Wick looked over. “I don’t see a boy.”
She darted her glance back that way. Sure enough, no one was there.
“No time for dawdling, you two,” Tessa called from the doorway of the shop.
Wick cocked a brow at Bea.
“I…must have imagined it.” She forced a smile. “Let’s go on in.”
Inside, Doolittle’s Emporium was a labyrinth of shelves overflowing with merchandise. Mayhem seemed to be the main method of organization. Teapots sat next to inkwells, handkerchiefs were piled onto a silver platter. Rounding a corner, Bea jerked back in surprise: she’d come face-to-face with a stuffed chimpanzee lounging on a shelf, his bored eyes disturbingly lifelike. Atop his head was an elaborate grey periwig, the attached tag reading, “Antique, last century. 35 shillings.”
Whether the tag referred to the monkey or the wig was ambiguous.
To Wick, she said in a hushed undertone, “What kind of a shopisthis?”
“It appears our expert is the owner of a pawn shop.” He sounded amused. “You have to hand it to Mrs. Kent: who deals in more pocket watches than a fence, after all?”
Beatrice had to contain her surprise for they’d arrived at a long, battered counter at the back of the shop, behind which stood a buxom blonde in her forties. She wore her hair in sausage curls, her rather hard features lacquered in paint.
She and Tessa greeted each other with air kisses.
“Lady Beatrice Wodehouse and Mr. Murray,” Tessa said, “I’d like you to meet my dear friend Sally Doolittle. She’s the proprietress of this fine establishment.”
“Call me Sal.” The blonde’s wink was aimed at Wick. “Everyone does.”
“Charmed,” Wick said easily. “Lady Beatrice and I were hoping you could help us.”
“What kind o’ ’elp are you looking for, ’andsome?” Sal cooed.
She leaned her elbows on the counter, causing her abundant bosom to nearly spill from its scanty neckline, Bea saw with growing annoyance.
“We wish to identify a pocket watch, Mrs. Doolittle,” she intervened crisply.
Sal’s penciled brows lifted. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, dove. No one knows more ’bout kettle and hobs than my Alfred.”
Bea’s confusion must have shown because Wick clarified, “A kettle and hobis Cockney slang for a watch.”
“Is Alfred available?” Tessa asked.
“I’ll check,” Sal said. Turning, she shouted toward the curtained entryway behind her, “Alfredkins!Are you awake?”
“If I were catching some shut-eye, I ain’t anymore,” a male voice called back.
“Then get your lovely arse out ’ere. Tessa’s ’ere…and she brung friends wif ’er.”
A few moments later, a man passed through the curtain. He was slight, his freckles and mop of brown hair lending him a perpetually youthful countenance even though, as he came to stand by Sal, Bea saw that he must be in his thirties. His large, wide-spaced eyes and gap-toothed smile gave him an innocent, sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth quality.
A quality that probably served him well in his career as a dealer of stolen goods.
“Ain’t seen the pair o’ you for a dog’s age,” he greeted the Kents. “’Ow’s the tot?”
“Little Bart is a holy terror,” Tessa replied. “It doesn’t help that Grandpapa indulges him shamelessly.”
“Your fault, ain’t it, for not only giving the old codger ’is only great-grandchild but a namesake as well. Told you to fink twice ’bout naming your brat after the King o’ the Underworld.”
“I suggested Newton,” Kent muttered.
“Thatname would ’ave guaranteed your son a black eye for ’is first two decades or so.” Doolittle shook his head. “What about my suggestion, eh?”
