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say that, Daniel, please! Please. He didn’t know!
    But Daniel Spork was a pillar of flame. A great trust had been shattered. The world was poorer for it—and Mathew, flesh of his flesh, lying and unforgivable clot, was the weak link in a chain of such incredible importance that it could not be fully expressed. Daniel turned his back and shook and shuddered, and batted away their hands. And then he went down to his workroom to leaf through the remains of Mathew’s “fire sale” and see what was still there and what could be reasonably brought back. It was only after a half-day spent leafing through his books and piling up bits and bobs upon his table, mouth still a bitter line of hurt and the Death Clock set appallingly in front of him ticking away these black moments of his life, that he looked over the remaining clutter and began to calm. His diary, yes, was here. His sketchbooks had gone to a friend in the trade, and could be had back, no doubt. His toolbox was gone—a magical thing of levers and cogs which extended and unfolded into a miniature bench—but the tools themselves remained.
    Having lined up the survivors of the auction, Daniel paced andfluttered, opened ledgers and fussed with boxes, and finally gave a shout of satisfaction as he held up a collection of jazz records, old 78s, in a purpose-made satchel.
    “Frankie,” he murmured. And then, with a snarl to his son, “Your mother!”
    Only the sight of Joe—knee-high and cowering amid all this splashy and appalling adult confusion—broke through his rage, and even then it merely unleashed his grief, which was infinitely worse.
    “No,” Mr. Titwhistle says, “nothing in particular. Unusual items always fetch a premium, of course. Anything idiosyncratic. Impractical, even. Or intricate.”
    But his hands—which he has raised, palms up, to convey his sincerity—have betrayed him. He is tracing the outline of something, absently sketching it in the air as he speaks. Something which Joe has recently seen. Something strange, of which gentlemen from Scottish museums might in theory be aware, but whose connection with Joe himself should be quite beyond their ken. In any case, what manner of museum sends two fellows with anonymous ties and empty eyes all the way to London on the off chance? Do they not have the electric telephone in Edinburgh?
    Mr. Cummerbund has been silent so far, listening and watching with great acuity, and every so often he has made notes in an impenetrable shorthand. The top leaves of the pad he is using have wrinkled, because his hands are moist and because he presses very hard with his cheap supermarket-brand ballpoint—a thin plastic thing which has already cracked along one edge, and which he occasionally puts between his lips to chew. Now, he removes it, and the smell of Mr. Cummerbund’s mouth is briefly added to the smell of tropical-fruit cologne, a tantalisingly disgusting flavour of old mint, tooth decay, and kidneys.
    “Rodney,” he says tightly, and Mr. Titwhistle glances at him, then follows the line of Mr. Cummerbund’s gaze back to his own fingers. Joe sees the sequence of events unfolding, and realises a moment too late what will happen next: Mr. Titwhistle and Mr. Cummerbund look guiltily from the shape in the air to Joe to see whether he has made anything of it, and catch him staring guiltily at them. Between the three men, there is a moment of comprehension.
Oh, yes. All out in the open, now, isn’t it?
Or, not all, but enough. The rusty machinery of his father’s world wakes within him again, unfolding from an old cornerof his mind that he barely knew was there; the forgotten instinct which prompts him to lie, promise, misdirect, all in one.
    “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Joe says confidingly, “you place me in a rather awkward position. I had a similar offer not two days ago from another interested party, and this morning my phone has barely stopped ringing. I’ve made some enquiries and not all my