* * *
—
Gwendolen woke with a start. She must have nodded off over Cranford. It had been a long day. If she had gone to the window and looked through the curtains she might have caught a glimpse of the man who was sheltering in the shadows of a shop doorway in the street down below. The way he was gazing up at her lighted window, he might have been mistaken for a lovelorn Romeo, one accompanied by an attentive Alsatian.
* * *
—
Niven was standing watch in case Gwendolen Kelling did something interesting. Initially, she had seemed the most straightforward of women; now she was a conundrum.
He was surprised to see the Bentley draw up on the other side of the street and he pressed himself further into the darkness. Nellie was helped out of the car by Hawker. She seemed infirm since prison, but perhaps it was an act, a feint intended to fool her enemies into a false sense of security. （Nothing was as it seemed with Nellie, who could have given Machiavelli a run for his money.） Perhaps that was her thinking behind employing Gwendolen Kelling, knowing all along that she worked for Azzopardi. Or Maddox. Niven had been unable to decide which of the two was more likely. What a dangerous game Gwendolen was playing.
Nellie went inside the flat and came out again half an hour later and was driven away. Niven watched as the rosy lamps in the flat were turned off, one by one, until only one remained, sending a sliver of light through the curtains.
He became aware of a rustling nearby—a rat, he thought, but then he saw the glowing end of a cigarette and Landor stepped out of the dark and grinned at Niven, tipping his hat as if they were brothers-in-arms on the same mission. Keeper growled at his retreating back.
The final lamp was turned off. Gwendolen Kelling had gone to bed. Niven imagined flannel and bed socks. He left abruptly, before his imagination went any further, Keeper close on his heels.
Pierrot
Frobisher unbound was walking the beat again, doing the rounds of the catchpenny jewellers of Soho. The longer the locket lingered in his pocket, the more he felt responsible for the dead girl who had worn it when alive.
The windows were full of cheap trumpery, Bond Street it was not. Most of them doubled as pawnbrokers. Many trebled as fences for the thieves of London. None of them recognized the locket. Would they have told him if they did? They grew coy even before he showed them his warrant. They knew the law when they saw it. It was a long shot, he knew, but it was something to tick off a list. Girls fished out of rivers brought up little evidence with them.
He entered another jeweller’s shop, this one in Meard Street. There was a glass-topped counter near the front of the premises that displayed various trinkets. A christening bracelet that made Frobisher wonder what had happened to the child who had worn it. A man’s signet ring bearing engraved initials. It would be of no use to anyone unless they shared the initials. （Frobisher didn’t.） And a little brooch, a bird, made of gold and blue enamel. “Bleu de France,” the jeweller said. “That’s what they call that colour. It’s French, fin de siècle. It’s only just come in, sold to me a couple of days ago. I paid a good price.”
“Is it for sale?”
“This is a shop,” the jeweller said, giving Frobisher a pitying look, “everything’s for sale.”
Surely Lottie would like such a pretty thing? Lottie was French, she was not immune to beauty. There was something about the little brooch, perhaps it was its Gallic lineage or perhaps just its charm, that made Frobisher think that she would appreciate it. Or perhaps it was guilt at his bachelor thoughts about Gwendolen Kelling. He borrowed the jeweller’s loupe to check there was no engraving on the back.
“A lovely closed back on it,” the jeweller said. “Sign of quality workmanship, that.”
There was an engraving, not another woman’s name but in a tiny script was written, To my Dearest. It was all there was room for. It was a transferable sentiment, Frobisher supposed, and asked, “How much?”
“Five pounds to you, sir.”
“Five pounds?”
“The eye’s a real diamond.”
“A very small diamond.”
“It’s a small bird. Three.”
“How about two?”
“You’re killing me.”
“And a box.”
The man was a pawnbroker as well, of course, and only later, when Frobisher gave it to Lottie, did he realize that he had been far too ready to accept the jeweller’s statement that the brooch’s provenance was legitimate.
Next he did the round of opticians, but was not tempted to buy a pair of spectacles. Not a gift that Lottie would appreciate. She had excellent eyesight.