‘Yep. That’s the idea, Chief Inspector.’
‘I have made the observation in the past, Miss Wong, and I will make it again: you are brilliant and astonishing.’
‘Why, thank you, Chief Inspector. I’m just a magician, that’s all.’
Barry nodded and took out a folded-over auction catalogue from the inside pocket of his coat. He opened it and studied it quietly.
Phyllis watched as the room began to fill up. She loved studying people and observing every little thing about them, and tonight she had a wealth of subjects. All sorts of people were arriving: old people, beautifully dressed in expensive clothes and with their white or silver hair perfectly set; younger people with serious expressions and designer jeans and leather and suede jackets; people who looked like they knew all there was to know about art and precious things; some men with neatly clipped beards and some other men with bigger, bushier bird’s-nest beards and elbow patches on their Harris Tweed coats; small groups of elegant women dripping with pearls and diamonds and other sparkling gems; a cluster of muscly men in tight shirts who walked like they had feathers for feet and who spoke in light, sing-song voices; fat people, thin people, short people, tall.
Phyllis wondered what all these people would be bidding on, and who might be the successful buyer of the First Folio. She could feel a sense of anticipation and excitement growing in the room as all those around her took their seats.
Some of the feather-footed, muscly men came and sat in the row in front of Phyllis, Daisy and Barry. One of the men opened his auction catalogue and started making notes in it. Phyllis put her bag on the seat between her and Barry again and leant forward a bit, trying to see what the man was writing—she guessed he might be making notes about what he was going to bid on. She smiled when she saw that he was jotting something down on the page that had photos of the First Folio on it.
Across the aisle a youngish woman came and sat. Phyllis was aware of her as she moved into her chair—she seemed to glide into it smoothly, silently. Out of the corner of her eye, Phyllis glanced at the woman. She was dressed mostly in black: a black, fur-trimmed coat which she was taking off and draping back across her chair; a black shirt with a dark purple waistcoat; black, slim-fit trousers and black knee-high boots of shiny leather. Her shirt had a deep mauve ruffle collar, and her hair was long and dark and curly—not tight curls, but willowy curls, free and flowing. The curls fell across one side of her face, down onto her cheek.
Phyllis was never one to pay too much attention to hairstyles or fashion (these things were not the reasons why she enjoyed studying people), but she couldn’t help but admire the woman’s curls, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to have hair like that instead of the straight hair she herself had.
On the woman’s fingers were an assortment of gold rings: bright, gleaming yellow and rose gold. Phyllis counted seven rings, most of which were set with precious stones—diamonds, rubies, sapphires, green garnets and emeralds. All of the rings looked like they were antiques, such were their fancy settings.
The woman reached up and moved something around her collar, and as she did this she noticed Phyllis looking at her. Phyllis gave a quick smile and then turned back to Barry.
‘How long until the action starts?’ Phyllis asked her friend.
He looked at his watch. ‘I think it’s about time.’
At the front of the room, a tall woman with a beehive sort of hairdo and sparkly glasses mounted the rostrum where the auctioneer’s lectern was positioned. She had in her hand a small wooden hammer—her auction gavel.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ she announced into the microphone on the lectern. ‘Welcome to The House of Wendlebury’s. Tonight it is our great privilege and pleasure to be auctioning yet another valuable First Folio by the greatest writer the world has seen, the Bard of Stratford, William Shakespeare.’
At this, a round of polite and refined applause ribboned about the room.
‘But first, we have a most important group of Dutch and Italian oil paintings from the seventeenth century to go under the hammer . . .’
Phyllis looked at Barry, and he gave her a wink.
The next forty minutes passed in a blur of fast talking from the auctioneer, as painting after painting went under the hammer. Staff members (including floppy-haired Siiimon) were sitting at a table next to the auctioneer’s lectern, their ears glued to their cell phones as they took absentee bids from people who were unable to be at Wendlebury’s. Other customers who were present in the room bid by discreetly raising their hand or a special little yellow Wendlebury’s paddle they had been given when they had registered for the auction. Phyllis craned her neck as she tried to see who was bidding.
When a painting had reached its final bid, the auctioneer brought her gavel briskly down, banging it sharply against the lectern, before going on to the next painting.
Phyllis was captivated by the whirl and the pace of the action, and was surprised when all of the paintings had been sold—everything had seemed to happen so quickly.
Then the time had come. Barry leant over and said quietly, ‘Now for the big one.’
Next to the lectern, a huge screen was lowered from the ceiling. In front of this, rising up through the floor, came a tall gold-painted wooden plinth with a heavy glass cube on top. Underneath this glass cube was a big, thick book.
Barry whispered, ‘There, Miss Wong. What you see beneath that glass is worth millions.’
Phyllis tingled, not at the thought of the money, but at the idea that something so old was so precious and desirable.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the auctioneer in a royal-sounding voice, ‘I present to you a rare and coveted First Folio by William Shakespeare!’
Polite applause once again ribboned throughout the room. The muscly men in front of Phyllis squirmed excitedly in their seats as they fluttered their hands together. Some of them whispered, ‘Ooooh . . .’
Onto the screen behind the First Folio, an image suddenly flashed: a portrait of Shakespeare himself—the exact same portrait that was on the title page inside the cover of the First Folio. Then words slowly appeared above and below the portrait:
Mr. WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARES
COMEDIES,
HISTORIES, &
TRAGEDIES.
Publifhed according to the True Originall Copies.
LONDON
Printed by Ifaac Iaggard, and Ed. Blount. 1623.
‘Tonight’s volume,’ continued the auctioneer, her voice becoming even more regal, ‘is a beautiful example of the First Folio, in even more pristine condition than the one we sold a little over six months ago. It is one of only two hundred and forty known complete copies remaining in the world. It is presented in its original leather binding of red with gold bands on the spine; a binding which we presume the first owner of the volume had commissioned after picking up the sewn pages from the printing firm of Jaggard and Blount in the year of publication, 1623. There is no buckling or splitting in the leather, and all of the pages are clean and printed on superior quality paper. This is the finest example of a First Folio that we have ever seen.’
A ripple of bold enthusiasm spread around the room at that, and one of the muscly men leant forward and perched on the edge of his chair, flexing his shoulders.
‘I trust,’ said the auctioneer, ‘that there will be some spirited bidding for this scarce and beautiful tome, as we do not know when and where, indeed if, another of these almost legendary offerings will ever turn up.’
‘Hmm,’ hmmed Barry Inglis in a suspicious tone. ‘I wonder . . .’
One of the muscly men looked quickly over his shoulder at Barry and hissed, ‘Shh, please.’
Barry glanced at Phyllis and gave a schoolboy who’s just been told off expression, and she almost giggled.
‘And now,’ said the auctioneer, ‘I will start the bidding at two million dollars. Do we have an opening bid?’
Immediately, th
e muscly man on the edge of his seat raised his yellow Wendlebury’s paddle above his shoulder.
Phyllis’s breathing became quicker.
The auctioneer saw the paddle. ‘Two million. Do we have two million, two hundred and fifty thousand?’ She looked around the room and at the staff on their cell phones. There was a pause for a few moments and then one of the staff nodded.
‘Bidding is at two million, two hundred and fifty thousand,’ the auctioneer announced. ‘Two and a half million?’
The muscly man raised his paddle; one of his muscly friends patted him on the arm encouragingly.
The auctioneer took the bid. ‘I’m looking now for two and three quarter million? Two and three quarter . . .?’
Somewhere else in the room, another bidder raised her paddle. Phyllis heard the muscly man groan.
‘Two and three quarter million,’ announced the auctioneer. ‘Do we have three? Three million dollars anywhere?’
The staff on the cell phones were chatting quietly and quickly to the customers on the other ends of the lines. Phyllis watched the muscly man fidgeting and looking at his friends; she noticed that the back of his neck had small beads of perspiration studding it.
On the other side of the aisle, the curly-haired woman dressed mostly in black was also leaning forward in her chair, one hand resting on her ruffled collar.
Siiimon looked up from his cell phone and nodded at the auctioneer.
‘Three million dollars!’ the auctioneer proclaimed. ‘Three million to the phone bidder. Any advance on three million?’
There was a hushed silence. Then the muscly man hoisted his yellow paddle defiantly above his head. ‘Three and a half million!’ he almost squealed.
The auctioneer’s eyes widened behind her sparkly glasses. ‘Three point five million,’ she said, nodding at the man.
Phyllis saw to her side the curly-haired woman leaning even further forward.
‘The bidding stands at three point five million dollars,’ declaimed the auctioneer. ‘Are there any further bids? Do I hear three point seven five?’
From down at the front of the room, a bearded man raised his paddle.
‘Three million, seven hundred and fifty thousand,’ announced the auctioneer, and the muscly man groaned again, his shoulders sagging.
‘Four million!’ called a woman glued to one of the cell phones. ‘My bidder from Switzerland.’
‘Four million dollars,’ repeated the auctioneer. A collective gasp swelled in the auditorium.
‘Four and a half million!’ cried the muscly man, waving his paddle around as though he were trying to swat at a cloud of mosquitoes.
‘Four and a half million!’ The auctioneer sounded very pleased.
Phyllis’s heart was racing. She saw that Barry Inglis was sitting very still, not giving anything away, but she detected that his eyes were bright and darting about the room.
‘Four and a half million,’ the auctioneer said again, looking all around for any further bids.
‘Five million,’ came the response from the woman with the Swiss cell phone bidder.
‘Five million dollars,’ the auctioneer almost shouted.
The muscly man groaned again. He looked at his friends, nodded at them, then waved his paddle frantically and shouted, ‘Five and a half!’
‘Five and a—’ began the auctioneer.
‘Six!’ came the bid from the Swiss buyer on the phone.
‘Six million dollars,’ the auctioneer declared. ‘Do I hear six and a half million?’
Phyllis counted the seconds—one, two, three, four. They seemed to go forever, and she felt the Time hanging about her . . .
‘Yesssssss!’ Mr Muscles was on his feet, thrusting his paddle as if it were a tennis racket and he was trying to lob an invisible ball over and over. ‘Six and a half! Six and a half million!’
The curly-haired woman was clutching her collar more tightly as she watched the escalation of the bidding.
The auctioneer repeated the amount and looked across at the woman with the Swiss bidder on the end of the phone. More seconds passed, heavy seconds, thick seconds, as everyone waited for a response.
Then the woman with the phone said something to the Swiss bidder. She took the phone from her ear and shook her head at the auctioneer.
‘No further bids?’ asked the auctioneer to the whole room.
Silence.
‘Then,’ she said, holding her head high, ‘if there is no further interest, I declare the First Folio by William Shakespeare to be sold for the sum of six and a half million dollars. Going once . . .’
Phyllis looked all around the room.
‘. . . going twice . . .’
The muscly man was almost collapsing with anticipation, his wide shoulders wibbling through his tight shirt.
There was a loud, echoing BANG as the auctioneer slammed her gavel onto the lectern.
‘SOLD! For six and a half million dollars to the gentleman in the second-last row!’
‘Ooooooooh,’ gasped Mr Muscles. He fell back into his chair, and one of his friends mopped his brow with a neatly pressed handkerchief.
And that’s when all hell broke loose.
Lurking in the ruffle
Daisy, by breed and nature, was a sensitive dog, and ever alert. Even when she was sleeping (which she tended to do a lot), she was always half-conscious of what was happening around her.
Added to that, her ancient instincts—to hunt and go after small rodents and other sorts of larger prey—were still very much alive within her. Tonight, deep inside Phyllis’s magically gimmicked shoulder bag in The House of Wendlebury’s auction room, the little terrier’s ancient instincts began to re-surface.
It started with a whiff of something. Even though she was ensconced within the bag, enveloped by the warm darkness and surrounded by Phyllis’s bits and pieces, a strange smell had wafted towards Daisy’s nostrils. Daisy opened her eyes but did not move. She stayed perfectly still, allowing the smell to reach her snout as clearly as it could.
She knew that odour. She had smelt it every now and then at different places in the city, often when she and Phyllis were walking past dingy alleyways or places where trash had been piled up, ready for collection.
It was the smell of things that gathered in such places, and tonight, for some reason, she could smell it here at Wendlebury’s.
There was a rodent in the room!
The hairs along Daisy’s spine hackled, and she concentrated even harder.
She moved her head a little so that her ears were closer to the sides of the bag. She had to listen, to help her find the direction where the rat was hiding.
Muffled sounds came through the heavy canvas walls of the shoulder bag. Daisy concentrated, trying to separate the sounds that were washing in . . .
‘. . . Going once . . . going twice . . .’
No, those weren’t ratty noises; those were words, from the humans, excited words . . . Daisy concentrated some more.
BANG! went the gavel.
‘SOLD! For six and a half million dollars to the gentleman in the second-last row!’
The little dog gave a tiny sniff as she listened to the now very big excited words. But still, they were not the sounds she was trying to hear . . .
Then her whiskers tingled. She heard what she was waiting for.
A scratching, soft and faint, so soft and faint that only a mini foxy like her could hear it. She knew exactly what it was. It was the sound of claws, moving gently through something that was softish. Through some sort of fabric, perhaps.
Daisy calmed her breathing and made her heartbeat slow, so that she couldn’t hear anything else but the scratching sound.
It came again, scrizzling and scrabbling, and—it was close. It was coming from the other side of Phyllis!
And it had to be dealt with!
The next few moments were upside-down moments: with a huge spring, Daisy leapt up through the top of Phyllis’s bag, out into the brightness of
the room, across Phyllis’s lap and into the aisle. There she crouched on the carpet and looked balefully up at the woman with the curly hair who was sitting next to the aisle.
Phyllis gasped.
Daisy was growling, deep and marble-gargling low. The woman looked down—and it was as if a rocket had gone off under the terrier’s tail: suddenly Daisy was yapping, as fast as machine-gun fire, and then, in a blink, she exploded off the floor like a miniature hairy tornado, leaping up onto the woman’s lap, trying to bury her front paws and snout in the woman’s ruffled collar.
‘Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf!’
‘Aaaaargh!’ screamed the woman, shooting her arms into the air and trying to get her head and neck away from Daisy. ‘Get it off! Remove it! Help me!’
Everyone in the room turned and watched, amazed and horrified at what looked like an attack from out of nowhere. The muscly men jumped up and moved quickly away.
Phyllis leapt to her feet and grabbed Daisy from the woman’s lap and shoulders. Daisy kept barking wildly at the collar around the woman’s neck as she was pulled away.
‘ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!
ARF! ARF!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Phyllis apologised to the ashen-faced woman. The woman had raised her multi-ringed fingers to shield her face, and the gemstones in the rings glinted brightly at Phyllis, especially the diamonds and the green garnets.
Barry Inglis, now on his feet, snatched up Phyllis’s bag and held it wide open. Phyllis quickly deposited Daisy into the bag and Barry ushered her away, up the aisle and past the guards and other employees of Wendlebury’s, down the steps and out into the cold night air.
There, Phyllis staggered, her heart beating fiercely, the sudden rush of the chilly night hitting her hard.
Barry took her by the elbow to steady her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, his tone a little peeved.
She took a few deep breaths. ‘I’m . . . I’m okay.’
‘Come on.’ He led her quickly away from The House of Wendlebury’s.
Inside the shoulder bag, Daisy had settled a bit and Phyllis could feel the soft weight of her friend against her hip. But Phyllis’s heart continued to beat fast and furiously.
Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror Page 11