Light by Eric Rendel Page B

was not troubled by another nightmarish instalment.  Indeed, he was pleased
to find that he did wake up quite refreshed and he got himself ready to attend
the auction.
    There was no point in taking a car to
London’s West End.  The traffic would be diabolical and parking virtually
impossible unless he wished to fork out the price of the congestion charge and
a car park place which he knew from bitter experience could be exorbitant.
    Instead, he ended up taking the tube to
Bond Street and was soon entering the double glass doors to the Phillips
auction house.
    There was a fair bustle of activity but he
was quickly directed to the appropriate room and he found himself a seat at the
back where he would be able to see exactly who would arrive.  Whilst the place
filled up quickly there was no sign of Ben Tiferet which did cause Jake some
surprise.  Surely the Professor was not intending to miss this occasion.  There
was, of course, one possibility; that he had sent someone to bid on his behalf.
    As the first lot was called Jake was
overcome by a sudden feeling of panic; that an innocent movement might be
misconstrued as a bid.  Oh come on, he told himself, don’t be ridiculous.  The
auctioneer must know the difference between a cough and a genuine bidder.
    Despite his attempt at self-reassurance
himself Jake found himself sitting ram-rod still whilst each lot was being sold. 
And so, some good time later that felt like forever, Lot 165 was called and
Jake braced himself to see who was bidding.
    The goblet was displayed and again mention
was made of the engraved stone mounted at the side.  Yes, Jake was certain of
it; this was indeed another part of the biblical Breastplate of Judgement that
had been worn by the Israelite high priests.  The bidding was opened at three
hundred pounds and there was immediate interest.  Jake watched as the price was
raised until it had reached the five hundred mark.  Now it should be possible
to tell who the serious buyers were.
    There was still, however, no sign of
Tiferet.  So who was his agent?
    A girl nodded at the call of five hundred
and fifty pounds.  Yes, she had been bidding since the cup had been first
called.  From the back all Jake could see was that she had deep auburn hair cut
above her shoulders and she was wearing a smart brown jacket.  Was she the
enemy?
    ‘Do I hear six hundred pounds?’
    Not a murmur was heard.
    ‘How about five hundred and seventy five? 
Who will offer me five hundred and seventy five pounds for this beautiful
piece?  A cup that graced the table of the Rothschilds themselves.’
    Was that a movement to the right?
    ‘Thank you.  Five hundred and ninety,
sir?  Yes, thank you.’
    It was a grey-haired man in a suit.  That
was all Jake could see.
    ‘Six hundred pounds.  Surely someone will
give me a round six.  Yes, thank you miss.’
    The girl again.
    There was a low murmur from the man on the
right.  Jake could not make it out but the auctioneer obviously did.
    ‘Seven hundred pounds, sir.  Thank you.’
    He looked around the room to see if there
was any further interest.  Pointedly, he directed his gaze to the girl but she
did not budge.
    ‘All right.  Going once at seven hundred
pounds.  Going twice at . . .’
    ‘One thousand one hundred pounds,’ shouted
the girl to a resounding gasp from the audience.  Whoever she was she wanted
this cup desperately.  She had to be Tiferet’s person.’
    Unperturbed as ever the auctioneer began
again.
    ‘Going once at eleven hundred pounds. 
Going twice at eleven hundred pounds.’
    He looked at the man who shook his head.
    ‘Gone to the lady in brown.  And the next
item is...’
    But Jake did not listen any further.  He
watched as a teller walked over to the girl and took some details and then when
he returned to the back of the room, stood up and followed him.
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Could we go outside a second?’
    ‘I’m not supposed to.’
    ‘This will only be a tick.’
    They