‘Yeah Wayne. Just feeling a bit crook. She’ll be right.’ He grasps the lid and opposite him, the other packer, Wayne, adjusts his grip, eyeballs his mate, then nods. The two of them lift the lid smoothly, straight up and away. As one, my little coterie of bystanders cranes forward, then settles back with a sigh. The painting is tandem riding so all we can see is a box within a box, held snugly in place by the foam bracers and corners of the outer shell. In front of me, a short guy with a grubby collar and a receding hairline makes a note on his clipboard.

The two packers carefully ease the inner box from its surroundings and lift it onto a low, wide table.

‘What is it?’ John asks as he and Giles come up behind me.

‘Just about to find out.’ I turn and smile at the two of them, then quickly turn back. I don’t want to miss the big reveal.

Tommo passes a chisel to Wayne, who adjusts his glasses and then begins to work his way around the edge of the box, carefully inserting the tip of the chisel and easing the lid from the base. The way he leans in as he works makes it seem like he’s listening to the sound of the wood, interpreting its creaks and groans so he knows when to apply pressure and when to relent. It’s delicate. Finally, with more of a pop than a crack, the lid is free and the two men smoothly lift it clear, this time carrying it a few steps from the table and placing it back with the other packing material. One of the curators steps forward but is halted in his tracks by a look from over the top of those half-moon specs.

‘Hold your horses,’ Wayne says. ‘Let me and my blokes finish, then she’s all yours.’ He turns and beckons to two more dust-coat clad men, who step up to the table. All of them pull on white cotton gloves.

I can now see a tantalising glimpse of the canvas between the packers’ shoulders. Nestled in the bottom half of the enormous box and surrounded by an ornate gilt frame, its proportions suggest it’s some sort of landscape, but we’re too far away and the table is too high to make out more than a small splash of red, patches of cream and vast swathes of white, grey, and inky black. Even that is enough to send a thrill of adrenaline through me, making my stomach flip. There were probably hundreds of snowy landscapes and more than a few Arctic scenes painted during the Victorian era, but something I’ve glimpsed has triggered an alarm in my mental library of paintings. I’m almost certain this is Man Proposes, God Disposes.

‘Righto lads,’ Wayne gives the signal.