Lockwood (37 page)

Winkman had arranged it like an artefact in a museum, propped up against a slanting velvet display board. It was in the centre of a large, square silver-glass case. From where we crouched, far above, its exact size was hard to judge, but I guessed it to be no more than six inches across – about the size of a pudding bowl or side-plate. The glass in the centre seemed coarser than I’d expected, scuffed and uneven. Its rim was roughly circular, but brown and bumpy in outline. Many hard and narrow things had been tightly fused to make it. Many bones.

The buzzing sound rubbed at my ears. Two of the children in the audience made little whimpering noises. Everyone sat attentive and stiff, staring at the object in the case.

‘I should point out that you’re seeing it from the back,’ Julius Winkman said softly. ‘The glass on the reverse is highly polished; here it’s rough, more like rock crystal.’

‘We need to see the other side,’ the shabby, bearded man said. ‘How can we possibly bid without seeing that? You’re playing tricks with us here, Winkman.’

Winkman’s smile broadened. ‘Not so. As always, I have only the safety of my clients at heart. You know this object has a certain reputation. Otherwise, why would you be here? Why would you pay the minimum asking price, which I can tell you now is fifteen thousand pounds? Well, with that reputation come dangers. You know there are risks attached to looking in the glass. Perhaps there are wonders too – that is not for me to say – but this cannot be investigated until the item is sold.’

‘We can’t buy on these terms,’ the bearded man grumbled. ‘We need to look at the viewing glass!’

‘Look at the glass by all means’ – Winkman smiled – ‘but not before you’ve paid.’

‘What else can you tell us?’ the small man in pinstripes asked. ‘My backers require more solid information than you’ve given me so far.’

Winkman glanced at his son. ‘Leopold, if you wouldn’t mind . . .?’

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.

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.

Lockwood leaped over the protective chains and plunged into the smoke, trailing a scent of lavender; he had the hempen bag open in one hand.

When the silver-glass case had broken, the buzzing in my head had instantly grown louder. I looked into the fog and saw Lockwood’s silhouette bending over the table, and – above him – shadowy rising forms. Many hollow voices spoke together:
‘Give us back our bones
.’

Then Lockwood opened the lavender bag, and with gloved hand swept the bone glass into it. The buzzing was stilled; the rising forms winked out. The voices were gone.

Lockwood turned, burst out of the smoke, came running back towards me.

Some yards away, the young man with the blond moustache got up. He reached for his polished cane, lying on the floor beside his chair. He twisted the handle sharply, tugged, drew forth a long and slender blade. He tossed the cane behind him, and started in our direction. I unclipped another flare, drew back my arm . . .

‘Stop! Or I fire!’

Winkman had risen up behind the table, his face blackened, his hair blown back, pince-nez askew. Burned salt encrusted his face, his mouth hung open, and his jacket was peppered with smouldering holes. He had a black snub-nosed revolver in his hand.

I froze with my arm still back. Lockwood halted, facing me, almost alongside.

‘You think you can run?’ Winkman said. ‘You think you can rob me? I will kill you both.’

Lockwood slowly raised his hands. He said something quietly at my side. His balaclava muffled it; I couldn’t hear a word.

‘First we will discover who you are,’ Winkman said, ‘and who sent you. We will do this at my leisure. Put down the canister, girl. You are surrounded now.’

Sure enough, the guards had re-emerged from the shadows; each also carried a gun. The young man, still immaculate in his soft brown coat, stood by, sword-stick glittering in the light.

Lockwood spoke again, urgently; once again I couldn’t hear it.

‘Put down the flare!’ Winkman cried.

‘What was that?’ I muttered. ‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Lockwood ripped up the bottom of his mask. ‘The other case! The one with the ghost! Do it!’

It was lucky I already had my arm in position; even so, it wasn’t an easy shot. The glowing case with the rusted sword was several yards away, and half blocked by Winkman’s head. Probably, if I’d thought about it, I’d have missed hitting it, five times out of six. But I didn’t have time to think. I swivelled slightly, lobbed the canister high; then I ducked down low. At my side, Lockwood was already ducking too, so Winkman’s bullets passed somewhere directly over us. Neither of us saw my canister hit the case, but the sound of breaking glass told us at once that my throw had been successful. That, and the screams of warning in the room.