“Karl’s Jewellers est. 1835”, said a small sign hanging from the dull grey stone building on the corner of West and 2nd. Jenkins looked around him, putting his hands deeper into his pocket. The dull smoke from the factories clogged the air with a thick, dark black that choked the passers-by on the street. People braved it though, going about Monday morning errands. He cast a furtive glance behind him, pulled his coat tighter around him and ducked into the store.
He heard the sound of a small bell ring, somewhere deep inside the building. He looked around himself, and noted that there weren’t any of the usual display cases and shelves one sees at a jewellers shop. His hand tightened around the box in his pocket, as he remembered that this was no ordinary boutique establishment. Herr Karl Riken served a very specific clientele, and it was in their best interests that he kept his shelves and cases as subdued as possible. Jenkins tapped his hands nervously on the counter as he waited for the mysterious man to show up. The room was threadbare, just the counter and a chair for the expert crafter to sit on.
A few minutes passed, and Jenkins nervously held the box tighter in his hands. He’d been extremely careful, and he knew that there was no chance that the gallery owners had found the replica yet. He’d spent a whole month watching, waiting and preparing, and there was no way that anything had gone wrong. The famed diamond of Francesca, in the pocket of his grubby weekday coat! He thought about Joanie, and how he’d promised to get her a ring that would be as beautiful as she was. That was why he was here, in the seedy underbelly of downtown London. Herr Karl Riken had a reputation of being one of the few jewellers who would double as a fence. His specialty involved all types of stolen jewellery, and among the many thieves that spotted the grimy streets, his name held a special reverence. No one could craft like Herr Riken could. His creations were unique, with a certain royalty and reverence that even the most determined jeweller could not fabricate. Jenkins had seen a tiara once, and when he looked at the green jewel in the centre, he found that he couldn’t look away. It caught his gaze and held it, and he thought it felt as if he was looking into Joanie’s deep green eyes. He could swear he saw something move, such was the magic of Herr Riken’s work.
The door behind the counter opened, and the famed craftsman stepped in. He wore a large brown cap on his head, which drooped down to cover his forehead. A few tufts of white hair found its way under the rim of the cap, and it haphazardly dropped down around his face. He had sharp, light blue eyes, and high arched eyebrows. A carefully maintained moustache adorned thin lips and sharp cheekbones. His face had a look of weathered age and wizened shrewdness to it. A true German, Jenkins thought. He wore a simple pressed white shirt, and rather well made and well fitted suspenders to go with it. Jenkins thought the man walked with a limp, but Herr Riken quickly moved behind the counter, and stood with his hand outstretched towards Jenkins.
”The Francesca, yes? Looking for a ring, or a nice necklace perhaps?”
His voice was dull and monotonous, but the words rang through Jenkins head like a bullet. He jumped up, and ran to the door, and poked his head outside. Having satisfied himself that there were no police running up to kick the door down, he rushed back in, and pulled the revolver out of his pocket. His hands were shaking, and he cocked the gun, pointing it straight at Herr Riken. He could feel the gun almost slip from his grasp, his hands slick with sweat.
“How did you know?! Did the police come to you? Has the gallery found out?”
Herr Riken did not seem to be perturbed by the gun.
“My friend, if the police would have known about your little heist, then you would not have found the doors to my shop open. Maybe you would not have found the shop at all. I know about the Francesca because it is my job to know. A gambler would know about the horses. A banker would know about the stocks. And just so, a jeweller must know about the jewels. Now please, friend, put the gun away, and we can discuss business.”
Jenkins felt his arms grow heavier. He suddenly did not want to be holding the gun anymore. He put it back inside his pocket, and pulled out the box in which he had kept the Francesca. As he put it into Herr Riken’s hand, he saw the man’s eyes glint. The expression on his face was rather unsettling. There was something macabre about it, like a butcher looking at a lamb.
Herr Riken took the box, and gingerly opened it. The soft smile on his face grew wider, and Jenkins found himself taking a slow step backwards.
“And what, my friend, do you want me to make this into?”
“A ring….I mean to propose to my Joanie.”
As soon as he said the name, Jenkins felt he had made a mistake. Herr Riken shut the box, and looked back at him, slightly tilting his head to one side.
“Come back in two days, and I will need to make measurements to fit the ring. But the crafting of it would be done. It will cost you four thousand pounds, payment on delivery.”
The figure shocked Jenkins. He’d been prepared to pay double, or even triple that.
“I…I’ll come by in two days then.”
He knew much better than to ask for a receipt, or any sort of record.
“Good day to you, friend.”
-x-
On the way home, Jenkins could not shake the man’s smile from his head. He’d be happier when the whole business was done, and he and Joanie would leave London. He’d put aside a nice amount of money, and had been making enquiries to buy a house in San Francisco.
Lost in his thoughts, he bumped into a woman carrying a large stack of books. They fell onto the pavement, and he instantly bent to pick them up. She seemed to be a student, from the nearby college at Arkham. They taught all sorts there, but had a rather sinister reputation for encouraging studies of the occult. Often, shady and mysterious figures would be seen loitering around town, and it would turn out that they were professors at Arkham, teaching historical traditions about rituals and obscure tribal practices to appease some dark, forgotten gods. They’d be found in the darkest of alleys, conversing with all sorts of disreputable, odd folk, and engaging in all manners of bizarre behaviour. The papers often carried stories of the blasphemy of teaching about sacrifices and cannibalism, but it was obviously more complicated than that. Jenkins didn’t care to know more.
She gathered all her books, and Jenkins stammered out an apology as they went their separate ways. Had he paid a bit more attention, he might have noticed some of the titles of the books. ‘Obscure Practices: A Study of Vague Traditional Rituals’ said one. Had he opened it, an interesting article about a certain ritual would have caught his eye. The article described how certain cults and cabals would sacrifice undesirables, and would carry out a ritual to appease some unnameable terrors, binding their souls in various mundane items. Jewellery, sometimes. The article said that such jewellery would always stand out from the rest. It had no equal, across the world. Another book was titled ‘Tracing the Occult through the Ages’. It was a study of how families that were known for witchcraft, or being involved in the occult would often change their names frequently and become nomadic, to avoid police scrutiny and suspicion. Mathusson to Mason for example. Or Von Richten to Riken. If he had, he might’ve had a second thought about the shop he had just visited, and its strange proprietor.
But Jenkins did not stop to read the books, or even their titles. He hurried home, and hugged and kissed Joanie to chase his jitters away. By night, he’d mostly gotten over his fears, and the truth of what he’d done had hit him. The great Francesca. And it had been so easy. None of the guards had been paying enough attention, by some miracle of God, and the gallery was several months behind on their payments to their security company, so several of the cameras and alarms were switched off, merely there as deterrents, but serving no actually purpose. Jenkins had been lucky. Extremely lucky. If he thought a little more about it, he might’ve realised that his luck was…unnatural. Impossible even.
-x-
As soon as Jenkins had left the shop, Herr Riken, or, to call him by his proper name, Karl Von Richten, hung up the “CLOSED” sign, and went downstairs to the basement. The cold, damp stone walls were old, much older than the rest of the house. He put the box on the work table, and carefully removed the diamond from inside it, placing it gently on a soft cloth case laid out on a small worktable pushed up against the wall. He then pushed in a 4-digit sequence into the small metal safe built into the wall. The door of the safe sprung open without a noise, and Von Richten reached inside and pulled out its contents, laying the three items on the workbench next to the diamond. He picked up the thick, black robe, and pulled it over his head. When he pulled up the hood, it covered most of his face. He then picked up the small, curved ceremonial dagger and the old dusty book, and holding one in each hand, approached the large stone altar in the middle of the room.
The anaesthetics were just beginning to wear off, and the boy was groggily coming to his senses. Good, good, Von Richten thought, the process worked much better when the components were awake. Von Richten checked the restraints tying the naked boy down to the altar, and satisfying himself, he looked down at the boy, his wide smile going ear to ear.
“It’s come, my boy, finally, the Francesca! Finally, your purpose will be fulfilled! It will be a thing of beauty, and you will be remembered forever!” He gripped the dagger tighter, his fingers running over the long familiar runes inscribed into the hilt. He gingerly opened the book to a marked page, and took a deep breath. The boy’s eyes were wide open, and he was struggling and pulling against the restraints. He shouted for help, pulling wildly.
“It’s no use my boy! These walls were built for a purpose, the only one who can hear you down here is me.” He smiled wider, his teeth softly reflecting the light of the dancing flames in the sconces adorning the walls. “So, Timmy, what should we start with?”
-x-
The morning of their marriage, Jenkins and Joanie had been reading the paper together. A particular article had caught their attention. ‘Local boy missing’, it said. ‘6 year old Timothy, picture attached, has been reported missing. Last seen 5 days ago, playing with his friends near West and 2nd. Citizens are encouraged to step forward with any information to his whereabouts.”
“Poor boy, wonder what happened to him?”
“Hush now dear, it’s not for us to worry about today. Today is about us, and the rest of our lives.”
“I know Jenkins, but I can’t help but wonder, what might have happened to him?”
Jenkins reached into his pocket, nervously feeling for the ring.
“Yes…what indeed?”