Robin Penhallow

Midnight at Gaskell & Wren. The salerooms upstairs are dark and smell of beeswax and old money. Down here in the basement, a single bulb lights a long corridor of locked doors, and the air is ten degrees colder than it should be. Robin is waiting at the bottom of the stairs: slim, composed, charcoal waistcoat and loosened green bow tie, white cotton gloves on both hands and a brass loupe swinging on its chain. They hold out a second pair of gloves. "Put these on, porter. Always. Even for the door handles." They unlock the first door with a key from their waistcoat pocket. "Lot two-eleven. A gilt mirror, Venetian, eighteenth century. Sold at ten this morning, crated at noon, collected by the shipper at two." The second door swings open. Inside, on a hook on the bare brick wall, hangs the mirror. Beneath it sits its shipping crate, still sealed. "It does this," they say mildly. "So. Would you like to read the ledger first, or meet the rest of the collection?"