‘Hush,’ he said, taking my elbow and moving me on towards a waiter bearing a silver platter. ‘Have a vol-au-vent and calm down.’

  I did both – one more successfully than the other.

  We both recognised the objects on the next table. Three bejewelled golden eggs, each in a transparent display case and snuggled in a nest of purple silk. ‘Fabergé eggs,’ I said. ‘These could well be genuine’ – as if I’d know any different – ‘there are still a number of eggs unaccounted for, I believe.’

  ‘Three less now,’ said Markham, thoughtfully.

  I opened my catalogue. The first egg – only about four inches tall – was described as the Alexander III Commemorative. The surface was enamelled in a beautiful greeny-blue with an almost metallic sheen. The exterior was divided into squares and diamonds by precisely placed jewels, each with a central design, in tiny, winking precious stones. It was exquisite and must have taken months of eye-straining work.

  ‘This is one of three eggs made to commemorate Tsar Alexander III,’ I said, reading from the catalogue. ‘Every egg contained a surprise and this one contained a tiny golden bust of Alexander himself. I wonder if it’s still inside.’

  Markham was staring thoughtfully and said nothing.

  The next egg was the largest at nearly nine inches high. ‘The Royal Danish,’ I read aloud, ‘containing miniatures of the King and Queen of Denmark.’ I stared at the beautiful pale blue and white object in front of me, its jewels sparkling even in the current not very good lighting. ‘Wow.’

  ‘There’s an elephant on the top,’ said Markham, critically. I don’t know what he had against elephants but I suspected one would have got the better of him at some point in his life.

  The third egg was labelled the Nécessaire. ‘Designed as an etui,’ I read.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An etui. It contains – or did contain – miniature women’s toilet items. No, hang on – women’s miniature toilet items. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’

  ‘You’re reading that out from the catalogue, aren’t you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  We gazed in awed silence at the glittering bejewelled egg, nestling in its silk nest. Sapphires, emeralds, rubies, diamonds – it was superb. One of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

  ‘This one survived the Revolution,’ I continued, ‘and was last seen officially in 1952.’

  There was no reply from Markham. He was staring at the eggs. No – actually he was staring at the transparent boxes containing the eggs. Each was in its own case so I suspected each egg was to be sold separately.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Don’t believe you.’

  ‘If you steal something from someone who has already stolen it in the first place, then is it actually stealing? I mean, you’re not depriving the rightful owner, are you?’

  ‘A tricky conundrum, but possession is nine tenths of the law,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking. Shall we move on?’

  We moved on. Up until this moment, everything I’d seen had been beautiful, magnificent, spectacular, or a combination of all three. Not this time. ‘Bloody hell, that’s ugly.’

  Markham clutched my arm. ‘That’s the Jules Rimet Cup.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Your ignorance is astounding.’

  ‘Hey . . .’

  ‘It’s the World Cup.’

  ‘The what-what?’

  He sighed in an unnecessarily exaggerated manner. ‘It’s the Jules Rimet Trophy. Presented to winners of the World Cup.’

  I must have looked blank.

  ‘Football, Max.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry – I thought you were talking about something important.’

  ‘No, if a country won it three times then it was theirs to keep.’

  I peered at the object in question. ‘As a punishment? A warning not to do that again?’

  He ignored this. ‘It was presented to Brazil permanently and then it was nicked from Rio de Janeiro in 1983. Never found.’

  ‘You can see why. Who would want that on their mantelpiece? Not when you could have the Sarcophagus of Menkaure.’

  ‘You’re so weird,’ he said. ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’

  We moved on. All the years I’d worked at St Mary’s and I’d never had any idea the Library had ever housed anything like this. Damp and dilapidated it might be at the moment, but there were all sorts of stunning artefacts housed here today. I’ve never seen such a treasure trove. Not outside of a museum, anyway. There were fragments of fossils, including, supposedly, a piece of Peking Man. We spared that a brief glance and then I touched Markham’s arm. On a small table, propped against the wall, stood, supposedly, Michelangelo’s Leda and the Swan.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, staring, unable to believe my eyes.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Markham, for completely different reasons. ‘How the hell did that ever get past the religious censors? Is that swan doing what I think he’s doing? Is it suddenly very hot in here? It’s a miracle the paint didn’t melt.’

  I moved him on. Before he melted.

  There were various fragments of scrolls and papyrus, including, apparently, work by Sappho; some small statues rescued from Nimrud before parts of the city were destroyed by ISIS; what looked like a parliamentary mace – from Victoria, Australia, according to the catalogue; and any number of swords.

  Including one in particular.

  Unlike the gleaming, fairly modern-looking weapons lying around, this was a dull, badly nicked affair, with loose leather threading around the hilt. I stared for a moment. Given where we were and the supposed quality of the artefacts on offer, this was . . . intriguing.

  I consulted my catalogue.

  It’s not polite to hyperventilate in public. Sadly, my efforts not to hyperventilate in public nearly caused me to explode. I did manage to stay on my feet but I might have experienced just the faintest tremor.

  I was looking at Durendal. The legendary sword of Roland. Durendal.

  Originally forged by Wayland the Smith, maker of weapons and armour to gods and heroes, it was supposedly presented to the young Charlemagne by an angel and later given to Roland, who was one of the twelve legendary paladins of Charlemagne. At the Battle of Roncevaux Pass, Roland held the rear, enabling Charlemagne’s army to retreat to France, and doing massive damage to the Saracens, including, I think, the Saracen king and his son. Legend says Roland and his men routed the hundred-thousand-strong army.

  Roland was killed and there are several versions of what happened to Durendal. Some say Roland attempted to destroy it by repeatedly clashing it against the rocks, but the sword could not be broken. The monks of Rocamadour claim he flung it into a deep ravine where it still lies – although not any longer if I was looking at the real thing. Some say that he fell, mortally wounded, and his last act was to try to conceal the sword beneath his body.

  Whichever story was true, there was a possibility I was looking at the actual sword of Roland. Durendal. As with all the other exhibits, this one was securely encased in a transparent box, but I was able to walk all around it, getting as close as I could. At one point I was so close my breath was actually steaming the case. A security guard coughed and I moved back on wobbly legs. This sword could be genuine. It looked genuine. Imagine if it was.

  Markham took my arm. ‘All right?’

  I nodded, unable to speak. And that doesn’t happen often.

  I looked at it again. Old. Tired. Battered. Torn from its resting place. The place where its master had left it. Doomed to end its days in a vault somewhere, possibly never to see daylight again. It didn’t seem right, somehow.

  I looked around, torn between Oh my God, this stuff is amazing and Oh my God, these people deserve to be torn asunder by angry horses. And whether I meant the people running the auction or the punters themselves, I couldn’t say. Who is the greater criminal? The person who supplies the demand or the person who creates it?

  The people here looked respectable enough – I bet at least half of them were pillars of their communities. Business-suited men. Impeccably turned-out women. All crouched gloatingly over what was nothing better than plunder. They were no better than the grave robbers of Ancient Egypt.

  There were real treasures here – treasures that belonged to the world – that should be available for study and research. They’d been ripped from their context – and don’t get me started on what so-called lesser treasures would have been destroyed during the process – and were about to be snapped up as an investment by people whose souls were made of the sort of hairy gunk normally found at the bottom of a grease trap. I should do something.

  I looked around. In addition to the two very superior gentlemen on the door, there were two more similarly dressed and acting as ushers, six highly visible security staff inside with an unknown number outside, two stately waiters, and another unknown number of catering staff doing a sterling job somewhere because the refreshments were excellent. All were men, all were very polite and professional and, I suspected, all were armed to the teeth. We wouldn’t be single-handedly arresting this little lot.

  We left the Library and split up to get the lie of the land. Or looking for the toilet, as it’s known if you get caught.

  The Ladies’ restroom was on the first floor – up the familiar rickety and uncarpeted stairs – Bashford would do himself a real injury if he fell down these – and just down the corridor from my old office. I resisted the temptation to go and look.

  Internally, St Mary’s was in a pitiful state. All the windows were shuttered. Most of the doors were locked. Plaster was falling from the walls and the smell of damp was very strong up here. I know there were generators outside but I had no idea how the organisers had managed to get a water supply – probably better not to ask – so I gave the facilities a miss and headed back downstairs again to the Great Hall.

  Markham was waiting for me at the bottom, just as a little bell tinkled. People began to move towards the rows of chairs that had been set out.

  The Flying Auction was about to begin.

  The ushers locked the doors and, interestingly, a paragraph on the back page of the catalogue informed us no one was allowed to leave until the auction was concluded. Even after they’d purchased their items of choice, everyone had no option but to stay put until the end. A sensible security precaution – and, I suppose, there was always the chance another item would unexpectedly catch their eye.

  There were eleven other customers excluding me and the embryo Time Pirate at my side. Only two were women. One was the traditional Lady in Black. She sat slightly apart, her wide-brimmed hat shading her face. Completely pointless because she chain-smoked throughout the entire proceedings – despite murmured protests around her – and was so wreathed in smoke you couldn’t make out her features anyway. I’ve no idea how the auctioneer knew whether she was bidding or not but that was his problem. The other woman was fur clad and elderly. She kept her attention solely on her catalogue and appeared only interested in the supposed works of Sappho.

  The men were more difficult to place. They all wore suits of either dark grey or black. Markham and I were easily the most casually dressed people there, and that included the staff. I think three of the suits had come together – they all seemed to know each other, anyway. They sounded German or maybe Austrian. Some of the others seemed to know each other, as well – there was a great deal of handshaking and some backslapping. They probably met at this type of thing quite often.

  Markham and I split up. A greater chance of one of us getting away should things go tits up, said Markham. And for God’s sake, don’t bid for anything by mistake.

  One of the waiters held a chair for me. I was off to the right – Markham to the left. I suspected the major bidders – the ones from whom they expected to make big money – were seated front and centre. However, the chairs were very comfortable with – ta dah! – cupholders. I placed my mysteriously empty glass in the appropriate holder where it was immediately topped up again. Seriously, I could get used to this.

  I settled myself and then looked around. There were still two or three empty seats so possibly some people hadn’t turned up or had changed their minds. I could see two guards at the front door, wearing neat black suits and earpieces. They probably carried enough weaponry to invade a medium-sized country. Presumably their function was to keep us in and everyone else out. There was no Long Corridor because Hawking didn’t exist yet, so the only other exit from the Great Hall was through the kitchen. Another guard stood there. I knew there were two more in the Library, guarding the merchandise. Another one stood at the foot of the stairs. So that was the six accounted for.

  The two waiters flitted about, either refilling glasses or brandishing trays of elegant snacks. We were encouraged to partake freely so I did, because you don’t want to be rude, do you?

  I glanced casually around and Markham had vanished. Nowhere to be seen. I didn’t dare peer too closely. There was no shouting so presumably he hadn’t been caught yet. Whatever he was doing.

  I made a business of scanning through my catalogue and marking up items in which I might possibly be interested, all the time keeping my eyes peeled for him. Whatever he was doing. I sighed and began to plan our possible escape. Out through the kitchen seemed quickest and easiest, although I wasn’t optimistic.

  A bell tinkled and the auction began.

  The auctioneer – a tall, cadaverous man in formal morning wear who looked like an undertaker but had the most melodious voice I’d ever heard – took up his position at the podium set up outside the Library, checked his catalogue, straightened his sleeves, ran an experienced eye over the expectant crowd, and began.

  ‘Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Today’s auction will be conducted in English. I believe most of you are comfortable with that language?’ He paused. No one disagreed. ‘The currency will be pounds sterling. Conversion charts can be provided on request.’ He paused again. No one took him up on the offer.

  ‘Before we begin, there are just a few tiny housekeeping details to address. As old friends will already be aware, the doors will be locked for the duration of the auction. I can assure you this is solely for reasons of security and absolutely not because we intend to hold you all to ransom afterwards.’

  He paused again for the uncertain laugh. I made sure to smile at his jolly jape while thinking, shit . . .

  ‘Just to reassure you all – in the extremely unlikely event of a fire, please remain calm and our staff will escort you quickly and safely to the nearest exit.’

  In common with every meeting I’d ever attended, no one took a blind bit of notice of the important information designed to save their lives in an emergency, instead shifting impatiently in the seats and rustling their catalogues.

  ‘And finally, as always, you will be required to surrender your catalogue on leaving. For obvious reasons. And now, if everyone is ready – we shall begin. Can we have the first lot, please.’

  We started with the small stuff. Fossils, tablets, scrolls and such. I suspected the Amber Panel would be the climax of the afternoon. The pace was brisk. Each item was brought in and displayed on two big screens set up each side of the room. Anyone who wanted a closer look was invited to do so although no one was allowed to touch. That done, the auctioneer would name the opening bid and off we would go. Bidding was fierce and fast. There were, obviously, no telephone or internet bids. If you wanted to bid, then you had to be here in person to do it.

  Bids were tremendously discreet. No one waved their arms around like a windmill. Half the time I had no idea who was bidding, but presumably the auctioneer, standing on his temporary dais outside the Library, had an excellent view of his audience.

  I sat very quietly, hands firmly clasped in my lap, and hoped Markham – wherever he was – was doing the same. The cost apart, we’d never get a giant, inadvertently purchased sarcophagus home in the pod.

  On completion of each sale, the artefact in question was taken to a separate room – part of what would be Wardrobe one day – presumably to be packaged and paid for. The ushers would have the next item up on display even before the first one had cleared the room. There would be murmurs of either congratulation or disappointment and then everyone moved on to the next lot. The whole thing was slick and well organised. These people were really professional. So fast were they that the first three to four items sold in under five minutes.

  I looked down at the catalogue again. The final paragraph advised us that once the Flying Auction was over, guests were requested to vacate the premises no more than thirty minutes after the sale of the last item. I calculated the whole thing would be over and done with in less than two and a half hours. If they hadn’t received any sort of tip-off, the chances of the Time Police nailing any of this little lot were remote. All the better for Smallhope and Pennyroyal, of course. And Markham and Maxwell, too.

  My attention, which had been wandering as I watched the crowd, was suddenly caught. The next item had not appeared as smoothly as it should have done. In fact, it hadn’t appeared at all. The air of expectancy gave way to concern. This was obviously unprecedented. People began to crane their necks towards the Library. Had something gone wrong? I too was gazing around with a worried expression, only I was looking for Markham. Who was nowhere to be seen. I sighed. Here we go.

  A guard appeared at the auctioneer’s side and whispered urgently. As I watched, more armed guards moved suddenly in front of the doors. Which were locked, anyway.

  The auctioneer, whose face showed no expression at all, turned back to the murmuring customers.

 

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