Up bounced the boy. ‘The item needs to be treated with extreme care. Quite apart from the dangers of the mirror itself, the bone fragments appear to be a Source for more than one apparition. At times I have counted at least six, perhaps seven faint figures hovering near the object. They project very strong psychic disturbances: much anger and agitation. The mirror surface itself gives off intense chill, and an attraction similar to fatal ghost-lock. Those who look in it are mesmerized, and find it hard – if not impossible – to drag their gaze away. Permanent disorientation may result. Risk levels: very high.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Winkman said, after Leopold had plopped down, ‘that is our summary. Please – bring your assistants up and make a closer inspection.’
One by one the audience rose and approached the case, the adults curiously, the children in fear and doubt. They surrounded it, whispering to each other.
Lockwood pulled up his mask and leaned in close. ‘It’s twenty past. Get ready, and watch the windows.’
High along the opposite wall, a row of great rectangular windows faced the night. Somewhere beneath them George and Flo would now be standing, George readying the contents of his bag. They would see the position of the light; they’d know the location of the auction. I shifted from one foot to another, felt the cold firmness of my rapier hilt.
Any moment now . . .
Down below, the crowd pressed closer round the case. The bearded man spoke peevishly. ‘There are two holes drilled through the bone here, near the base. What are they for?’
Winkman shrugged. ‘We don’t know. We believe it may have been fixed to a stand. No one would have wanted to hold it, I feel sure.’
At my side Lockwood gave a sudden soft exclamation. ‘That’s it!’ he whispered. ‘Remember those sticks I saw in the photo of Bickerstaff’s coffin? I was right – they were some kind of stand: something to put the bone glass on.’
‘Winkman hasn’t got it, then,’ I said.
‘Of course he hasn’t. Jack Carver didn’t take the sticks, did he? No, someone else pinched them, after the photo was taken.’ He glanced at me sidelong. ‘I’d say it’s fairly obvious who.’
That’s how Lockwood was sometimes: he liked to throw out tantalizing titbits of information at the most inappropriate times. I would have questioned him right there (and thumped him if need be), but now Winkman was ushering his audience back to their seats. It seemed the bidding was about to start.
Lockwood looked at his watch. ‘Where is George? They ought to have started by now.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Winkman said. ‘Have you conferred with your psychics? If you have no questions, time is pressing, and we must get to the main point of business. As I said, the starting price for this very unique item is—’
But the young man with the blond moustache had raised his hand again. ‘Wait. I do have a question.’
Winkman cranked his smile wider. ‘Of course. Please.’
‘You have mentioned certain supernatural risks. What about the legal ones, rising from the murder of Jack Carver? Word is, Carver got you the glass, and a dagger in the back was what Carver got from you. We’re not too particular about your methods, but this seems a little too public for anyone’s good. DEPRAC is investigating this now, as are some of the agencies.’
The edges of Winkman’s mouth flicked downwards, as if a switch had been thrown. ‘I’d like all you gentlemen to recall the previous business we’ve done together. Haven’t I honoured our agreements? Haven’t you been satisfied with the items that I’ve sold? Let me tell you two things. First – I never commissioned Carver. He came out of the blue to see me. Second – I bought this item fair and square, and I left him in rare good health. I didn’t kill him.’ Julius Winkman put a great hand on his chest. ‘All this I swear on the head of my dear little son, Leopold, what you see as limber as a ferret here. As for DEPRAC or the agencies . . .’ He spat sidelong onto the warehouse floor. ‘That’s what I think of them. Still, anyone who’s fearful is welcome to leave now, before the bidding takes place.’ He stood in the centre of the stage with his arms spread wide. ‘Well?’
At that moment a white light bloomed beyond the window. None of the people on the warehouse floor noticed it, but we, in the shadows, saw it swell and grow, then fade into the dark again.
‘That’s our cue,’ Lockwood whispered. He pulled his mask down.
Down below, no one had answered Winkman. The young man had only shrugged; everyone remained seated.
Winkman nodded. ‘Right. Enough talking. Let’s have your starting bids.’
At once the man with the beard lifted an arm.
And the nearest window blew apart in an explosion of incandescent fire.
24
We’d known the first magnesium flare would explode the moment it hit the glass, and we’d anticipated it would shatter the pane it struck. What we didn’t expect was that the blast would be strong enough to break all the panes in that huge warehouse window, and several in the windows on either side. So the effect was even better than we hoped: a wall of glassy shards toppling with the force and power of a melting ice shelf, cutting straight through a pluming cloud of salt, iron, and white magnesium flames.
Even before the shower of fragments burst to powder on the ground, two more flares were spinning through the smoke above, looping through the hole the first had blown.
And by the time they struck, Lockwood and I were already halfway down the steps, rapiers and flares in hand, hurtling towards the warehouse floor.
The noise of the original explosion and the crack of ruptured glass had deafened us, even through our woolly balaclavas. And we’d been expecting it. The effect it had had on those directly below, to whom it came as an utter shock, could be seen in the swarm of figures milling within the tumbling silver smoke.
The child psychics were out of their chairs and running, screaming, into the dark. The guards blundered left and right, protecting their heads against the rain of salt and glass. Two of Winkman’s clients had fallen forwards onto their knees as if the End of Days had come; the young blond man sat motionless in his seat as if paralysed with shock. Winkman’s son had leaped gibbering to his feet; Winkman himself stared left and right like a bewildered bull, fingers flexing, neck-cords straining beneath the skin.
He caught sight of us as we clattered down the steps and his black eyes opened wide.
Then George’s second and third flares struck the ground. Two more eruptions of billowing white fire. Winkman was blown sideways; he crashed into the table that held the bone glass and fell heavily to the floor. Behind him one of the lanterns toppled, smashed, went out. Hot iron particles shot high, looped down in a glimmering red cascade.
It was a scene of carnage and confusion. The man in pinstripes rolled onto his back, shouting, wisps of smoke rising from his suit. Winkman’s son had fallen heavily against his chair, breaking it in pieces. The bearded man gave a cry of terror. He stumbled to his feet and fled up the hall.
Still the young blond man sat immobile, staring straight ahead.
Lockwood and I were almost at the bottom of the steps. We’d calculated on our distraction giving us several seconds’ grace, and though George’s work had exceeded our wildest hopes, we knew it wouldn’t be enough. It was my job to maintain the distraction, while Lockwood snatched the mirror. I readied a fourth flare, lobbed it in the general direction of the flailing guards. Lockwood threw another, only his was directed firmly at the silver-glass case.
Two more explosions. One sent the guards scattering; the other shattered the case. Winkman, who’d been attempting to pull himself upright behind the table, disappeared in a blast of silvery fire.