by Tom Becker
Swerving through the crowds on autopilot, Jonathan raced along the upper level of the shopping centre, past a fast-food restaurant. He had almost reached the automatic doors at the end of the wide walkway, and freedom, when he saw a pair of security guards moving out from the doorway of a clothing shop. One of them looked straight at Jonathan, speaking urgently into a walkie-talkie. Great. Now they noticed him.
The situation was getting serious. There was a real danger he was going to get trapped. Jonathan took a sharp left and hurtled into a department store, knifing past shelves of ready meals and racks of women’s clothes. He was moving so quickly and so quietly that most of the shoppers didn’t seem to notice him. Behind him, he could hear the commotion of pursuit, the angry rattling of hangers as larger, heavier men crashed into them. Jonathan veered away from the cash desks and was urgently looking for a staircase or a doorway when his heart leapt. There was a fire exit in the wall right in front of him!
Jonathan crashed through the door and came out blinking into the bright sunshine of the car park. Without a pause he went ducking and weaving in between the gleaming machines, marking out a labyrinthine trail. He heard the sound of footfalls pounding out on to the tarmac, but Jonathan knew he was safe now. They’d never be able to find him amongst all these cars.
When he reached the far corner of the car park, Jonathan crouched down behind a blue convertible to catch his breath. Peering round the front of the bonnet, he caught sight of his three pursuers holding an irate conference several rows away from him. The policeman jabbed a finger at one of the security guards before stalking back inside the shopping centre.
Jonathan sat down and leant against the car, taking long, deep breaths. All too quickly, the adrenalin drained out of his system, and the familiar feeling of emptiness returned. He was just about to slip away and make for home when a hand reached out from behind him and wrapped itself around his mouth.
2
As he scanned the auction room, Nigel Winterford was surprised to find that he was on edge. An auctioneer at London’s most famous auction house, he had presided over thousands of sales in his career. The auction room was his court, and he was its impassive, gavel-wielding judge. From up on his podium, Nigel had calmly organized the sale of the most expensive painting ever – an early work by van Gogh, purchased by an Arab sheikh for tens of millions of pounds. When two American businessmen had come to blows over a Rodin sculpture, he had barely batted an eyelid. He had sold priceless works of art to sharp-eyed collectors, and small keepsakes to elderly ladies.
Tonight, though, was something else entirely.
All the lots in this sale had come from the estate of Sir Basil Gresham, a rich philanthropist whose recent death had been greatly mourned. Given Sir Basil’s reputation as a connoisseur of antiques, Nigel had been delighted to be chosen to conduct the auction. But, as he began to read the strict sale conditions that came with the items, his misgivings began to grow.
First, the auction was to be conducted at midnight, with only those specifically invited being allowed to attend. No members of the public were permitted entrance. Secondly, the bidding was to be conducted in pre-decimal coinage: guineas and shillings rather than pounds and pence. If this wasn’t difficult enough, Nigel had to conduct the auction alone. Normally he would have assistants displaying the lots and taking bids on the telephone from those who couldn’t be there in person. But tonight there was only one telephone next to him on the podium – an antiquated model with a handlebar receiver that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the sale itself.
Most unsettling of all, Sir Basil’s will had stipulated that under no circumstances could the auction be halted. If for any reason Nigel stopped, then all the goods would be withdrawn – losing the auction house a great deal of face, not to mention the chance of a fat commission from the sale of Sir Basil’s other works of art.
Having not received a single reply to his invitations, Nigel was somewhat relieved when the first person slinked in through the double doors: an elderly man with bloodshot eyes. The man looked around, nodding at the deep red walls of the auction room with something like approval, before squeezing himself into a chair at the back row.
As the minute hand ticked closer to midnight, the room began to fill with people. Nigel had to confess that he had hoped for a rather more upmarket crowd. These people limped and hobbled, mumbling and cackling, wild eyes bulging out of scarred faces. Their clothes were old-fashioned: dark suits matched with cravats and waistcoats for the men, and flowing, ankle-length dresses for the women. Nigel wondered if they were from some sort of historical society. If that was the case, it was a particularly down-at-heel society. The air rang with shouts and squabbles, while the characteristic smell of lush carpet and wood polish had taken on a sourer aspect, as if a pot-pourri bowl had been doused in vinegar.
Above the hubbub of the crowd, Nigel could just make out the sound of a grandfather clock doling out twelve long strokes. Midnight. Time to begin. He adjusted his bowtie and cleared his throat, just as he had done a thousand times before. This was his job, he reminded himself sternly as he took to the podium. No matter how rough the crowd, he had an auction to conduct.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nigel began, but even with the aid of a microphone, no one could hear his polite introduction over the din. Two haggard women were bickering loudly in the front row, jabbing accusatory fingers at one another.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
The room fell into a shocked silence at the auctioneer’s bellow. Even the women in the front row stopped fighting and looked up at the podium.
“Thank you,” Nigel continued in a softer voice, smiling now. “My name is Nigel Winterford and I am pleased to say that I am your auctioneer for this . . . unique sale. We shall be displaying items from the collection of Sir Basil Gresham, a man whose reputation for canny and tasteful acquisitions of artwork and jewellery is eclipsed only by his charitable deeds for the Gresham Foundation.”
He paused, expecting a response from the audience – a few smiles and nods of recognition, perhaps a spontaneous round of applause. Instead, the temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees.
“Well, seeing as this event has drawn such a . . . special crowd, let’s make sure everyone is familiar with auction procedure. You should all have been given a paddle with a number on it.” Noting the shrugs and scrabbling under seats that this remark elicited, Nigel decided to plough on regardless. “When you wish to bid for an item, simply raise this paddle. I’ll let you know I’ve seen your bid. Don’t worry – you can’t bid for anything by mistake. But you’ve only got yourself to blame if your purchase is too big for the mantelpiece!”
Silence.
“Right then, shall we start? Lot number 1. . .”
It didn’t take long for Nigel to realize that this particular auction was not going to go smoothly. The lots were haphazard: antique pistols; hand-carved chairs; rusting thumbscrews; painting after painting of purely black canvases. Very few of the audience seemed interested in actually bidding, preferring to pick fights amongst themselves. Most of those who did try to bid had lost their paddles, and made their interest known by waving their hands in the air, shouting at the top of their lungs, “Mine!”, or – in the worst case – pelting rotten fruit at Nigel. Ordinarily, the auctioneer would have halted the sale immediately, but there was no way he was going to let this rabble cost him his commission. So Nigel took off his bow tie and jacket, rolled up his sleeves and got on with the job.
After selling a series of grotesque gargoyle carvings to the old man in the back row for twenty-five shillings, Nigel was surprised by the feeling of elation that ran through him. Had anyone tried to conduct a sale in such anarchy before? Feeling buoyant, he turned back to the catalogue listing the items for sale.
“Lot 65. An Edwin Spine painting entitled The Light of Shame. Shall we start the bidding at tenpence? Sixpence? There�
�s no reserve price on this item, ladies and gentlemen, which means it can go for one penny if needs be. Come on, there must be a bid somewhere! No?”
Peering out over the crowd, Nigel couldn’t detect a single intentional bid amongst the flailing arms. Removing the unwanted painting, he turned his attention to the next item: a heavy casket wrought from black steel. He lifted it carefully on to the table next to him before turning back to his catalogue.
“Right, then . . . on to tonight’s final item. Lot 66.”
The room plunged into a deep, anticipatory silence. Fists unclenched; tussles ceased. Everyone sat down, eyes now firmly fixed on the front of the room. Nigel looked up from the podium. He smiled.
“I see this is an item of some interest to you. Let me read out the description from the catalogue:
“The Crimson Stone is the most celebrated of enigmas. Little can be said with any certainty. Its origins are a mystery; its age has never been ascertained. It remains locked away in this presentation case, to ensure that only its rightful owner may gaze upon it. For thirty years it has remained hidden from the outside world, leading some to doubt its very existence. Now, for the first time in a generation, you have the opportunity to claim it for your own.”
“Popular belief has it that the Crimson Stone was stained with the blood of Jack the Ripper himself, conferring great powers upon both the Stone and those lucky enough to possess it. Whether this is true or not, the Crimson Stone remains an item of incomparable fascination, thought by many to be priceless. We have suggested an opening price of ten-thousand guineas.”
As he spoke, Nigel was delighted to see the audience lean forward, hanging on his every word. At the mention of the price, there was a collective gasp. Whatever this mysterious piece was, it was worth more than the rest of the collection combined, and then some. He was in control now, all right.
“Well then, can I hear an opening bid?”
“Fifteen-thousand guineas!” came a cry from the left side of the room. The bidder was standing by the wall, wrapped up in a cowled red robe, and Nigel couldn’t be sure if it was a man or a woman. He did notice, however, that the room swivelled as one to stare at the figure, and that none of the glances were friendly.
“I have fifteen-thousand in the room. Do I hear twenty?”
A girl with flaming red hair shyly lifted her paddle aloft. Despite his professionalism, Nigel did a double take. Where would such a young woman acquire that sort of wealth? Then again, what else about this night was ordinary?
“Twenty from the young lady. Do I hear twenty-five?”
A man stood up from his seat. In all the chaos, Nigel had failed to notice him, which was extraordinary, given his height. He had to be nearly seven feet tall. Without a word, the giant slowly raised his left hand.
“The gentleman bids twenty-five. Do I hear thirty?”
Nigel’s pulse was racing now. The cowled figure made a noise of disgust and stalked out of the room. The redheaded girl lifted her paddle again, awkward in the spotlight of malevolent glares.
“Thirty bid. Do I have forty?”
All eyes were on the giant now. It was down to the two of them. The man raised his hand again.
“Forty!” Nigel cried out. “We have forty. Do I hear fifty, miss?”
The girl looked down, seemingly unwilling to bid again. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, she nodded. There were more gasps, and several loud oaths. Though Nigel could tell that the mood in the room was one of ugly resentment, he was getting carried away by the thrill of the auction. He turned back to the giant.
“Fifty-thousand guineas bid, sir. Do I hear more? Do I hear fifty-five?”
A look of consternation crossed the man’s face. He folded his arms and shook his head.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the bid stands at fifty-thousand guineas. Do we have any fresh bidders? No? Going once at fifty-thousand. . .”
The young girl shrank in her seat under a barrage of hisses and catcalls. Nigel almost felt sorry for her. But there was no way he could stop the auction now.
“Going twice. . .”
Out of the corner of his eye, the auctioneer saw a burly figure crack his knuckles threateningly. The girl looked terrified. But what could he do? No one had forced her to bid for the item. He raised his gavel.
And then the phone rang.
Nigel nearly dropped the hammer with surprise. The murmuring ceased, leaving the polite but insistent ring as the only sound in the room. The auctioneer lifted the receiver gingerly, as if it were a bomb.
“Hello?” he croaked.
“Mr Winterford?” said a desiccated voice. “My name is Cornelius Xavier. Forgive my absence from the auction. I prefer the comforts of my home to the outside world. What does the bidding stand at?”
“Fifty-thousand guineas, sir.”
There was a sharp intake of breath down the phone line.
“My my, that is a lot of money, isn’t it? But then, nothing worthwhile ever comes cheaply, Mr Winterford. You may expect my associates presently.”
The voice then named his bid, and promptly hung up. When Nigel put the receiver down, his hands were shaking. He returned to the podium and whispered into the microphone.
“One-hundred-thousand guineas.”
The room exploded into uproar. Pushes and shoves quickly escalated into punches and kicks. Chairs rained down upon the podium. The redheaded girl was surrounded by a coven of furious old crones, only to be rescued – surprisingly – by the giant, who swatted the women out of the way before picking the girl up and carrying her from the room. They had the right idea, Nigel thought. As he fled towards the safety of a side room, the auctioneer saw a gang of huge men in suits stride into the room and fight their way through the scrum towards the casket on the table. It appeared that Cornelius Xavier’s associates had arrived.
Compared to the anarchy in the auction room, the side room was a dingy paradise. Nigel locked the door and leant against it, his heart thudding, the sounds of rioting echoing in his ears. He had been lucky to get out alive.
“Mr Winterford?”
Someone was standing over by the window. Nigel strained to see through the gloom.
“Yes? Who are you?”
“My name is unimportant. I was employed by Sir Basil to ensure that the rules of his will were adhered to.”
Nigel drew himself up to his full height.
“As you can see, sir, I have followed every instruction to the last letter, in the most testing of conditions.”
“Almost,” came the amicable reply. “Every instruction but one.”
The auctioneer furiously racked his brains. He had gone over the instructions with a fine-tooth comb. He couldn’t have missed anything!
“Oh, don’t worry,” the voice chuckled. “You’ve done everything you can. Sir Basil would be delighted. But there was one final instruction that you didn’t know about.”
“Oh? Which was?”
From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of a sword being drawn.
“No Lightside witnesses. Sir Basil was very particular on that point.”
“What? I don’t understand!”
The figure took a pace towards Nigel, who stumbled backwards, crashing into a marble sculpture.
“Going. . .”
“Please!” the auctioneer cried. “I beg you!”
“Going. . .”
“This is madness! You wouldn’t. . .”
The last thing Nigel Winterford saw was a long blade arcing through the darkness. There was a loud thump as he crashed to the floor.
“Gone,” said the voice, contentedly.
3
Jonathan squirmed frantically, but his assailant had him in a tight, muscular grip, a meaty hand staunching his cries for help. He was dragged backwards into a shadowy recess of the car park, his feet scrabbling
on the tarmac. Powerless to resist, Jonathan was preparing for the worst when a familiar voice asked: “What are you up to, boy?”
Jonathan spun round. Carnegie had relinquished his hold and was now eyeing him with quizzical amusement. The wereman had forsaken his beloved stovepipe hat for a wide-brimmed fedora, but that was his only concession to the modern world. Beneath a long coat he was wearing an old-fashioned three-piece suit, his purple waistcoat splattered and smudged like an artist’s palette.
“Jesus, Carnegie!” Jonathan exclaimed, half angrily, half with relief. “You scared the life out of me! What are you doing?”
“I asked first.”
“Lightside stuff,” he replied defensively. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I recognize trouble when I see it.”
“Yeah, well, things have been a bit slow round here. I’ve had to make my own amusement.”
Jonathan stared defiantly at Carnegie, who suddenly barked with laughter and patted him on the shoulder, nearly knocking Jonathan over.
“I’ve missed you too, boy. Shall we get out of here before those goons decide to start looking for you again?”
Jonathan nodded, and made for the car park exit. Though he was pleased to see Carnegie, he couldn’t help still feeling sore about the way he had been sent back to Lightside. It was strange having the wereman here with him now, skirting between massed ranks of cars instead of dodging rumbling carriages. He looked up at Carnegie.
“How did you find me? No one knew I was coming here.”
“I’m a private detective. That sort of thing is my speciality. And I know your scent so well I could follow it through a manure factory.”
