Edwina had never laid eyes on the object before. “What is it? Where did it come from?”
“A pin for weighing down the plaid when a gandaguster catches hold of your kilt. It belongs to my lad.” Elvanfoot turned the pin over in his hands, confirming his suspicion. The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. “He vowed never to take it off when he left for the city.” The old witch cast a wary eye at her and asked, “How is it you came by this?”
Edwina had no answer. If he’d asked where the pewter spoon came from, she would tell him she’d found it three months ago on the south side of the bridge under an inch of gravel. If he’d inquired about the silver bell, she could have said she’d picked it up along the bend in the river where the tide lapped its tongue against the foot of the quay below the Red Fox Inn. He’d have looked at her with a degree of skepticism, but it would have been the truth. She could retrace her steps for a year and never recall seeing the kilt pin before. “I have no idea how it arrived in this shop, sir.”
The look of skepticism presented itself on his face anyway. “You have a sister who works in the shop with you, do you not? Perhaps she could shed some light on the matter. My lad’s been missing for three weeks now.”
Oh, Mary. Where have you gone to?
Despite Sir Elvanfoot’s excitement, it was not a key he’d found, and yet it must have been the very thing he’d been meant to find. He took the telegram out once more. “Curiosity shop run by Blackwood sisters holds key,” he read, and then read again. At last he let the message drop. “How could I be so damnably stupid?”
“He doesn’t mean an actual key,” Edwina said, seeing it for herself. “He meant to express the shop held the key to finding George.”
“There isn’t magic enough in the world to explain such a coincidence,” he said, holding the pin up to the light coming through the window and affirming yet again it was a family heirloom. “But what connection does my son have to your shop?”
As he asked, a newsboy hawking papers on the corner called out with an all-too-familiar refrain: “Murder! Murder in the streets! Brick Lane Slasher claims another victim!”
Edwina stepped to the window. At the sound of the newsboy’s calls, the warning that had flustered and clawed inside her all morning begging to be heard finally broke free. She feared the answer to Elvanfoot’s question. Feared it lived in the street with the call of murder. Elvanfoot, a father with a son missing for weeks, blanched at the spectacle on the street of citizens rushing to purchase news of the grisly event. Fear. Doubt. Bargaining with the All Knowing for release from any connection to the events unfolding outside—the range of reactions she and Elvanfoot shared at the window created a sort of bridge of understanding between them.
“I don’t know beyond the discovery of that pin within the shop what the connection to your son is,” Edwina said. “We are not pawnbrokers and we do not accept merchandise on consignment, so it was not sold to us by him or any other.” Her intuition swelled unpleasantly beneath her ribs again. “Likely it was found by my sister, and we’ll ask her about that when she returns. Until then, I will try to reunite you with Mr. Cameron.” There was only a momentary pang of added discomfort when she committed herself to the task of finding Ian. “I can’t say for certain where he is at the moment, but he has a little fellow devoted to him who might be able to help us.”
“Old Tom Hob? Good heavens, the little imp is here in the city?” Elvanfoot pocketed the pin. “I had no idea. We must summon him at once.” The witch paused and scrutinized the shop goods for an entirely different purpose than before. “Have you a washbasin about? Or a good-sized vase? Even a commode will do, come to think of it.”
“Yes, of course.” Edwina spun around, searching. “Will this do?” she asked, removing an umbrella from a brass stand by the door and presenting the empty container.
Elvanfoot looked it over, tapping the solid bottom with the flat of his hand. “Aye, that’ll do. Bolt the door. We’ll fetch him here quick as we can.”
The pair went into the back room, where Elvanfoot set the canister on the floor and took two steps back. Edwina, meanwhile, looked to her jars and elixirs to see if anything might aid in the magic. She held up a bundle of grapevine with a questioning look. The elderly witch approved of her innovation, so she set the coil of woody vine inside the canister.
“It might be a good idea if we also add a drop or two of alcohol, if ye have it, to sweeten the spell,” Elvanfoot said.