As Evie and James entered, they were greeted by a chorus of wailing babes. They made their way through a maze of cabinets and shelves teetering with bits and bobs to the main counter, where a harassed-looking blonde was tending to three toddling triplets and a pair of older, freckled twins. While the triplets raced about like pups escaped from the whelping box, the woman was trying to separate the twins, who were locked in a battle over a wooden horse.
“Stop it,” she hissed. “Or I’ll break this toy in ’alf, leaving one o’ you wif the ’ead and the other wif the arse!”
“I want the arse,” the taller twin said.
“Alfred the Second said a bad word,” the other reported.
“Mum said it first,” Alfred the Second muttered. “You’re such a tell-tale.”
“Pardon, ma’am.”
James’s pleasant inquiry cut through the mayhem. All eyes turned to him. Then a massive shaggy brown dog came charging through a curtained doorway, and Evie’s breath caught as it headed straight for James.
“Sit,” James commanded.
The dog skidded to a halt and sat, its tail thumping against the floor.
“Gor.” The blonde turned huge eyes to Evie. “If your pot-and-pan manages tots the same way, I may ’ave to steal ’im for meself.”
Recognizing the Cockney slang for “husband” and the harmless nature of the woman’s admiration, Evie smiled. “I think I will keep him, thank you.”
“You would be a fool not to, and you don’t strike me as a fool, luvie. I’m Sally Doolittle, proprietress o’ this madhouse. Anyfing I can ’elp you wif?”
“As a matter of fact.” Removing the half-ticket from his coat pocket, James showed it to Mrs. Doolittle. “We are looking for this item, which we believe is in your possession.”
“Looks like my old man’s handwriting. Please wait while I fetch ’im.” Opening her mouth, Mrs. Doolittle let out a bellow that rattled the cabinets. “Alfred-kins! Get your behind out ’ere. Customers need attending, do you ’ear me?”
After a delay, the curtain parted, and a slight fellow with a mop of brown hair strolled through.
“The dead could ’ear you, Sal,” he said, yawning. “Is there a law against a bloke getting some shut-eye?”
“Papa!” The children swarmed him.
“There are my good tots.” Patting each of them on the head, he handed out boiled sweets as his offspring cheered. “Nothing like candy to calm the spirit, eh? Now be off and play quietly while the adults talk.”
After the children barreled off like locomotives under full steam, he turned to Evie and James and performed a sprightly bow.
“Alfie Doolittle, at your service.”
James introduced himself and Evie.
“We are in search of this item,” he said, “which we believe is being held in your shop.”
Glancing at the stub, Mr. Doolittle shrugged. “I hold a lot o’ things, guv.”
“This pearl necklace belonged to my mama,” Evie said. “It was the only thing I had of hers, and it was stolen from me by the man who deposited it here.”
Mr. Doolittle drew himself up. “If you’re accusing me o’ handling ill-gotten goods?—”
“We are not accusing you of anything. Yet.” James’s warning was clear. “We see no reason to summon the police when this matter can be handled discreetly—and advantageously.”
When he took out his pocket-book, Mr. Doolittle’s manner turned speculative.
“I offer a service,” he said smoothly. “Patrons deposit their goods wif me for safekeeping, and I issue them a ticket like the one you ’ave there. When they return wif the ticket and pay the holding fee, I return the item. My trade is as clean as a nun’s conscience.”
“I assume you keep a record of the depositor’s information?” James asked.
“Weren’t born yesterday. Keep my records and my business straight, don’t I.”
