“It’s possible when my grandfather set off for America, he took not that sword alone but also the jewels. I’ll come by your shop tomorrow. I don’t need to know a value precisely, just whether something is real or glass.”
“I can do that,” Molino agreed, “and with pleasure. But not tomorrow. I won’t be in my shop. Come by on Friday morning, and we’ll see what you’ve got.”
***
GREER WAS ONLY HALF-convinced the jewels on Miss Sylvia’s collar resembled what he’d seen in the painting. But it was worth a try. When he entered his new room, as usual, the cat tried to dash past him, and as usual, he was ready for her.
Grabbing her up by her scruff, he kicked the door closed and sat on the bed with her. There was no sofa, but an old chair and a small writing table.
“Yes, we shall go out but not until the morning. It’s late, and you’ve had your walk,” he said, soothing her with a rub behind her ears while he looked at her collar.
Never once had he considered the jewels to be real. Metal prong holders set in the wide leather strap clamped down over each jewel, and now, while Miss Sylvia stayed relatively still, he thought it odd that each jewel was a different shape and size. If they were made of glass or even colored marbles, he imagined they would be similarly shaped.
Turning the collar on her neck, he counted, fifteen jewels in all. If they were real...
Releasing her, he lay back, putting his hands behind his head. He mustn’t get ahead of himself, or the disappointment would be too great. He must not even start imagining what it would mean if they were precious stones, but he couldn’t help himself.Beatrice!He would be able to ask her again to be his wife.
With the proceeds from the jewels’ sale, he could buy the townhouse outright and have enough for them to live on comfortably for a few years although not forever. But in the meanwhile, he would find a good job, perhaps even invest in the British market.
Miss Sylvia took that moment to step onto his stomach.
“Oof,” he said, as her paws seemed to drive down into his organs but he didn’t care. If he weren’t so tired and full of ale, he would do a happy jig around the tiny room.
“I shouldn’t let myself get too excited,” he said to her without raising his head. But for the first time in a week, he ignored the loud sounds of people fighting along the hall and slept soundly.
The next day, after tending to Miss Sylvia, he dashed out of the room, intent on going directly to Baker Street. He got a few feet down the street, hailed a hackney, and jumped in. Beatrice wouldn’t be in the confectionery until nearly noon, as was her habit, but he would find her at home.
A street away, Greer yelled for the driver to stop and take him back. Two thoughts had crossed his mind, the first was how he’d already played with Beatrice’s emotions once, even though it had been unintentional. He should say nothing until he knew for certain if the jewels in the collar were worth a fortune.Maybe two fortunes!His second thought was, if he did go anywhere, he ought to take the collar so he could keep an eye on it.
Unsure which choice he would make, whether to see Beatrice or not, Greer paid the driver and let him go. Another hackney would be around in a minute if he decided to go. By the time he let himself into the drag and dingy hotel, he had decided he would not selfishly raise his toffee-maker’s hopes.
Strolling down the dark hallway, he encountered Miss Sylvia, unexpectedly running toward him along the threadbare carpet. It took him but a second to realize someone must have opened his door, someone who had not been ready for the cat’s determined intent to escape.
Reaching down as he had many times, he scooped her up as she tried to race by him. Cautiously, with Miss Sylvia tucked under his arm, he continued along the hall but before he reached his own room, a man appeared. A stranger with his hat tugged down low over his face. He caught sight of Greer and ran in the opposite direction out the back to the alleyway, wrenching the door nearly off its hinges in his attempt to escape.
Greer didn’t give chase. With Miss Sylvia in his arms, it was pointless. He wouldn’t dare set her down, nor would he leave her alone in his room. The lock had been easily picked, and he couldn’t trust it wouldn’t happen again.
His things had been tossed around in disarray. Oddly, his silk ascots were still there, in a tumbled heap, his good shoes, too, and his suits had been pulled from the interior of the wardrobe, but nothing taken. He had not much else of value, as he wore his father’s pocket watch and carried his wallet. He had some papers from America, including the letter from his uncle recently arrived to upend his life.
Luckily, he’d surprised the robber. Although, in reconsidering, he hadn’t done anything. The man had come out, perhaps spooked when Miss Sylvia escaped. In any case, it wasn’t safe for the cat there, and Greer supposed he was lucky in a week’s time someone hadn’t tried to rob him before.
With only one place he could think of to go, he turned his key in the lock, glad the man hadn’t broken it or, worse, kicked the door in and splintered it. Back outside, he hailed another hackney.
“To Baker Street,” he said.
