The journey took no longer than fifteen minutes and most peculiarly, I did not flinch at being accosted by newspaper sellers, flower girls, or hawkers; instead, I doffed my hat and bid them a good morning. The bawdy hollering from paperboys about ‘The Dandy Rogue’ made me smile privately. I wondered where Sebastian was, and what he was doing. I must admit I was rather disappointed I did not see the character of Josiah propped up against the black iron railings opposite my premises rattling his tin can begging for coins.
I was glad to return to work as I needed to keep busy; otherwise, my days would be filled with thoughts of Sebastian, the puzzling red book, and what the devil was going on with the Von Liebenstein boy. I did not even know him, but I knew this city and I was growing concerned about his welfare.
When I arrived at my business premises I was greeted by the doorman, Mr. Wilton, and was pleased to see the windows of the lower floor were clean and dressed with samples of the artwork and antiquities for the Spanish Art sale. The display had already drawn quite a crowd of passersby who were standing at the windows and peering at the masterpieces, however, the proper viewing was by invitation only, and would not commence until ten of the clock.
My auction house comprised of the basement and the first floor of the building at 38 Margaret Street. The building was nearly twenty-years-old and the exterior displayed Portland stone bay windows set against red brick. The premises were close to Regent Street so the window displays were excellent for drawing in the wealthiest of clients. The upper floors of the building were used as offices for a publisher, and above, flats for use solely by bachelors.
I strode brightly through the viewing gallery and greeted my secretary Annie.
“Good morning, my dear. I trust you had an enjoyable festive season?”
“Yes sir. And you? I do hope your journey proved profitable.”
“It has been an… eventful few weeks”. I replied cryptically. I passed my top hat, and cane to my secretary and I removed my greatcoat. Annie seemed bemused by my good nature and her bemusement pleased me. She knew me as a man of strict routine and dour manner. I suppose then that I was a very different man from the one who had left the office and vanished up to Scotland with naught but a swiftly penned note to warn her of my absence.
I strode into my office and found it was spotlessly clean and smelled of beeswax polish. Everything was organized just how I liked it. The gas fire was blazing to heat the room and I found a stack of correspondence awaiting me on the desk. Annie had removed the business letters from their envelopes and piled them up. Letters marked ‘personal’ remained in their envelopes, untouched. And so after Annie had delivered my pot of tea and toasted crumpets I set to work reading through my correspondence.
At ten o’clock the doors of the viewing gallery were opened to permit those who had received an invitation to view. I always employed extra security guards for viewings and sale days as in London there is an opportunist thief around every corner!
A knock on my door stole my attention from a letter about a large shipment of crockery that was to be sent to a chateau in France. I looked up to see Annie poke her head around the door. She winced apologetically and knowing I did not like to be disturbed when dealing with my correspondence, she spoke a whisper,
“Sorry sir, but Mr. Lawrence Blake is here to see you. He says it is a matter of some delicacy.”
This was curious. I had never formally been introduced to Mr. Blake. He was not issued with a viewing invite and I did not have an appointment with him. I wondered if this unexpected meeting was anything to do with the fact he had dined at my club.
“Thank you, Annie, show him in.”
I rose from my desk, straightened my garments, and moved to stand by the hearth so that I appeared professional and businesslike. I watched the gas fire blaze and thoughts of Sebastian swam in my mind. I had not taken to Lawrence Blake from the overconfident oratory in the drawing room at the Athenaeum. I was suspicious as to why out of all of the auction houses in London he had arrived at mine.
My office door opened and I looked up to see Annie gesturing for Lawrence Blake to enter my office. Annie took the man’s coat and hat then bowed her head respectfully and closed the door.
“Mr. Hannan,” Blake said his hands open wide. His tone of voice reminded me of a salesman.
“Good day Mr. Blake”, I gestured to the small two-seater couch then nervously strode to sit on the armchair beside it.
Blake was, at a guess, in his middle-forties. He was a hands-span taller than me, his frame was willow-switch thin, and when he moved it was with disarming grace as if he were dancing to a tune only he could hear. His face was clean-shaven, long, and angular, with sharp but not unattractive features. His hair was dark grey and styled with pomander, but from his youthful complexion, I wondered if he had become grey before his time. However, the most startling thing about Blake’s appearance was his eyes. His left eye was cerulean blue, and the right, a shade of brown so dark I could not
