“I already have an Alfred in my life, thank you very much,” Tessa said.
“One can ne’er ’ave enough o’ Alfred…ain’t that true, Sal?”
“I always come back for a second ’elping,” his wife replied with a giggle.
“Greedy wench.” He gave her a good-natured swat on the behind.
Obviously used to the bawdy by-play, Tessa rolled her eyes. “If we might get to business? My friends here have a pocket watch that they need identified. It’s a matter of life or death. They’ve gone to watchmakers and shops from Clerkenwell to Soho, to no avail. I told them they needed to consult a real expert: you.”
Doolittle peered over at Bea and Wick. “Life or death, you say?”
Despite Doolittle’s boyish exterior, Bea saw the shrewdness in the man’s eyes.
“I’d be happy to compensate you for your time, sir,” she said steadily. “And yes—it is a matter of life or death. Whoever owns this watch committed arson to my property. He may also be responsible for kidnapping and terrorizing my bosom chum.”
“Crikey.” Doolittle tilted his head. “Got the ticker wif you?”
“Yes.” Wick removed it from his jacket pocket and placed it on the counter, the gold disk gleaming against the scratched wood. “The watch has no maker’s mark or stamp from the Goldsmith’s Hall. Other than the initials on the cover and the inscription on the dial face that says it was made in London, there are no other clues to its origin or owner.”
“To find clues, you ’ave to know where to look.” Doolittle picked up the watch, tossing and catching it expertly several times. He rubbed the initials with his thumb, once, twice, three times. Without opening the cover, he pronounced, “Eighteen karat gold, good English parts and not those foreign knock-offs…and hmm.” His fingers closed around the watch, his features furrowed in concentration as if he could somehow sense what was within. “There’s a symbol—like a horseshoe, next to the wordLondon?”
“How could you know all that?” Bea asked, stupefied.
Even Tessa looked impressed. “I knew you were an expert, Alfie, but that was spot on. How did you get all that just from holding the watch?”
“I didn’t. Some cull brought in a watch just like this a few months ago.” Doolittle flashed a puckish grin. “Wanted to use it as collateral. Same initials on the cover, same everyfing.”
“Do you still have the watch?” Wick asked alertly.
“Nah, the cove failed to make good on ’is loan by the agreed upon date, so I put it up for sale. Fine ticker like that flew out the door.” Doolittle paused. “But I keep a record o’ all customers who pawn their goods wif me. Sal can look ’im up in the ledger for you.”
* * *
While at Doolittle’s, the Kents received an urgent missive. Apparently, their son had gotten into the pantry, consuming an entire pudding, and said pudding was now making a second appearance. The pair rushed home, and Wick declined their kind offer to drop them back at his residence. Instead, he hailed a hackney for himself, Beatrice, and their pair of guards, setting off for the address that Sally Doolittle had looked up.
They arrived at a street of terraced houses in Cheapside. The homes were modest and dilapidated, and the one they were looking for was situated in the middle of the block. With the guards keeping vigilant watch, Wick escorted Beatrice up the steps and rang the bell.
A slovenly maid answered. She looked none too pleased to be disturbed from whatever she had been doing—tippling on the job, probably, if the sherry stains on her apron were any indication. When Wick told her he was looking for Stuart Yard, the name Sal had given him, the maid’s countenance shuttered.
“’E ain’t home,” she said. “You wif the cent-per-cents?”
Her question revealed a lot about her master. Stuart Yard was in debt, to the extent that he’d instructed his servants to lie about his whereabouts.
“We’re not here about Mr. Yard’s finances.” Wick handed her his calling card. “A mutual friend recommended that we consult with Mr. Yard on a business matter. We would compensate him, of course, for his time.”
At the mention of compensation, the maid widened the gap in the door and ushered them inside. “Rest your ’eels in the parlor then. I’ll inform the master that you’re ’ere.”
Minutes later, Bea and Wick were joined by their host in the cramped, dingy parlor. Stuart Yard was a scrawny fellow, with shifty eyes and a nervous manner. According to Doolittle, Yard had once been a well-to-do banker before he lost his fortune investing in some ill-advised scheme. The shabby state of Yard’s home and clothes verified that he was a man who’d come down in the world.
“Good afternoon.” His boisterous tones had a ragged lining of desperation. “I understand you are looking to consult on a business matter? May I ask which of my fine friends I can thank for providing the introduction?”
“Alfred Doolittle,” Wick said.
Yard’s eagerness vanished.
“I’m afraid I am not acquainted with any Doolittle,” he said unconvincingly.
Wick took out the watch, letting it dangle from his fingers. There was no mistaking the flash of recognition in Yard’s eyes.
