Page 32 of The Locked Room

This was the plan they had hatched together – Beth would present the bracelet to the pawnbroker and haggle over the price, while Harry gave the shop a discreet once-over. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find – if the thieves were connected to Solomon Pole in some way then the Sora-Sora diamond would hardly be in plain view. But it was a place to start, if nothing else, and she might discover something she could report to Inspector Wells. ‘Just to be clear, this bracelet belonged to my grandmother as a child. I don’t actually want to pawn it.’

Beth grinned. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll offer a low price, I’ll pretend to be offended, maybe try and get them to offer a bit more. Then we can sweep out in high dudgeon and nip away sharpish before they twig we were wasting their time and send the heavies after us.’

‘The heavies?’ Harry repeated, fragments of her unsettling dreams flashing across her thoughts. The pounding of monstrous feet upon the pavement had felt all too real.

‘I expect there’ll be at least one,’ Beth said, her tone matter-of-fact. ‘To make sure no one gets any ideas about taking the law into their own hands. Pawnbrokers come in handy if you’re short of ready cash, but I can’t say anyone likes them much.’

That was understandable, Harry supposed. She had no experience of such things but she was well aware that some people were only too happy to exploit those with little money. Knowing they had their customers over a barrel meant a pawnbroker could offer less than an item might be worth and demand much more to repay a loan settled on it, meaning it could take a long time for a much-loved treasure to be reclaimed. And if the pledge was not repaid within the time agreed, the item became the property of the pawnbroker, to display and sell in the shop. It seemed only natural to Harry that such custodians of hope and heartbreak were not especially popular, just as it was perfectly reasonable that they might feel the need for security, but Beth’s words still caused her stomach to churn. They needed to handle this reconnaissance mission with caution. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

Petticoat Lane market did not operate on Saturday, so Middlesex Street was not thronged with stalls and traders the way it would be the following day. The shops that lined the road were still doing a brisk trade, although Harry saw several that were boarded up, clearly out of business. The windows of one had been plastered with posters, many of which were promoting unemployment protests and hunger marches. Others advertised must-have products or outlandish entertainments. Harry’s gaze lingered on a garish, eye-catching jumble of images proclaiming the marvels of Cuthbert’s Travelling Circus, which appeared to have set up at London Fields and boasted ‘mighty elephants, ferocious lions and a most rare and elegant unicorn’. It certainly sounded marvellous, she thought. Hadn’t Patrick the doorman mentioned visiting one in East London with his family? ‘I see the circus is in town,’ she observed, pointing the poster out to Beth. ‘Have you ever been?’

‘I went last year,’ she said, with a dismissive glance at the red-cheeked ringmaster exhorting them to roll up. ‘The unicorn’s horn fell off right away, but the acrobats were good. It made me want to learn the trapeze, until I realised there’s no safety net. You’d have to be mad.’

Harry eyed the poster more closely and spotted a small drawing of a young woman in a plumed yellow costume, seemingly flying through the air unaided. A sad, white-faced clown peered mournfully from one corner, while a strongman lifted a colossal barbell, grinning as though it was nothing. It appeared that Mr Cuthbert had plenty of attractions to boast about. ‘Oh,’ she said, when she noticed the dates emblazoned along the bottom. ‘There are two shows today, but it closes tomorrow.’

‘They never stay in one place for long,’ Beth replied. ‘A week, perhaps – ten days at most – and then poof. They’re off to the next field or park, up and down the country.’

She wiggled fingers to suggest a magical disappearance but something was nagging at Harry, an elusive thought that danced in and out of her mind, tickling at the edges of her consciousness. After spending a moment or two trying to catch it, she gave up. ‘Oh, that is a shame,’ she said, sighing. ‘I think I might have enjoyed the trapeze artist too.’

Beth shook her head. ‘Oh, it ain’t for the likes of you. The seats are cheap to attract them as won’t think too hard about what’s in front of them. You’d see through the illusion in a heartbeat, and it’s all tatty and clapped out underneath.’

It was the closest Beth had ever come to giving her a compliment, but it made Harry feel a little mean-spirited, as though she lacked the imagination to embrace the magic. She certainly did not feel particularly sharp at that moment. Moriarty was running rings around her, Rufus still planned to elope with a woman they knew next to nothing about, and she had no idea how she was going to respond to the near miss – the near kiss – with Oliver the night before either. In the cold light of day, she wondered whether she might have dreamt his heartfelt declaration. It had been so very out of character. Could he really have meant the things he said? It seemed impossible and yet he had taken extraordinary risks to help her. Would he do such things if he didn’t care for her?

‘There it is,’ Beth cut into her thoughts, nodding across the street to a black-fronted shop that had seen better days. A bar supporting three brass balls hung over the door, the traditional symbol for a service that catered mostly to the desperate and destitute, and the windows were filled with a forlorn array of mismatched items that made Harry’s spirits droop. A prettily dressed china doll leaned against a chamber pot, a leather-bound bible sat next to a violin, and a silver-tipped walking cane lay in front of them. There were multiple pairs of children’s boots in different sizes, and a well-made greatcoat pinned to a mannequin. As Harry crossed the road and drew nearer, she saw several dusty racks of jewellery.

‘I should have brought something more eye-catching,’ she fretted, noticing there were numerous bracelets adorning the faded velvet cushions, amid clusters of watches and gold rings.

‘And I’m glad you didn’t,’ Beth replied with her customary bluntness. ‘We’d have been robbed blind before we got halfway back to the station. Now, when we get inside, keep your mouth shut. I’ll do the talking.’

Harry did not argue. Sarah Smith’s accent was passable enough in some parts of the city, but she doubted anyone from the East End would be fooled for long and she didn’t want to give the game away before they had even begun to play. She reached for the door handle. ‘Ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be,’ Beth replied, and winked. ‘In we go.’

The tinkle of a bell over the door announced their arrival and it took a moment for Harry to adjust to the gloom inside. The shop was smaller than she’d expected, and decidedly Victorian in style. The floorboards might once have been polished but were now dusty and scuffed with the passage of many boots. Dark, wood-panelled walls held shelf after shelf of clutter, everyday items that had once been treasured, reluctantly given up and lost. A glass-topped counter took up almost the entire length of the far wall, with additional goods on display in its depths – the more valuable stock, Harry assumed, spying jewellery, silver candlesticks and a canteen of cutlery. A large ledger rested in the centre of the glass top, open to a page that was filled with line after line of handwritten scrawl; the record of debtors, she guessed. It was presided over by a tall, thin man with deep-set eyes that roamed across the two of them with the kind of naked calculation that made Harry’s skin crawl. She could not escape the feeling that they had stepped straight into the den of a Dickensian arch-villain. ‘Ladies,’ he said, smiling in a manner that held more than a hint of a crocodile assessing its prey. ‘What can I do for you today?’

Glancing at Beth, Harry saw that a curious change had come over her since they had entered the shop. Gone was her cheerful confidence, replaced by a timid look of shame that almost caused Harry to blink in surprise. ‘Are… are you Solomon Pole?’ she asked, her voice wavering and subdued.

‘At your service,’ the man said, and Harry saw his gaze narrow in greedy anticipation even as his smile widened. ‘How may I help?’

Thrusting her hand into her pocket, Beth withdrew the silver bracelet. ‘What’ll you give me for this?’

Solomon Pole’s gaze fixed upon the glittering chain dangling from her tightly clenched fingers. ‘Come closer, my dear. No need to be scared, I’m here to help.’

Beth did as he commanded, but not before she cast a swift look at Harry. That was her cue, she realised, and she turned away as though uninterested in the tawdry financial transaction that was about to occur. She allowed her eyes to roam the shelves, not focusing on their contents but taking in the strategically angled mirrors fixed to the walls that allowed whoever was standing behind the counter to watch out for light-fingered visitors. There was no sign of the brutes Beth had predicted but a beaded curtain covered a doorway in the wall to the rear of the counter. Perhaps they were lurking in there.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Beth had relinquished the bracelet. Solomon Pole was bent over it, an eyeglass held between long spindly fingers as he studied the delicate charms attached to the links. Harry had no idea of its value in monetary terms; each charm had been hand crafted from the finest silver, soldered into place with seamless skill, a new one added for birthdays and anniversaries and other celebrations over many decades. Its sentimental worth was beyond price, but it seemed it was also a prize worth having, if the expression on Solomon Pole’s face was anything to go by. Harry did not intervene, however. Beth knew her task well enough. She resumed her study of the shop. Now that she was closer, she saw that the trays of jewellery beneath the counter contained pieces that were clearly of higher quality than their neighbours. A gold signet ring embossed with the kind of seal she associated with the nobility, although no one sealed their letters with wax any more. An emerald pendant set on a fine gold chain that glimmered even in the dimness. A jewel-handled knife that was far too beautiful to be of any practical use. Harry frowned. These were not the possessions of the working class, hastily exchanged for too little money and never reclaimed. These were something else.

‘I see you have an eye for the finer things,’ Pole said, and Harry looked up to see him watching her.

‘I like stuff what shines,’ she said, and decided to take a risk. ‘I suppose you might say I collect it.’

‘We have that in common,’ he said. His tone was bland but she thought he took her meaning. ‘Is that how you came by this particularly fine piece?’

Harry shook her head. ‘Nah. That’s hers, handed down through her family.’ She paused. ‘But I reckon I might come across one or two shiny bits and bobs to add to your collection, from time to time. Stuff what don’t match my own interests, if you catch my drift.’

From the warning look Beth flashed her way, Harry suspected she was talking too much but if her accent was imperfect, Pole did not seem to notice. He resumed his inspection of the charm bracelet. ‘I run a respectable business here – all above board.’

‘I can tell,’ Harry said, and cursed the error in judgement. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.’