With what was clearly an extraordinary skill, or the power of some whispered word or subtle gesture, Haversham decided the money was outbid by the depression. ‘With the man in the tricorne hat.’ The demographic in the suits, she saw, had their phones out now and were listening to them, occasionally bidding themselves. So they were proxies, agents for buyers not actually present, people hired in who … well, who knew what they believed about what they were participating in? Ross wished she could make use of that version of the ‘checking-out’ gesture that could investigate a mobile phone. The identities of those bidders might well be good background info.

The bidding continued for three more rounds, with the lot finally going to the man with the money. Groans came from the crowd as he pushed his way forward to shove the notes into Bernie’s hand. Bernie kept his gloves on for that.

‘The movement of money around London must be like another force on the city,’ said Ross. ‘You’d think they’d be more up for using it.’

‘Except money stays modern,’ said Costain, ‘because they change the designs every few years, and new notes are printed all the time.’

The next few lots showed the same pattern: items from the distant past of London being bid for by both this strange form of barter and by money. Haversham seemed to try to treat both systems equally. The successful bidders who had bought lots for intangibles were taken into the back room by Bernie, each for an illusionist’s moment: the door opened again to let them back in at the very moment it had shut. Each item was handed to the successful bidder as soon as their business was concluded, and several people left early, having presumably won or failed to get what they’d come here for. Ross recognized a few of the items: there was a Tarot of London pack of a different design to the one she’d seen previously and an old hardback Book of Changes. Finally, the last item in the catalogue was accounted for.

‘Why do you think they keep records of the bidders?’ whispered Costain.

‘Maybe they keep track of the provenance of each item, from owner to owner, just in case someone manufactures something that only looks old.’

‘Or contains a trap.’

‘So that ledger of sales records is indeed the purest imaginable juice, the most valuable object here.’

‘So, what? Are we going to try to nick it?’

‘There’s probably some fucking terrifying security in place.’

‘Yeah, and we’ve no time to scope it out. Maybe we should find out when the next auction is, and—’

‘No.’ The path that led to a different sort of life for her was too tempting. She was shaking her head even as the thought struck her. She knew what she was going to do. It scared her. ‘Haversham said anything could be bought.’

‘But—’