and saw that a small puddle of blood was spreading on his white undershirt. He put his fingers to the dampness. “It’s just a scratch. I think I’ll live.” He looked down again, eyes searching. “Can’t seem to see my pencil. Pass me your torch, will you, and I’ll see if it’s rolled under one of the crates.”
He went down on bended knees and pointed the torch beam to the floor. He traced the line of the narrow beam back and forth, seeing where their footprints had scuffed over the dust-covered floorboards. He went down to almost eye level with the floor and looked under several of the crates. It was as he was about to give up searching, that he saw a small anomaly in the woodwork, an almost imperceptible raised board that clearly signified the presence of a small, cunningly concealed trapdoor. “Stan! Come and have a look at this.”
“What is it?” asked Jones, crouching down to get a better look.
“Looks like some kind of compartment. Get me a screwdriver and I’ll try and prize the lid up.”
Briggs had now stepped over, intrigued as to what this find might reveal. There had been talk that von Shaffer had been a very wealthy man, and it stood to reason that he could have secreted his personal fortune away somewhere in a place such as this. And Briggs was the kind of man who was not adverse to making a little extra profit if and when the opportunity arose. It would be easy enough to fob his two underlings off with a few pounds, telling them that he was going to turn the remainder over to the state, whereas in reality he would see to it that he was the sole beneficiary. His greedy mind had temporarily forgotten about his unease.
With the use of a screwdriver, Hargreaves succeeded in levering up the square wooden lid. Brushing away a fairly large spider which had crawled out from underneath, he directed the torch beam into the shallow cavity beyond. The light revealed a small, rectangular, leather casket of some description. It was sealed by brass clasps and a peculiar-looking lock.
“Well, get it out,” ordered Briggs impatiently, signalling with his hands. “Let’s have a look at it.”
Gingerly, Hargreaves reached in and lifted it free from the cavity in which it had been deposited. It was not particularly heavy, but as he raised it something inside seemed to shift, almost causing him to drop it in alarm. Hurriedly, he placed it on top of one of the crates.
Briggs cast his appraising eye over the container. It was certainly old. Far older than any of the other things they had already found in the attic. He reckoned it to be older than anything he had ever come across before. The leather was cracked and discolored in places, the bindings showing signs of rust amongst their intricate designs. There was a strange smell coming from it as well. He ran the tips of the fingers of his right hand across it, wincing inexplicably at the age-old feel.
“Don’t ask me why, but I’ve a bad feeling about this box,” Hargreaves said, taking a step or two back from it. “To my mind it’s clear that whoever hid it up here do so for a reason. I think this is something that was meant to remain hidden.”
“Absolute nonsense,” sneered Jones derisively. “It could be filled with doubloons or precious jewellery. It’s undoubtedly the safe-box the old man stored his money in. Give me the screwdriver and I’ll see if I can get the blasted thing open.” With a sudden movement, he snatched the screwdriver out of Hargreaves’ hand and thrust it into the narrow dividing line between the box and its lid.
“Just be careful how you handle that thing,” admonished Briggs. “The box alone looks like it could be worth several hundred pounds. I’ve never seen anything quite as intricate or as old as that. It doesn’t look British. Probably eastern European.”
Wiggling the screwdriver back and forth, Jones slowly began to force the lid up. With a protesting screech of tortured metal the brass clasps broke free. The lock was proving harder to jimmy open and sweat was beginning to pop out on Jones’ forehead. “Nearly…there. Just a little—” And then, suddenly, the lid sprang open almost as though whatever lay inside wanted to get out.
Eagerly, the three men gathered around the small leather casket and peered inside.
* * * *
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” said the bald-headed auctioneer from his podium. Pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles back on his head, he glanced down at the small slip of paper, which contained the necessary information regarding the next item. He read from it: “Lot number ninety-seven.” He cleared his throat as his assistant, who stood nearby, delicately lifted what at first glance appeared to be a very small child, but was in fact a rather scary-looking doll dressed in a very old and tattered white lace dress.
The assistant held it at arms’ length as though loath to handle the doll. There was a look of mild disgust on his face. One could have been forgiven for attributing his facial expression to downright fear or revulsion.
Seated towards the rear of the small gathering of antique collectors, Briggs could feel the sweat pop out on his forehead. His hands felt clammy and he shifted uneasily in his chair. He still wasn’t sure what compulsion had brought him to the auction.
The auctioneer went on: “What we have here is a fine example of an early seventeenth-century mid-European doll. No doubt she would have been the prized possession of a young girl of some standing, as can be deduced from the style and the elegance of her clothing. One would like to think she may have even graced the hands of a young countess at sometime in the past. The lot also includes an as yet untranslated diary, probably written by the doll’s owner, as well as an accompanying small silver crucifix on a silver chain.”
Briggs swallowed a lump in his throat.
“Can we start the bidding at—shall we say, a hundred pounds?” The auctioneer’s gaze panned around the seated crowd. For a moment there was nothing but silence. “Very well, can we say eighty pounds?”
Still no interest.
The auctioneer frowned and puckered his lips. It had on the whole been a very slow day, and he himself was not overly fond of the doll, which had sat on display in a cabinet in the auction room for the past ten days; consequently, he was not all that surprised that no one seemed to want it. It had filled him with a sense of unease whenever he had been close to it, and he would be glad to be rid of it, for a sensible price at least. “Seventy pounds, then. Sixty-five?”
“I will purchase the doll for sixty pounds.”
Heads turned around in the auction hall, and the auctioneer shifted his gaze to the tall, gaunt figure stood to one side. He was dressed in a long black raincoat and his accent was clearly not English, German perhaps.
Briggs eyed the stranger intently, noting what appeared to be a leering smile of triumph on his lean features and a mocking glint in his close-set eyes. For some inexplicable reason, he suddenly had the compulsive thought that it would be dangerous for the doll to fall into the hands of this man. Without fully knowing why, he raised his hand and said: “Seventy.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the rain-coated man riposted: “Eighty.”
Briggs threw him a swift, disapproving glance. A little muscle was beginning to twitch uncontrollably in his left cheek, as a little imp of apprehension began to nag at his innermost thoughts. There was clearly something he found disturbing about the other individual who he had not noticed previously in the auction hall. It was as though he had just mysteriously arrived for that one lot only.
“It would appear that we have finally got some interest in this antique piece,” announced the auctioneer. “Are there any advances on eighty
