great adventure.” He said theatrically waving his hands.
Ah, so that was his ruse. Well, I hope he had not come begging for a donation! I’d be damned if he got a brass farthing from me for his occult nonsense. I must have looked rather distrustful and bemused at his explanation because Blake then said,
“I’m serious. I mean to penetrate the veil, Mr. Hannan. That is my goal—to penetrate the veil and return to tell what I have seen on the other side.”
That was outrageous, blasphemous even. I had heard of such men who sought ways to invite death and return to tell their tale—as of yet none had succeeded—although many con men professed to succeeding! So…this American was not just a Theosophist, he was a resurrectionist. I found I was rather appalled. Man cannot play God. He cannot toy with the gift of life or return it when life is extinct. My mouth went dry and I moved my hand up to the silver cross at my chest that gave me comfort, but then I remembered Sebastian had taken it in exchange for the Staff. Damn and blast!
“What service can I do for you, Mr. Blake?” There was an unimpressed, hollow ring to my voice. I did not particularly like this fellow for he challenged far too many of my long-held beliefs.
“Those who attend my lectures occasionally offer me gifts to assist with financing the great work. Several items were gifted to me at my show last night. I have no use for them and I wonder, would you appraise the items and put them up for auction?”
I noted that Blake called his lecture a ‘show’ and so I was even more dubious of his airy-fairy rhetoric. Lawrence Blake threaded his hand into the inner pocket of his frock coat and retrieved three silver items—a small spice box made in the shape of a fish, a snuff-box, and a silver stamp case. He passed the items to me. I removed my small magnifier from my waistcoat pocket and put it to my eye to inspect them. I checked the quality of the silver hallmarks, looked for dents and splits in the thin shiny metal, and anything else that may detract from the value. The stamp case was marked with the year 1888, James Allen of Birmingham. He was a good maker, but the item was not old, rare, or worth a great deal. The snuff box was of good quality, however, the top of the box was engraved with the initials BWC, and such personalized boxes were harder to sell because of the monogram. The silverfish was another matter entirely. The body of the fish was articulated and embellished with separate dorsal and pectoral fins, in addition to rows of chased scales. The fish head could be removed and a small quantity of spice stored within the body. It smelled as if it had once held powdered Cinnamon. I was stunned that an item of such beauty was randomly gifted at a lecture. I wondered why Blake had come to me to sell this silver trove when he could have happened upon one of the thousands of London Pawn shops.
“These two items here are worth a guinea,” I said decisively, placing the silver boxes on the table.
“But the fish is… the fish is… exceptional.” I turned the item between my fingers,
“It is Dutch silver, marked for the year 1800. The eyes are emerald, and the detailing is of the highest quality. I have seen only one such fish-shaped spice box before and it sold for a remarkable three guineas at auction.”
I expected to see a satisfied smile or some response of pleasure; however, Blake’s face did not register even a twitch of surprise at my appraisal.
“You will sell them for me?”
“I can do better than that!” I said. I wanted this man out of my office as quickly as possible and so I decided at once I would conclude our business today.
“I will buy them for my collection. Does three guineas and ten shillings sound fair?” I offered a little less than they were worth because, if I’d sold them at my saleroom I would have taken commission and so he would not get the full estimate!
“Indeed it does.” Again, no emotion showed on Blake’s face, but he held out his hand to seal the deal. My eyes fell on the long bony fingers of his right hand. He wore a gold band on the index finger. The signet ring