Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8

by Preston William Child

  “Good evening, my dear,” he smiled.

  “My name is Ava Somerset, from London Bridge Collectables,” she introduced herself cordially. “My brother and I run the business together, but tonight he has allowed me to represent our little establishment. I am a huge admirer of your collection, and have read the books written by your colleagues on some of the expeditions you have lead. Fascinating.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Somerset?” he asked reluctantly.

  “Yes, but you may call me Ava. It would be an honor,” she smiled coyly.

  “Let me get you a glass of champagne, my dear,” Purdue offered in his usual suave manner. He summoned a waiter with a tray full of glimmering glasses and elected one for the lovely Ava.

  “Thank you, Mr. Purdue. Are you here to bid tonight or are you putting some of your relics on the board?” she asked, lolling her head to one side.

  “Call me Dave,” he winked. His pale blue eyes explored Ava rapidly, finding her most agreeable. “Actually, I am just here to see if anything,” he paused dramatically, “wets my appetite, as it were.”

  She caught on quickly, but pretended not to notice his charms. Remaining unfazed and quiet, she silently urged him to continue.

  “We will see what the night delivers,” he smiled, scanning the small party of people in lavish dress, suited to the opulent mansion of the host, a man called Matheson. Purdue had been absent long enough not to know the latest patrons of the Euphrates Society, and Matheson was unfamiliar to him, apart from having the reputation of excellent swordsman and benefactor of antiquities. Purdue laid his eyes on Ava’s haunting face and asked, “What about you? Are you auctioning off or purchasing some new stock for your business?”

  “Auctioning off. We have too many pieces in our inventory, so Bernard, my brother,” she added sweetly, “wants to empty out the stores of the pieces that have been there too long without selling.”

  “Cutting bait,” Purdue nodded. “That is a good rule of thumb, otherwise things have a tendency to lose their value, in my opinion.” He could not help but quietly assess the statement as pertinent to the people he had been dealing with over the last five to ten years. In comparison to earlier years, Purdue’s circles have grown increasingly smaller and more private, which was safer, for one.

  “Yes,” Ava agreed, “we used to take on just about every piece that promised to be even remotely lucrative, but we soon found out that that is a quick way to bankruptcy. So, now we only buy what is guaranteed to be a big seller. Fewer goods, higher fees with less paperwork per hit, you know?”

  “Good thinking,” he said. “I am much the same, only hoarding what is truly exemplary. Leave the rest for the packs of scavengers, I say.”

  Ava chuckled heartily. It was a giggle of substance, because it contained a meaning. Purdue knew it was not just a response to be polite, but a wordless commentary.

  “You do not agree?” he asked.

  “I do. I do,” she replied sincerely, her eyes still gleaming with amusement. “I just found your comment a little ironic.”

  “How so?” Purdue pressed.

  Her eyes rolled playfully as she smiled. “Well, you are David Purdue, a well known man of…means.”

  “So?” he persisted, growing slightly wary of her response.

  “You surely do not really think you have anything in common with humble merchants such as me and Bernard, do you?” she snickered. Her hand rested gently on Purdue’s forearm. “By no means do I mean to insult you, Dave, but come on. You do not have to cut bait for financial reasons, as we do. That is all. That is what I found amusing and now I look like an arsehole, right?”

  Purdue was delighted with the woman who looked like some blue-blooded duchess and sounded like an unpretentious housewife.

  “You look splendid, my dear, and may I say, far from any arsehole I have ever seen,” he replied, pursing his lips playfully. As Ava laughed, Purdue added, “I do understand why you would see it that way, though. You are correct in your assumptions, but that does not mean that I cannot see the value in small hoards for more money per sale, you know.”

  Her laughter diminished gradually as she composed herself once more. “I know,” she conceded. “It was just so out of place to see you as a peer, and not some high lord of the relic world, talking along with us peasants.”

  “Oh, come now,” he laughed. “Do you own a mirror? Have you seen the intimidating beauty you wield, my dear? Do not ever sell yourself short.”

  “Thank you, Dave,” she replied gracefully.

  “Which pieces are yours, then?” Purdue asked, making a mental note to buy at least two items from Ava’s inventory list, even if they held absolutely no value. He was not compelled to do so because of the lady’s stunning allure, but because his sharp Lombard Street senses told him that her business was in need of patronage.

  Knowing what he was up to, Ava eagerly took his program from him and carefully reached into his blazer. She pulled the gilded Fifth Avenue roller ball from his inner pocket.

  “How did you know that was there?” he frowned in pleasant surprise.

  “Mrs. Appleby,” she grinned as she opened the program. Mrs. Appleby had been the administrator of the event since 1984, so she knew the habits of most of the regulars, such as where Scottish billionaires keep their pens.

  “Of course,” he smiled, shaking his head. He watched Ava mark four items on the list for auction as he sipped more champagne and listened to the low hum of the murmuring crowd in the marble room. “As luck would have it, drawing room and dining room had recently suffered fire damage,” Purdue informed her as he perused the markings. “Good thing that you have brought my attention to the table you are selling there. My dining room rose wood has made it into my hearth after the fire, so I shall be needing something authentically antique to replace it.”

  “Isn’t that uncanny?” she winked and dipped into a curtsy. “As legend goes, this table’s provenance had passed through the hands of people like Roger Lancelyn Green, Louis XV of Bourbon and Franz von Papen. However, its origin is unknown, and dates back to the Middle Ages.”

  Purdue nodded as she spoke, paying attention to the names she dropped while assessing the truth in her words. He did not care where the table came from, nor did he give a damn who had owned it before. All he wanted to do was to support Ava and her venture.

  “No honey smearing needed in this transaction, my dear,” he finally said.

  “But it is the truth. It has been dated by an assessor of great integrity, Louistown Appraisals…” she tried to assert.

  “I believe you, my dear Ava,” he insisted with a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “and therefore you have no need to polish the presentation of the item. I want it. I shall have it. That is how I transact.”

  She stared at the avant-garde relic collector with even more approbation as before. He was everything she had heard he was, to her surprise. David Purdue was not only charming to a fault, but he knew how to play with words, as it was evident what he meant by his resolute declaration. Ava and Purdue shared a moment of staring at one another that lasted a wee second too long for conventional conversation, but it was interrupted by an announcement.

  On the low stage of the converted ballroom, their host, Mr. Matheson, opened the proceedings with a short speech, welcoming the guests and assuring everyone of absolute discretion during the bidding battle to come. Purdue extended a bent arm to the silver-haired Ava Somerset and she happily hooked her arm in his as they strolled to their seats for the evening’s antiques auction.

  6

  Brian, the Inquisitive

  It was day number three on Nina’s quick money week in Glasgow. The day was cold, but the sun promised a mild afternoon, which was good for hitting the pub after she had completed her school formalities for the day. Today she escorted the Primary 7 history class to the Glasgow University’s memorial chapel. It would have been far more enjoyable, had she not had to deal with the annoying anorexic teacher with the shr
ill voice.

  Nina took her place alongside the girls of the class, folding her arms and listening to Miss April’s rendition of the Great War and its implications. As the first day, she could clearly feel the sensation of a stare, a feeling a sexy woman such as herself was all too familiar with. Again, as she turned her head, she noticed that it was the same young boy who had glared at her during that initial meeting in class at Gracewill Primary.

  “This is the roll of honor of the men and women who died in the Great War, children,” Miss April yapped in the back of Nina’s attention, as she locked eyes with the peculiar child. He looked poor. The boy was skinny and frail and his sweater had two holes where the woolen thread had begun to unravel, but his eyes were sharp and attentive. Nina thought that the child looked very intelligent, but it was obvious that his mind was truant when it came to the school curriculum.

  “Dr. Gould, would you like to add anything about Scotland’s involvement in the Great War?” Miss April suddenly asked, putting all eyes squarely on the historian at the most inconvenient time, when she was about to discover the reason for the boy’s stares. But she had to respond to the teacher, breaking the tether between her and the boy.

  “Aye, certainly,” Nina smiled. “There are endless accounts of action, romance, fate and revenge in the records of wars and this one, World War I, was no exception.”

  Miss April stood back and listened to her heroine telling stories about unknown people not named in history texts achieving great feats during such a trying time. The petite Nina pointed to one or two names on the honor roll and recounted the anecdotes she had prepared for the day’s outing. The boy could hardly see past the tall shoulders of his classmates, but he insisted on keeping his eyes on the equally small-framed historian.

  His admiration was unquestionable. In the light of the chapel and its splendor, Dr. Gould looked like a divine creature to him. From where he stood, her big eyes were black as coal and her dark lipstick only made her words form more sweetly. Every syllable she uttered was perceived in slow motion by the child, even though he paid no mind to what she was actually saying. Nina noticed his incessant gazing, but she maintained her professionalism, taking care not to look directly at him. She would never admit it to herself, but he unnerved her. It was not that he glared at her with unwavering devotion that made her feel uncomfortable, but rather the way in which his attention was directed.

  The child was not like some boys who took a shine to her. His looks were purposeful, as if he was recording her image. Finally, Nina had had enough and she promptly confronted him in order to lift his heavy concentration. Halting her lecture suddenly she looked right at the boy and addressed him.

  “You, scruffy ginger over there,” she cried sternly, “what is your name?”

  The class fell mute all of a sudden, having had no idea that Dr. Gould could be so assertive. They stared at the boy, some giggling at his embarrassment and others stepping away from him.

  “Brian, Miss,” he answered. Unlike his eyes, his voice was timid and unsure.

  “Brian,” Nina called out like a military commander, “you look very inquisitive.”

  “Miss?” he stammered, unfamiliar with the big word she used.

  “Inquisitive, Brian. It means to have questions, to be curious about things,” she clarified. “You look inquisitive to me.”

  Miss April sported a frozen smile that contained a resounding what-the-fuck behind it, while her class stood stationary in amazement at the guest’s abrupt change of demeanor. Nina watched the boy swallow hard and although she felt sorry for putting him on the spot like that, she had had her fill of his unspoken beckoning.

  “Tell me something. Anything you know about the First World War, Master Brian,” Nina instructed firmly. “Anything. Go on. And it had better be legitimate. Make it good.”

  Miss April and the class held their breath. The boy Dr. Gould confronted was not known for his strong constitution. He was frequently bullied by Scotty Leeds and his little gang, and usually hid in the library during sports period or choir practice. Bullies chuckled from the forest of still standing children and to Brian it sounded like a choir of demons shrieking through his panicky little soul. All he could see was Miss Nina’s stern leer, waiting for him to piss himself or man up.

  “I know about a knight,” he muttered. The children laughed at his silly attempt. Miss April rolled her eyes.

  “Excuse me?” Nina urged. “What did you say?”

  Miss April spoke without moving her lips. “Ignore him, Nina. He is obsessed with knights.”

  “Brian, I am waiting,” Nina pushed him.

  The boy’s heart was racing and his tummy felt sick, but this was his one chance to speak to the grand mistress he found so intriguing. “Um,” he started, gradually garnering the wherewithal to ignore the heckling, “I know about a knight from the Great War. He was knighted by a king, just like in the Medieval Times, Miss.”

  Nina had to concede that she was impressed by his uncanny response. “Tell me more.”

  “There was a commander from Canada who was knighted by King George V, and he led and army in the Third Impress in 1917. He did a lot of other things for the Allied forces, but I cannot remember them right now, so…,” the boy’s description waned with a shrug.

  “That was the Third Ypres, yes,” Nina affirmed, “not impress.”

  Cackling ensued around young Brian for his error, but Nina’s voice cut them short. “The only impress here, is me, impressed with your knowledge. I am very impressed,” she deliberately reiterated to put the hecklers in their place. “Tell me who this knight was.”

  His ego reinforced, the boy quickly responded. “That was Sir Arthur Currie, Miss Nina.”

  “Right on, Master Brian,” Nina answered amicably, winking warmly at the flushing child. “Good to see not all of you are just in school to give your parents a few hours off. Do any of you have any questions about the Great War?”

  All the children stood in silence, as she had expected, but now she had warmed the blood of the coy Brian. His hand shot up among the bowed heads of those too scared to make eye contact with Dr. Gould.

  “Yes, Brian,” she smiled, “what is your question?”

  “Miss Nina, who gave you that torc?” he asked. Miss April looked at confused as the other children at his question.

  “That what?” Miss April asked with an annoyed wince.

  Nina turned to her and pulled her shirt collar aside somewhat, revealing the bronze Celtic torc she wore around her neck. “This is a torc.”

  A raised eyebrow and rounded lips from Miss April paid evidence to the teacher’s unawareness of the term. Miss April tried not to look dumb, but admittedly, her blank stare was a strong contender to the contrary.

  “Oh,” she replied.

  “I got this torc from an expedition I was on with a few people,” Nina humored the boy with the personal detail. After all, she reckoned, he had earned it. “We unearthed it near a Celtic burial site.”

  “That is illegal, isn’t it, Miss?” one of the girls asked, looking shocked.

  Nina laughed. “No, we acquired a government sanctioned permit to dig up the site, because they were going to build a road there and we did not want the relics to be destroyed when they dug up the ground for the road.”

  “So, you just took it?” the girl asked.

  “No, it was given to me by the collector who paid for it all, my dear,” Nina answered, playing with the smooth, lightly engraved neck ring under her slender fingertips, “for my assistance in the excavation.”

  A collective gasp of intrigue coursed through the group of children. Brian just smiled. Miss April thought it was a good way to end the lesson, while the class was excited about something.

  “Now listen up, you lot,” she announced in her shrieking tone. “Remember to bring your own relics to class tomorrow, alright?”

  The class roared in approval as they followed the two teachers out of the chapel towards Dumbarton Way past
the south front. They headed for the small bus waiting at the south gate entrance of the Glasgow University grounds.

  “What exactly do they have to bring tomorrow? I hope they do not elect to steal grandma’s silver tea set or dad’s antique musket,” Nina jested.

  Miss April uttered one of her shrill giggles. “No, my God, no. They can bring anything old, something with some history, you see. It can be a ring, an old bayonet, does not matter. Of course, history is first period tomorrow, so we do not have to be concerned about the children testing out old weapons on each other. I will keep the items on display,” she used gestured inverted commas to affirm her intent of safekeeping, “until the home bell.”

  “Good,” Nina sighed in relief. “Just, you know, being Glasgow and all.”

  “Oh, Glasgow’s reputation for the rough and tumble is exaggerated,” Miss April defended the city. “I have been here a while and only had one mugging so far.”

  “Really? I have scars from my college days hanging out in Glasgow,” Nina chuckled.

  Miss April grinned. “I wish I could be like you, Dr. Gould. You are so fearless. Going on all those expeditions and almost dying so many times…you…don’t you get nightmares?”

  “Of course I did!” Nina told her. “But it is par for the course. Ultimately, the pay-off must reward the risk, and I must say, it really does. Of course, I do not see it so positively while I am in peril.”

  “Still, you have survived being almost sacrificed to Baphomet that time, not to mention the people you have to run from,” Miss April said. She gave a shiver and groaned. “I do not think I would ever survive what you have, mentally or physically.”

  Something the teacher said stuck in Nina’s mind, although she was not sure why. She frowned, “How do you mean, the people I have run from?”

  Miss April shrugged, keeping her eyes away from Nina. “Just from the books I have read about the excursions you were involved with, I have deduced that the people who threaten your safety are usually the same…fabric.”