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Alger and Blackwood was located on Brick Lane in the East London area, within walking distance of Whitechapel, which would become notorious in another seventy-three years when Jack the Ripper began terrorizing the city. The shop itself was a narrow, medieval-looking brick structure, wedged between a haberdashery and an apothecary shop. A small wooden sign painted with three spheres suspended by a bar—the ancient symbol for a pawnbroker hung over a hunter-green door.
The interior of the shop was remarkably similar to its twenty-first century counterparts, Kendra thought, as she scanned the shelves, tables, and glass cabinets that displayed everything from gold pocket watches to silver candlesticks to dainty silk handkerchiefs. It wasn’t just the look of the store that struck her as familiar; it was also the faintly melancholy aura. Kendra could almost smell the fear and desperation of those individuals who’d been forced to part with their beloved heirlooms.
Assuming, of course, that everything displayed had been procured honestly. By the way Sam studied a few of the items, Kendra suspected the Bow Street Runner might have a few doubts on that count.
But they hadn’t come there to find stolen goods—or rather, they only were concerned with one stolen item: the Weston necklace.
A small, round man wearing a rather gaudy red-and-black-striped coat over a yellow embroidered waistcoat and black trousers was standing behind the counter. He had brushed his thinning gray hair forward, and grew whiskers on the side of his face. The whole affect gave him a rather jovial appearance, but Kendra noticed the shrewd, hard gleam in his eyes. She wasn’t surprised. This was a tough profession. Anyone who profited from the broken dreams of others couldn’t be taken in by a sob story.
There was a young man and woman perusing a case that held an assortment of snuffboxes. Otherwise, the shop was empty. The proprietor watched as they approached. He dismissed Sam, his eyes calculating the cost of the Duke’s and Alec’s clothes and zeroing in on them as Quality. As a woman, Kendra supposed, she didn’t count.
“Gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
Sam brought out his baton and dropped it on the counter with a thunk. “You can show us the necklace that one of me men said you had here. And then you can answer some questions.”
“Ah, you are the thief-taker.”
“Bow Street Runner,” corrected Sam coldly.
Kendra asked, “And you are Alger or Blackwood?”
The pawnbroker’s eyes swiveled in her direction and gave her a quick up-and-down. Kendra thought that if there’d been a scale there, he’d have asked her to hop on, so thoroughly did he weigh and measure her with that glance.
“Blackwood,” he replied. His eyes moved to Alec and the Duke. “And who are you, if I may be so bold?”
“I am the Duke of Aldridge and this is my nephew, the Marquis of Sutcliffe. And my ward, Miss Donovan.”
That made the little man straighten up, as if he could puff himself up to the five-foot-four mark. “I can assure you, Your Grace, the necklace was acquired by honest means. The man who brought me the jewels was no thief.”
Kendra said, “We need to see the necklace.”
“Of course. If you will wait, I won’t be but a moment.”
He hurried into the backroom. The young couple left the shop with only one curious glance tossed in their direction, then Blackwood returned, carrying a velvet pouch. He unrolled the pouch on the counter, exposing a vintage-looking necklace. The milky pearls that made up the five strands appeared to glow against the velvet cloth. Pink diamonds twinkled on the strands, as well, one diamond for every four pearls.
“It matches the description.” Kendra glanced at the Duke and Alec. “Did you ever see the Weston necklace?”
They both shook their heads. Alec said, “We should have brought Lady Atwood with us.”
Aldridge’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “My sister in a pawnshop? I shudder to imagine it.”
Blackwood bristled. “This is a respectable establishment.”
“No insult meant, sir. Can you tell us about the man who brought this in? What did he look like?”
“He looked like you—by that, I mean he was obviously gentry. His cravat was excellently tied with the barrel knot.” He touched his own cravat and eyed Alec’s neck cloth enviously. “I’m partial to the waterfall knot myself, like yourself, my lord. However, I can never quite get the look. I suppose you have a manservant?”
“I have a valet. I believe he’s partial to using a considerable amount of starch.”
“Ah, yes.”
Kendra leaned forward and tapped the glass with her finger to capture the pawnbroker’s attention. “If you could describe the man who pawned the necklace?”
His eyes narrowed, his eyebrows lowering as he considered the matter. “Well, as I said, he was Quality. Cut a dashing figure. Not as tall as you.” Again he looked at Alec. “And much older.”
“Brown hair, turning gray?” Kendra prompted, then bit her lip. The proper procedure was to let a witness take their time in giving a description. Offering suggestions could influence their memories. Most people had no idea how easily their thoughts could be distorted. She’d once observed a witness who swore on his mother’s grave that an unsub had held up a liquor store wearing a blue down vest jacket, only to have him falter and then change his story completely after hearing another witness, equally adamant, insist that the robber had been wearing a yellow wool peacoat.
“That’s right,” Blackwood said with a nod.
“What color were his eyes?”
“I don’t recall.”
“How old, exactly?”
Blackwood rubbed his lower lip with his index finger thoughtfully. “Like I said, older than His Lordship . . . late forties?”
Kendra straightened up and glanced at the Duke. She was a little shocked; this news was blowing her earlier theory to hell and back. She didn’t like it, but she pushed aside her unease and stated the obvious: “Weston.”
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