"Hold on—'the items'?" I gave a low whistle. "You mean to say he lets you handle the merchandise—all his magical stuff, amulets and the like? Never!"

At this, the repellent creature actually simpered. "He does indeed! Mr. Pinn trusts me implicitly."

"What—real powerful things, or just the bog—end of the market: you know—hands of glory, mouler glasses, and such?"

"Of course powerful things! Items that are most dangerous and rare! The master has to be sure of their powers, you see, and check they aren't forgeries—and he needs my assistance for that."

"No! What sort of stuff, then? Not anything famous?" I was nicely settled in now, leaning on the wall. The traitorous slave's head was swelling so much,[49] he had completely forgotten about turfing me out.

"Huh, you've probably not heard of any of them. Well, let me see… The highlight last year was Nefertiti's ankle bracelet! That was a sensation! One of Mr. Pinn's agents dug it up in Egypt and brought it over by special plane. I was allowed to clean it—actually clean it! Think of that when you're next flying about in the rain. The Duke of Westminster snapped it up at auction for a considerable sum. They say"—here he leaned closer, dropped his voice—"that it was a present for his wife, who is distressingly plain. The anklet confers great glamour and beauty on the wearer, which was how Nefertiti won the pharaoh, of course. But then, you wouldn't know anything about that."[50]

"Nah."

"What else did we have? The wolf pelt of Romulus, the flute of Chartres, Friar Bacon's skull… I could go on, but I'd only bore you."

"All a bit above my head, guv'nor. Here, listen, I'll tell you something I've heard of. The Amulet of Samarkand. My master's mentioned that a few times. Bet you never cleaned that."

But this casual comment had struck some sort of nerve. The foliot's eyes narrowed and his tail gave a quiver. "Who is your master, then?" he said abruptly. "And where's your message? I don't see you carrying any."

"Of course you don't. It's in here, ain't it?" I tapped my head with a claw. "As for my master, there ain't no secret about that. Simon Lovelace's the name. Perhaps you've seen him about."

This was a bit of a gamble, bringing the magician into the equation. But the foliot's manner had changed at the mention of the Amulet, and I didn't want to increase his suspicions by evading the question. Fortunately, he seemed impressed.

"Oh, it's Mr. Lovelace, is it? You're a new one for him, aren't you? Where's Nittles?"

"He lost a message last night. The master stippled him permanently."

"Did he? Always thought Nittles was too frivolous. Serves him right." This pleasant thought seemed to relax the foliot; a dreamy look came into his eye. "Real gent, Mr. Lovelace is, a perfect customer. Always dresses nice, asks for things politely. Good friend of Mr. Pinn, of course… So he was on about the Amulet, was he? Of course, that's not surprising, considering what happened to it. That was a nasty business and they've still not found the murderer, six months on."

This made me prick up my ears, but I didn't show it. I scratched my nose casually.

"Yeah, Mr. Lovelace said something bad had happened. Didn't say what, though."

"Well, he wouldn't to a speck like you, would he? Some people reckon it was the Resistance what did it, whatever that is. Or a renegade magician—that's more likely, perhaps. I don't know, you'd think with all the resources the State's got—"

"So what did happen to the Amulet? It got nicked, did it?"

"It got stolen, yes. And there was murder involved too. Grisly. Dear me, it was most upsetting. Poor, poor Mr. Beecham." And so saying, this travesty of a foliot wiped a tear from his eye.[51] "You asked me if we'd had the Amulet here? Well, of course not. It was far too valuable to be presented on the open market. It's been government property for years, and for the last thirty of them it was kept under guard at Mr. Beecham's estate in Surrey. High security, portals and all. Mr. Beecham used to mention it occasionally to Mr. Pinn when he came to see us. He was a fine man—hard but fair, very admirable. Ah, me."

"And somebody stole the Amulet from Beecham?"

"Yes, six months ago. Not one portal was triggered, the guards were none the wiser, but late one evening it was gone. Vanished! And there was poor Mr. Beecham, lying beside its empty case in a pool of blood. Quite dead! He must have been in the room with the Amulet at the time the thieves entered, and before he could summon help they'd cut his throat. What a tragedy! Mr. Pinn was most upset."

"I'm sure he was. That's terrible, guv'nor, a most terrible thing." I looked as mournful as an imp can be, but hidden inside I was crowing with triumph. This was just the tasty bit of information I had been searching for. So Simon Lovelace had indeed had the Amulet stolen—and he'd had murder committed to get it. The black—bearded man that Nathaniel had seen in Lovelace's study must have gone there fresh from killing Beecham. Moreover, whether he was working on his own, or as part of some secret group, Lovelace had stolen the Amulet from the Government itself, and was thus engaged in treason. Well, if this didn't please the kid, I was a mouler.

One thing was for sure: the boy Nathaniel had got himself into deep waters when he'd ordered me to pinch the Amulet, far deeper than he knew. It stood to reason that Simon Lovelace would stop at nothing to get the thing back—and silence anyone who knew that he'd had it in the first place.

But why had he stolen it from Beecham? What made him risk the wrath of the State? I knew the Amulet by reputation—but not the exact nature of its power. Perhaps this foliot could help me on the matter. "That Amulet must be quite something," I said. "Useful piece, is it?"

"So my master informs me. It is said to contain a most powerful being—something from the deepest areas of the Other Place, where chaos rules. It protects the wearer against attack by—

The foliot's eyes strayed behind me and he broke off with a sudden gasp. A shadow enveloped him, a broad one that swelled as it extended out across the polished floor. The tinkling bell sounded as the door to Pinn's Accoutrements opened, briefly allowing the din of Piccadilly traffic into the shop's comfortable hush. I turned round slowly.

"Well, well, Simpkin," Sholto Pinn said, as he pushed shut the door with an ivory cane. "Entertaining a friend while I'm out, are we? While the cat's away…"

"N—n—no, master, not at all." The sniveling wretch was touching his forelock and bowing and retreating as best he could. His swollen head was visibly shriveling.

What an exhibition. I stayed where I was, cool as a cucumber, leaning against the wall.

"Not a friend?" Sholto's voice was low, rich, and rumbling; it somehow made you think of sunlight shining on age—blackened wood, of jars of beeswax polish and bottles of fine red port.[52] It was a good—humored voice, seemingly always on the cusp of breaking into a throaty chuckle. A smile played on his thin, wide lips, but the eyes above were cold and hard. Close up he was even larger than I'd expected, a great white wall of a man. With his fur coat on, he might have been mistaken in bad light for a mammoth's backside.

Simpkin had edged away against the front of the counter. "No, master. H—he is a messenger for you. H—h—he brings a message."

"You stagger me, Simpkin! A messenger with a message! Extraordinary. So why didn't you take the message and send him on his way? I left you with plenty of work to do."

"You did, master, you did. He has only just arrived!"