Page 6 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)
R obin made a quick circuit of the neighborhood. When no one entered the Benevolent Assistance League or Shattuck’s place after Mrs. Kendall, he returned and pushed open the door. The smell of old clothes, their former owner’s lives clinging to wool or muslin, closed around him, stopping him. London had as many stinks as a dead dog had maggots, and Robin was used to most of them, but this one took him back to a rag-and-bone shop in Monmouth Street, where Wenlocke had bargained with the proprietor to get Robin a coat. It was his first winter with Boy, as they called him then. The scratchy brown woolen coat had reached to Robin’s shins and smelled of pipe tobacco. It had no buttons, but Boy fashioned a way to close it with twists of paper and rolled the sleeves up over Robin’s wrists. The old coat had warmed him for the first time in days.
Above him a little bell tinkled and he moved forward, dismissing the past. He was not that lost boy. The bell drew a quick, sharp glance from Shattuck, and from Mrs. Kendall, a steadier gaze. With her veil lowered, Robin could not interpret the meaning of her look, but he guessed that she had seen what he now saw. It was no part of his original plan to have her in the shop, and he was prepared for some kind of cock-up in his investigation with her involved, but she was cool, he would give her that. She gave nothing away, holding up a mens gray coat with every appearance of close attention.
Shattuck had a careless continental look, his brown coat longer and looser than an Englishman’s coat, in contrast with his red silk tie, the second red tie Robin had seen in a quarter of an hour. The first had been on a man entering the Benevolent Assistance League.
It would be easy to think that he and Mrs. Kendall had stumbled onto a straight path leading to the missing footman, and more importantly, the missing boy, but Robin knew better than to be seduced by first impressions. Two red ties in a neighborhood might be a sign, but there were questions to ask.
“What may I do for you, sir?” Shattuck came forward and gave Robin a shrewd professional scrutiny that said he knew to the penny the value of Robin’s wool coat, flannel waistcoat, lawn shirt, and trousers. He might be a man to consult if the need arose.
“I’m looking for a mens leather case,” Robin said. It was a gamble, but Robin was sure he’d find an item that suited his purpose.
“Look!” Shattuck invited, gesturing to a pile of worn bags in all sizes, stacked in a hodgepodge manner in the front corner of the shop, tapestry, leather, canvas and straw. Robin nodded and turned to the pile. There were heavy trunks on the bottom and sagging straw totes on top. Mid-stack, next to a wine-stained tapestry valise, he found a leather case, the only one of its kind in the pile. There was no telling how long it had been there, and the likelihood of it containing its original contents was nil. What mattered was the chance to ask Shattuck about his recordkeeping. Robin extracted the case from the pile. Roughly twenty by twenty inches, it had two leather straps buckled across the top, and a brass plate with a keyhole and hasp lock. Robin pushed the barrel of the keyhole with his thumb to spring the hasp, but the case was locked. He laid it on the counter, where farther down, Mrs. Kendall examined a coat.
Shattuck’s gaze shifted from Robin to Mrs. Kendall to a pair of customers in the rear. The long, narrow shop was not ideal for a proprietor who wished to keep an eye on his merchandise. To Robin he said, “Ah, found what you were looking for.”
“I’d like to see the inside. I don’t suppose you have the key.”
“As it happens, I don’t. I know a locksmith who could open it for you and fit you up with a new key.”
Robin examined the barrel of the lock with its small rectangular keyhole. Scratch marks on the brass indicated that someone had attempted to open the thing, perhaps had opened it. “How long have you had this piece?”
Shattuck shrugged. “Weeks, months. Without the key, you know, customers are not keen to buy.” It was a dodge. Any legitimate dealer had records of all goods received.
“What does your ledger say about the item, Mr. Shattuck?” Robin gave a pointed look to a group of leather-bound books on a shelf behind the counter.
“My ledger?” Shattuck’s gaze shifted uneasily to follow Robin’s glance. His manner changed from affable ease to stiff wariness at once.
“Your record of the things you collect. From whom, where, and when. The record that keeps the police from knocking on your door as a receiver.”
Shattuck drew himself up in affronted dignity, one fine-boned hand pressed to his heart. “Sir, please. I am nothing of the kind. The police have no reason to visit this establishment.”
“Indulge me, then. I’d like to know more about this item.”
“Wait. I have other customers.” Shattuck turned and strolled toward the women at the rear of the shop. He passed Mrs. Kendall, who took up a gray coat and moved to stand next to Robin. “You saw his tie,” she said.
“I did. Do you recognize this case?”
“I can’t be sure. It’s very like the one from Boyle’s room.”
Robin dug a small knife out of his pocket. With it, he pried the barrel of the lock loose and shifted it with his thumb. The case popped open. He lifted the lid. From where she stood next to him, Mrs. Kendall peered inside the case. She was quite near in spite of the wide circle of her black skirts, and a sweet fragrance wafted from her, at odds with the stale atmosphere of the shop. It was annoying. She was annoyingly present to him, to his senses, to his brain. He was not used to any interference when he needed all his attention on the evidence.
He wrenched his thoughts back to the leather case. Its frame had been reinforced with wood strips, tacked in place over a printed gold and brown silk lining. The name of a French box maker appeared on a small metal plate. A faint mildewy odor wafted from the faded silk, stained in one place with a rust-colored bloom like an old pressed flower.
With the open lid of the case as a shield, Robin reached over the counter and snagged the ledger that had drawn Shattuck’s glance. Whatever else he was, Shattuck was meticulous. Each page was dated with Shattuck’s notations in a neat distinctive hand. According to the ledger the case had been opened, and its contents cataloged—a keyless, nickel and silver watch with a Roman dial, and Acanthus engraving, from the Waterbury Watch Depot in the Strand, a leather purse with ten pounds, and two letters addressed to James from Molly. On the same date, in a second entry Shattuck listed two coats, a shirt, trousers, a pair of shoes, a pair of stockings, and some drawers. All collected from Marchmont House.
While Shattuck remained occupied with the ladies in the back, Robin closed the ledger and slid it into place. The entry confirmed what he suspected. It was a great deal for a footman to leave behind. Surely when Boyle set out for the park with Andrew and Nanny Fellows, he intended to return to Marchmont House. And then there was more, the matter of the ten pounds. What had a footman done to come by the handsome sum of ten pounds?
The question played in his mind, as Robin pressed his fingers along the insides of the case against the frame for anything concealed behind the lining. In the upper right corner, he encountered what felt like a narrow rod tucked up under the wood reinforcement. Again, he used his knife to slit the lining.
“He’s coming back,” Mrs. Kendall whispered. She turned to Shattuck, holding up the gray coat. “I think this one will do. What are you asking for it?”
The rod proved to be a tight roll of paper. Robin slipped it into his pocket.
As Shattuck approached, his sly glance took in Robin with the open case on the counter, but he answered Mrs. Kendall. “Eight shillings.”
“How very disappointing,” she said. “Eight is too steep for me, and I did want to start my nephew off looking well for his new position.” She put the coat on the counter with a great show of reluctance. “Perhaps you want to help this gentleman while I check my purse.”
Shattuck slipped behind his counter and stood between Robin and the ledgers. “Ah, you got it open.”
“I did. The barrel is a bit loose here.” Robin demonstrated.
“I can let it go for two pounds.”
Robin shrugged off the offer. “I’d like to see what you have in gentlemen’s watches.”
Again, Shattuck gave him a shrewd glance, but he glided in his smooth way down the counter to a glass-topped section filled with watches lying side by side on a blue velvet cloth. He opened the case, and Robin took his time looking for the item described in the ledger, not an expensive watch, possibly no more than five pounds new.
As he looked, Shattuck commented. “These are all genuine English. No Dutch forgeries in this lot.”
At the word forgeries , Mrs. Kendall gave a little start, no more than a rustle of her silks, and resumed her contemplation of the gray coat.
“You can spot the fakes, then.” Robin did like a man who knew his business.
“Easily.”
“And this item?” Robin asked. He pointed to a watch that fit the description in the ledger.
“Undoubtedly English.”
“Mr. Shattuck,” Mrs. Kendall called. She held up the gray coat. “You said six shillings.”
“Eight,” said Shattuck.
“For eight can you wrap it?” Mrs. Kendall asked. She waved a little purse at Shattuck, who moved to assist her with her purchase.
While Shattuck bundled Mrs. Kendall’s purchase in brown paper and string, Robin lifted the nickel and silver watch from the blue velvet and opened the case to the plate to find the serial number: 8932. He put it back in place as Mrs. Kendall collected her bundle.
When Shattuck turned back to him, Robin said, “I’ll take the leather case.”
He paid as Mrs. Kendall passed out of the shop, setting the little bell tinkling.