“Me? Oh … well … I am Lazarus Firebaugh.” The man took another sip of his wine before he continued. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if he were standing on a bed of coals. “Doctor Lazarus Firebaugh,” he said when he’d lowered the glass. “Chemist by trade and nature. I am simply … available to the winner.”

Julian shot a quick glance at Matthew, who simply responded with a barely perceptible nod. Firebaugh was the one who’d not brought a satchel, because he was part of the prize.

“Splendid!” Merda next turned toward the brawler. “Sir?”

“Sandor Krakowski.” This one’s accent was thick. “Polish interests. I am a student of politics.”

“Yes, I can tell you’ve carried out many studies. The school of politics is quite rough in Poland, I would venture. And you, lastly but surely not leastly?”

The bewigged gent had been addressed. He drank his wine and took his own good time in answering. “I am Bertrand Montague.” His voice was like the first wheeze from a squeezebox before the notes issue forth. “Who I represent is my own business.”

“All right, Berty, have it as you please. Now! Don’t we all feel better, knowing who we’re up against?”

Matthew didn’t feel any better; in fact he felt as if the situation had tipped from the wildly difficult to the solidly impossible. Obviously this was to be a bidding for the book, with Lazarus Firebaugh to go along for whatever purpose was necessary. An auction, carried out by what must be an insane naval admiral and a child-killing demoniac, with members of assassins’ guilds, criminal organizations, corrupt royal houses and whatever else in attendance on a scale far beyond the shores of England. Matthew thought that if he could sit on the floor and weep for the loss of Berry Grigsby he would do so, for this was a hopeless case.

Yet … there was something.

The gold bars and the plans for the winged dragon in the satchel. Was it possible—just possible—that such items might constitute the winning bid?

His heart, which had tumbled into the cellar during this exchange of dark pleasantries, now lifted a little toward the lamp in the attic. Yes, he thought. Play this game out, present the bid and if all goes well walk out of here with both the book and a chemist supplied for its use.

And if all does not go well? Follow whoever wins and murder him—or her—before the night is done, seize the book from dead fingers and travel on? Because he was fairly sure the only way to get that book from the auction’s winner was by bloodshed.

Oh my God, he thought. He was sounding in his own mind far too much like the bad man, but of what use at the moment was the good man?