the same. He had long since concluded that it was lost after all, though he had never stopped searching, exactly. Rather, he had only made efforts to protect himself from further disappointment.

“The painting, Sir. Hercules and Tempest. It’s for sale at auction.”

“Who’s selling it?” Reginald said after a long while, his knuckles white against his cane as he processed her words.

“Private seller.” Ms. Harper said, her voice faint as the line crackled.

“Eh?”

“I said, it’s a private seller,” She stressed.

“Ah.”

“Should I arrange for a taxi to pick you up on Tuesday?”

“What? Oh, yes, yes. Make it midday. And reserve the usual table for lunch.”

“Yes, Mr. Eldergrove. And you have a meeting with Mr. Washington in the morning."

"Ah," He had forgotten. He hated his monthly meeting with his accountant, but needs must. "Yes."

"Will there be anything else?”

“No, no, that’ll be all.”

“Should I accompany you to the auction?”

“What? Oh... yes. Yes, why not, why not?” He rapped his cane against the flagstone floor.

“Very well, then. I will see you tomorrow, Sir.”

“Not Tuesday tomorrow, is it?”

“No, Sir, tomorrow is Friday.” She said crisply. “You have a meeting in the morning with Mr. Grove.”

“With who?”

“Mr. Grove. Your solicitor.”

“Grove? Fine, fine. At what time?”

“Ten o’clock.”

He slammed down the receiver without responding. Leaning heavily on his cane, he made his way to his armchair in the study. His joints had their limits nowadays, and once met, they proved unforgiving. Bending his knees so that his backside hovered several inches above the seat cushion, he allowed himself to fall ungracefully into his chair.

Hercules and Tempest.

Hercules referred not to the Greek hero, but to a ship. One of the first to carry settlers to the Americas. Not that it had made it. It had fallen prey to a fierce tempest off the coast of Barbados. A tempest so monumental, it was as though Zeus himself had thrown down thunderbolts from Mount Olympia. Though according to who, Reginald had no idea; nobody had survived the storm, after all.

Some of his own ancestors had gone down with Hercules. It was this family story that had piqued his fascination with the painting, a depiction of which he had later stumbled across in an art textbook. He could still remember looking at the specks of the painted victims amongst the waves and wondering which were his fallen ancestors. None of them, of course, it being a painting, rather than a photograph, but such things were no barrier to childhood imagination.

He’d sworn there and then to own the painting for himself one day. It would be like bringing his ancestors home. There was even a family rumour, unproven, that the painting had been commissioned by another of his ancestors. With such familial and sentimental attachments, it was only natural that it belonged to him, did it not? As the only remaining member of the Eldergrove family.

He wished that he had taken a moment to pour himself a drink before sitting down. He couldn’t be sure that his knees would be able to take his standing again so soon. The decanter with its golden contents gleamed at him from the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. With a grunt, he turned his gaze to the painting which had for years hung above the fireplace. Another Sotheby’s purchase, though it was of no sentimental value to him. A pretty enough landscape of Venice during the time of The Grand Tour. Well, that would have to be moved elsewhere once he had brought Hercules and Tempest home.

Because he would win it at auction on Tuesday.

After so long of searching, he simply had to.

***

The days until the auction passed painfully slow, and he grew increasingly foul-tempered. He regretted requesting to dine before the auction; he had no appetite, and little interest in making small talk with his fellow diners, many of whom he knew, nor with the maîtres d’, who was as tediously amiable as ever. It was with a great sense of relief when he finally set foot in Sotheby’s auction house with Ms. Harper.

“How charming,” She smiled, observing the ornate coving and classical fixtures. She was carrying his paddle, patting it against her palm as they took a seat. “Charming.”

He didn’t respond, hardly paying attention. The painting was kept in a back room, with the countless other items up for auction, though he couldn’t help but scan the room in search of it regardless.

Taking their seat, he ignored Ms. Harper’s continued wittering. He gripped his cane, carved from ivory in the shape of a whippet’s head.

“Here,” She handed him his paddle, which he took. “And remember what Mr. Washington said about-”

“Yes, yes, Ms. Harper, I’m well aware.”

Was she his secretary, or his wife? With her incessant nagging, she only reinforced his decision never to marry. He was quite sure that she wouldn’t have minded becoming Mrs. Eldergrove, should the chance ever arise. Not that he considered himself in any way attractive. He knew that he was a difficult, unpleasant man, and the years had not been kind to him. But he was wealthy. Yes, certainly his family had wealth. And he was well connected. He was a man from good stock, and so he knew that he could have his pick of brides, should he wish.

“I just want to make sure that you understand the importance of-”

“Yes.” He snapped, ending the conversation. “Thank you.”

It was only the third lot, and so the wait was not long, though every moment ached with longing.

Just as he felt his knuckles may split free from the flesh, so firmly did he grip his cane, then there it was.

Hercules and Tempest. It was as beautiful as he had ever imagined.

The great ship, Hercules, thrashed as valiantly against the waves as the Olympian himself. A second ship, unknown, lingered on the horizon, little more than a few streaks of paint. The canvas was awash with deep charcoal grey clouds and purple waters, beneath a lurid orange sky. The painting screamed with rage.

He had to have it. He had to.

“And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, we have for you a marvellous painting by Leonardo Vittorio, dating to the early nineteenth century. Cherished by a private owner for many years, we are proud to present it to you today." The auctioneer crooned, his voice slippery. “We start the bidding at one-hundred-thousand-pounds?”

Eldergrove’s paddle was in the air before the man could finish speaking.

“Yes, to the gentleman in the blue cravat.” The man acknowledged Eldergrove with a languid wave of his hand, his attention immediately distracted by a second bidder.

“One-hundred-and-fifty-thousand.”

Eldergrove looked at this second bidder, his paddle waving in the air. In truth, the man looked much the same as he; upper class, well-dressed, and swollen with the excesses of life.

“Two-hundred-thousand.”

The bidding went on this way for several minutes, new bidders joining and as quickly relinquishing their fight with a sorry shake of the head.

Half-a-million. One million. Two, Three, Four. On the figure climbed.

“Eight million to the gentleman in the blue cravat.”

Ms. Harper pressed a hand to Eldergrove’s arm.

“Sir.”

He batted her away with the paddle as though she were a wasp at a picnic.

“Ten million.” He called into the room.

“Ten million to the gentleman in the blue cravat.”

Again, he was outbid. The room was beginning to gasp and whisper with each bid, eyes following the two men like spectators at a tennis match.

“Sir, you must stop now."

“Twelve million,” Eldergrove said.

“Sir, remember what Mr. Washington said about your f-”

“Oh, do shut up your stupid woman.” Eldergrove spat. “Fifteen million.”

A new bidder entered the fray; a glamorous woman in Chanel, her hair pure white.

“Stop, Sir, you must.” Again, she tried to place her hand on his arm.

Jerking it away, he stood, with some effort. His grunts echoed around the vaulted ceiling.

“Enough of this.” He snapped, his face an alarming shade of puce. “Twenty-five million.”

The room gasped.

The second bidder, with equal effort, now stood.

“Twenty-six million.” He called in a Scottish accent.

The woman in Chanel again waved her paddle. “Twenty-seven million.” She said, sounding almost bored.

“Thirty million.” Eldergrove barked, pausing to reach for a handkerchief from his blazer. Holding it in front of his pink mouth, he spluttered and coughed, swaying dangerously.

Ms. Harper leapt to her feet to take his arm, but he batted her away.

Eyes blazing, he looked to his contenders. Both met his eye, the man, livid, his small, piggy eyes as fierce as Eldergrove’s own, while the woman looked as though the loss of the painting mattered no more to her than finding that her favourite restaurant had just served the last slice of her favourite dessert. Not that she looked like the sort of woman who eats dessert.

"Thirty million to the gentleman with the blue cravat," The auctioneer clipped.

Eldergrove willed everyone in the room to shut up, keep seated, keep their paddles down.

"Are we all done here at thirty million pounds? Going once... going twice... At thirty million pounds... Sold! To the gentleman in the blue cravat." He slammed his gavel against the podium.

It was his. Finally, after so long of searching. Tears pricked his eyes as he collapsed back onto his rickety folding seat, which creaked in protest.

"Sir," It was Ms. Harper again, prattling on in his ear. "You can't afford it, Sir."

"Nonsense," He was a wealthy man. Always had been. And if it caused a little disturbance in the books, well, he could sell something. He had quite the collection after all, but this? Hercules and Tempest was his crown jewel.

"Weren't you listening to Mr. Washington?" She didn't sound at all like a secretary now, sounding instead as though she was scolding a child. She made little effort to keep her voice down.

Shushing her, he looked around at the people nearby, who were making no effort to conceal their eavesdropping.

"No, Sir. It's about time you listen. You're bankrupt, Sir. They've been warning you for years and now, this? Mr. Washington set you a limit for this painting on your insistence, and you've gone and trebled it. You won't be able to pay for this painting. The Hercules and Tempest isn't yours. It can't be."

"Nonsense," Was all he could say.

But she was right.

"I'm afraid," The clerk said at the end of the auction. "There's a problem with your payment. This way, Sir, if you please."

What followed was several arduous months of defaulted payments, infuriating financial meetings and, at last, the most terrible news.

It was hers. The woman in Chanel. As the second-highest bidder, Hercules and Tempest was hers. Eldergrove was responsible to pay the difference between their bids, totalling three million. That, at least, he could manage, so long as he sold the Venice landscape that hung above the fireplace. They could sell it all, for all he cared.

To think, he had come so close.