“Have you encountered a man named Brightwell?” I said.

Stuckler looked at me blankly.

“Should I have?” he asked.

I couldn’t tell if he was hiding his knowledge of Brightwell or genuinely didn’t know of his existence. I wondered how recently Brightwell had emerged from the shadows, impelled by his belief that the centuries-long search was nearing an end, and if that was the reason why Stuckler professed to be unaware of him. Despite Stuckler’s faintly comical bearing, he was clearly skilled in his business of choice, and had somehow managed to conduct his own search for the map fragments while avoiding the attentions of Brightwell’s kind. It was a situation that was about to change.

“I think you’ll be hearing from him, once he discovers that you share a common goal,” I said.

“I look forward to meeting him, then,” said Stuckler, and there was the hint of a smile upon his face.

“It’s time for me to go,” I said, but Stuckler was no longer listening. Instead, Murnos led me out, leaving his employer lost in contemplation of the ruined bodies of human beings, now joined together in a dark tribute to old, undying evil.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I met Phil Isaacson for dinner in the Old Port, shortly after returning from my meeting with Stuckler. It was becoming ever clearer that the following day’s auction would be a turning point: it would draw those who wanted to possess the Sedlec box, including the Believers, and it would bring Stuckler into conflict with them if he succeeded in acquiring the item. I wanted to be present at the auction, but when I called Claudia Stern she wasn’t available. Instead, I was told that entry to the auction was strictly by invitation only, and that it was too late to be added to the list of invitees. I left a message for Claudia, asking her to call me, but I didn’t expect to hear back from her. I didn’t imagine that her clients would be pleased if she allowed a private investigator into their midst, an investigator, moreover, who was interested in the eventual destination of one of the more unusual pieces to have come on the market in recent years. But if there was one person who could be relied upon to find a way into the House of Stern, and who might know enough about the bidders to be of assistance, it was Phil Isaacson.

Natasha’s used to be on Cumberland Avenue, close by Bintliff ’s, and its move to the Old Port was one of the few recent developments in the life of the city of which I was totally in favor. Its new surroundings were more comfortable, and if anything the food had improved, which was quite an achievement given that Natasha’s was excellent to begin with. When I arrived, Phil was already seated at a table close by the banquette that ran along the length of the main dining room. As usual, he looked like the dictionary definition of dapper: he was a small, white-bearded man, dressed in a tweed jacket and gray pants, with a red bow tie neatly knotted against his white shirt. His main profession was the law, and he remained a partner in his Cumberland-based practice, but he was also the art critic of the Portland Press Herald. I had no problem with the newspaper, but it was still a surprise to find an art critic of Phil Isaacson’s quality hiding among its pages. He liked to claim that they’d simply forgotten that he wrote for them, and sometimes it wasn’t hard to imagine someone in the news editor’s office picking up the paper, reading Phil’s column, and exclaiming: “Wait a second, we have an art critic?”

I’d first met Phil at an exhibition over at the June Fitzpatrick Gallery on Park Street, where June was showing work by a Cumberland artist named Sara Crisp, who used found items-leaves, animal bones, snakeskin-to create works of stunning beauty, setting the fragments of flora and fauna against complex geometric patterns. I figured it was something to do with order in nature, and Phil seemed to generally agree with me. At least, I think he agreed with me. Phil’s vocabulary was considerably more advanced than mine where the art world was concerned. I ended up buying one of the pieces: a cross made from eggshells mounted in wax, set against a red backdrop of interlocking circles.

“Well, well,” said Phil, when I reached the table. “I was beginning to think you’d found someone more interesting with whom to spend your evening.”

“Believe me, I did try,” I said. “Looks like all the interesting people have better things to do tonight.”

A waitress deposited a glass of Californian Zin on the table. I told her to bring the bottle, and ordered a selection of Oriental appetizers for two to go with it. Phil and I swapped some local gossip while we waited for the food to arrive, and he gave me tips on some artists that I might want to check out if I ever won the state lottery. The restaurant began to fill up around us, and I waited until every-one at the nearby tables appeared suitably caught up in one another’s company before I broached the main subject of the evening.

“So, what can you tell me about Claudia Stern and her clients?” I asked, as Phil finished off the last prawn from the appetizer tray.

Phil laid the remains of the prawn on the side of his plate and patted his lips delicately with his napkin.

“I don’t tend to cover her auctions in my column. To begin with, I wouldn’t want to put people off their breakfasts by detailing the kind of items with which she sometimes deals, and secondly, I’m not convinced of the value of writing about human remains. Besides, why would you be interested in anything she has to offer? Is this to do with a case?”

“Kind of. You could say it has a personal element to it.”

Phil sat back in his chair and stroked his beard.

“Well, let’s see. It’s not an old house. It was founded only ten years ago and specializes in what might be termed ‘esoteric’ items. Claudia Stern has a degree in anthropology from Harvard, but she has a core of experts upon whom she calls when the need to authenticate items arises. Her area of interest is simultaneously wide and very specialized. We’re talking about manuscripts, bones rendered into approximations of art, and various ephemera linked to biblical apocrypha.”

“She mentioned human remains to me when I met her, but she didn’t elaborate,” I said.

“Well, it’s not something most of us would discuss with strangers,” said Phil. “Until recently-say, five or six years ago-Stern did a small but lively trade in certain aboriginal items: skulls, mainly, but sometimes more ornate items. Now that kind of dealing is frowned upon, and governments and tribes aren’t slow to seek recovery of any such remains that are presented for auction. There are fewer difficulties with European bone sculptures, as long as they’re suitably old, and the auction house made the papers some years ago when it auctioned skeletal remains from a number of Polish and Hungarian ossuaries. The bones had been used to make a pair of matching candelabra, as I recall.”

“Any idea who might have purchased them?”

Phil shook his head.

“Stern is low-key to the point of secretive. It caters to a very particular type of collector, none of whom has ever, to my knowledge, complained about the way Claudia Stern conducts her business affairs. All items are scrupulously checked to ensure their authenticity.”

“She never sold anyone a broomstick that didn’t fly.”

“Apparently not.”

The waitress removed the remains of the appetizers. A few minutes later our main courses arrived: lobster for Phil, steak for me.

“I see you still don’t eat seafood,” he remarked.

“I think that some creatures were created ugly to discourage people from eating them.”

“Or dating them,” said Phil.

“There is that.”

He set about tearing apart his lobster. I tried not to watch.

“So, do you want to tell me why Claudia Stern should have come to your attention?” he asked. “Strictly between ourselves, I should add.”