“Am I walking too fast for you? We’re nearly there now.”
Images from the musical Oliver! popped into Arthur’s head. Young dirty boys pickpocketing, Fagin and the dog with the black eye. What was his name? Oh, yes, Bullseye. Praying on unsuspecting folk in Victorian England. He steeled himself, waiting for a hand to shoot out of a doorway and batter him on the head with a truncheon. He had always wanted to believe the best in people. Now he was going to be mugged again for his trouble.
But then his hopes lifted. At the end of the passageway, there was a market. The street teemed with shoppers and stallholders selling mangos, e-cigarettes, earmuffs, colorful skirts flapping in the breeze. Shops and cafés lined the road.
“Here it is.” Mike stopped and pushed open the doorway of a tiny shop. It had dark windows emblazoned with gold lettering. Gold. Bought and Sold. New and Old. A bell jangled overhead. Arthur could smell meat pies and polish. “Jeff,” Mike hollered into the shop. “Jeff. Are you in here, mate?”
There was a creak and a rustle from behind a beaded curtain and a man with a face as beaten and brown as an old handbag pushed through. His shoulders were so wide it looked as if he was wearing a yoke under his red tartan shirt. “Mike, mate. How ya doin’?”
“Good. Good. I’ve brought my friend Arthur to see you. He has a bracelet for you to look at. A nice gold piece.”
Jeff scratched his head. His fingernails and knuckles were black. “Okay. Let’s have a gander. Not like you to bring me nice stuff, Mike.”
Arthur reached into his pocket and his fingers curled around the bracelet. Mike and Jeff stood waiting for him. They were an intimidating presence. If he was in trouble here there was no escape. Still, it was too late now. He placed it on the counter.
Jeff gave a low whistle through his teeth. “That’s a real beauty. Very nice indeed.” He picked up the bracelet, handling it with great respect. Reaching into a drawer he took out an eyeglass. “There, I can see it even better now. This is very fine craftsmanship. Very fine indeed. How much are you looking for it, Arthur?”
“I don’t want to sell. I’m just looking for some information about it. It belonged to my wife.”
“Righto. Well, the bracelet itself is eighteen-karat gold. Heavy-duty stuff. Probably European, maybe English. I’d have to look up the mark. The charms, though, they vary in quality and age. They’re all good but some are better than others. The elephant one—that’s a top-class emerald in there.
“I’d say the bracelet is Victorian, but most of the charms are newer. The heart looks like a modern piece, it’s new. See, it hasn’t even been soldered in place properly, just the jump ring pinched together. Did your wife buy that one recently?”
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think so...”
“Well, that one looks like it was added hastily,” Jeff continued. “The tiger is nice but mass produced, I would say, probably in the fifties or sixties. The thimble and book are lovely quality, but the elephant is exquisite.”
“I think it’s Indian.”
“I wouldn’t argue with you there, Arthur.” Jeff peered more closely. “Hmm, the flower charm could be acrostic.”
“Is that when you’re not sure of higher powers?” Mike said.
Jeff laughed. “No. That’s agnostic. Acrostic was popular in Victorian times. It’s jewelry set with gemstones that spell out a name or message. It’s usually given by a relative or loved one as a sentimental gift. Here—” he took a gold ring out of a cabinet “—can you see the stones are set in a line? The first letter of each of the gemstones spells out the word dearest. Diamond, emerald, amethyst, ruby, emerald, sapphire and topaz.”
“So you think the flower spells something?” Arthur said.
“Well, let’s see. It’s probably 1920s—art nouveau style. I think it was originally a pendant rather than a charm as the link is very dainty. There’s an emerald, amethyst, ruby, lapis lazuli and a peridot.”
Arthur rearranged the initials in his head several times. “The outer stones could spell pearl. And is that a tiny pearl set in the middle?”
Jeff nodded. “It sure is. Impressive stuff, Arthur. Do you know anyone called Pearl?”
Arthur frowned. “I think it might have been Miriam’s mother’s name.” He had always called her Mrs. Kempster, even after he and Miriam had married. She died before Dan was born.
When Miriam had first invited him for tea, her mother’s first observation was that he had big feet. He had looked down at his size tens and didn’t think they were unduly large, but from then on he had become conscious of them.
Mrs. Kempster had been a still, stiff kind of woman with a square jawline and steely-eyed stare. Miriam always called her “Mother” and never “Mum.”
“Well, there you go, then. Does that date ring true, then—1920s?” Jeff said.
“She would have been born around then.”
“Maybe a christening present.” Jeff shrugged. “Then she might have given it to your wife.”
Arthur nodded. It sounded entirely plausible.
“I like the look of this paint palette, too. It’s a nice item. It’s got tiny initials engraved on it. S.Y. It’s not a mark I’m familiar with.” He slid the bracelet back over to Arthur. “You have yourself a beautiful piece of jewelry. I reckon you’d be looking at a grand, or more, to replace it. I’d happily take it off your hands for that.”
“Really. That much?”
“Charm bracelets are special to people. The charms usually mean something significant and important. It’s like wearing memories on your wrist. Looking at these charms, it looks like your wife had an exciting and varied life. I bet she could tell a few tales, eh?”
Arthur looked at the floor.
Mike noticed. “Well, cheers, Jeff, mate,” he said.
Back outside Arthur felt the weight of the bracelet back in his pocket. The visit had left him even more confused. The heart charm couldn’t be new, could it? And he still wasn’t quite sure if Miriam’s mother had been called Pearl. He hadn’t noticed the initials S.Y. before.
“Were you tempted to sell?”
“I don’t know.” He felt a little shaken to learn so much from a stranger, to uncover more clues when he’d thought his search had come to a pause. “I suppose I’d better go.”
“Go where? Do you have a train ticket home?”
Arthur said that he didn’t. He looked around him blankly.
“Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I suppose I’ll find a hotel.” He couldn’t bear the thought of shacking up in a hostel again.
“Well.” Mike mused for a moment. “You’d better stay at mine, then. It’s not much, but it’s home. Hotels can cost a pretty packet around here.”
This silly adventure of his was muddling Arthur’s mind. He had messed up the head of the man in the café and now he was doing the same to himself. He didn’t want to sleep in a stranger’s house but his whole body felt rigid, as if he was turning to stone. The thought of venturing back into the tube station filled him with dread.
He nodded and took hold of Lucy’s leash.
Mike’s Apartment
MIKE’S APARTMENT WAS sparsely furnished. At the end of a concrete corridor the bottle green wooden door had a hole where it looked as if someone had kicked it in. Inside all the furniture was well-worn and old fashioned. A 1970s coffee table, coated in orange varnish, had a blue-and-white-tiled mosaic top. A sofa with wooden legs was covered with a floral sheet. The floorboards were scuffed and spattered with paint.
Arthur found himself staring at the bookcase. It was six feet tall and fully stocked. There were thrillers, biographies, a Bible and Star Wars annuals. “You have a lot of books,” he said.
“Er, yes, I can read,” Mike said. His voice was prickly.