A Rip Through Time(56)

Davina waggles her fingers and her brows. “I’m catching a chill out here, kitty-cat.”

“I’ll need to come back with the money.”

“You do that, then. You know where to find me.”



* * *



Damn it, I’m on edge tonight. I keep telling myself I’m fine. I have Catriona’s switchblade. I’m staying out of alleys and dark corners. Yet I cannot shake the paranoia that first blossomed outside Gray’s town house. The sense that danger creeps along behind me, close as a shadow. Yep, if I do make amends with Isla, maybe we can write penny dreadfuls together.

I know I’m being silly. I also know, as a cop and a woman, that “feeling silly” is no excuse for carelessness. If I have the choice of two streets, I take the better-lit one, even if the darker choice might shave a few meters off my journey.

Earlier, I’d speculated that there were probably better areas in the Grassmarket. The pawnshop is in one of them. It’s not exactly the New Town but at least here I can stop clutching that blade. It’s busier, too, with people spilling from pubs and shops. I quicken my pace and pray the pawnbroker is still open. I see the sign UNCLE DOVER’S down an alley just as the distant bells strike eleven and a dim light inside the shop turns out.

I hurry down and rap on the window. When I shade my eyes to peer through, I catch movement, but the lantern stays off. I rap louder.

“Looking to sell your pearl, lassie?” a voice says behind me. “I’ll buy it from you.”

It’s a trio of men stumbling past, drunk, and I brace myself, but they only continue on, laughing. I press my face to the glass again and knock again. Then I remember what Davina said about the pawnbroker having an eye for Catriona.

I call, “Mr. Dover, sir? It’s me. I have most urgent business.”

I don’t give my name—I doubt Catriona would have used her real one. I’m hoping my girlish voice catches his attention. I drum out a light rat-a-tat-tat on the window, which hopefully also sounds feminine.

When the lantern flickers to life, I shade my face to the window and waggle my fingers. A moment later, a key turns in the lock.

Be Catriona, I remind myself as I hurry to the door. As tempting as it is to play the desperate housemaid, wide-eyed and near tears, I cannot screw up again. Slow down. Assess.

I know how to do that, damn it. I’m a cop. It just feels somehow as if I’ve left that part of me back in the modern world. Another life, another Mallory.

Be Catriona. Be Mallory, too. Evaluate and take control.

It’s a moment before the door opens, as if the pawnbroker is peering out to be sure I don’t have a thug at my side. When it does open, the man there is younger than I expect. Stereotyping again. I saw this shop, which would fit in any period drama, a pawnbroker down a dark alley. I expect to walk in and find a dusty and grimy wonderland, shelves and cabinets overflowing with an antique dealer’s dream. The owner will be a wizened old man with a monocle for peering down at Great-Aunt Gertrude’s ruby ring, which I must sell to buy food for my sick baby.

Nope. The guy’s maybe thirty-five. Portly and red-cheeked with sideburns that put McCreadie’s to shame. His gaze doesn’t rise above my neckline, and seeing that, I helpfully undo my coat, tugging out my hair as if it’s suddenly grown warm. His gaze gratefully settles on my cleavage. Is “décolletage” the period-appropriate word? Whatever it is, the Victorians were fond of it. Catriona doesn’t have a single dress that shows off her ankles, but both her nonuniform ones display her generous assets.

“Miss Catherine,” the pawnbroker says. “What ever brings you to my door at this hour?”

I sigh dramatically, which also makes Catriona’s boobs bounce. “I have made a dreadful mistake, Mr. Dover. Sold something I ought to have kept. It is most vexing.” I raise my eyes to meet his. “I do hope you have not sold it yet.”

“I hope I haven’t either.”

He bustles me in and holds out his hands. It takes me a moment to realize he wants my coat. It’s not nearly warm enough in here to take it off. But it isn’t my comfort he’s looking after; it’s his view. I hand over the coat.

As he hangs it up, I glance around the shop. It matches my mental image better than he does. I don’t see any jewelry—with the glass windows, he probably locks it up. Mostly it’s the vintage equivalent of a modern pawnshop. Instead of used electronics and jewelry, there are everyday items like clothing and tools. Whatever people had of value that they needed to sell, whether it was to get through to the next paycheck or to fund a bad habit. I’d smelled a distinctive sweet smoke outside, as if one of the surrounding buildings housed yet another Victorian melodrama staple: the opium den.

As I move inside, I see what looks like a bank-teller counter, complete with dividers. To give a modicum of privacy for those embarrassed by their need. There are three sections, as if for three clerks, each with a pen and a pad of pawn tickets.

“Now what did you sell me that you need back?” he asks.

“A locket. It’s rather unique.”

“Ah, the one with the rod of Asclepius. You’re lucky, Catherine. I had a student from the medical school in here eyeing it. Said he’d return when he had the money. Offered me a pound for it.”

I presume Victorian pawnshops operate like modern ones. You can either sell them something or you can leave it as security on a loan, which you have a certain amount of time to redeem with interest, and after that, the broker can sell it. Catriona would go for option one—the straight-up sale. This guy’s telling me I need to pay more than “purchase plus interest.” He has a buyer lined up. Or so he claims, but both Catriona and I have seen this stunt before.