“It’s not as dire as all that,” I say. “I am already making plans to move on to a new position. To do it now would be mere inconvenience. But, yes, I’d like to return what I took if I can.”
“Uncle Dover’s,” she says. “The old man gives you extra because he likes the looks of you.”
I glance around. “Where would I find his shop?”
She sighs, points, and machine-guns directions.
“Thank you,” I say. “Now, I know I’ve used some of my credit, but I’m hoping you can tell me more about what I was doing the night I was attacked.”
She puts out a hand.
I nod at her watch. “I have eight minutes remaining.”
“Some information costs more than others. That bit was valuable to you, wasn’t it?”
Her eyes glitter as she smirks at me.
I want information on Catriona. I might need it, if solving her murder would get me home again. But the only money I have on me is for the locket. I calculate quickly. I have two pounds left. Nine more in my room—I wasn’t foolish enough to bring it all to this neighborhood. The pawnshop is almost certainly closed. I could pay Davina for more information and then return in the morning to buy the locket.
What if Isla kicks me out before that? What if I can’t get the locket back and she kicks me outafterthat? Either way, I’ll need every penny I can get.
I’m gambling. Betting on getting the locket and winning Isla’s forbearance versus betting that Davina’s information will lead to Catriona’s attacker, which might—based on nothing but a faint hope—get me back home. One path is straightforward; the other winds and bends and may lead off a sheer cliff.
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 signUNCLE DOVER’Sdown an alley justas 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 dressthat 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?”