The House of Silk_ The New Sherlock Holmes Novel - Anthony Horowitz [45]
‘And where did he sell it?’ I added. ‘There must be hundreds of pawnbrokers in this part of London alone.’
‘That is certainly the case. On the other hand, you will recall that Wiggins followed our mysterious assailant from a pawnbroker in Bridge Lane to the hotel and mentioned that Ross was frequently in and out of it himself. Perhaps that is where his “uncle” is to be found.’
What a place of broken promises and lost hopes the pawnbroker proved to be! Every class, every profession, every walk of life was represented in its grubby windows, the detritus of so many lives pinned like butterflies behind the glass. Overhead, a wooden sign with three red balls on a blue background hung on rusty chains, refusing to swing in the breeze as if to assert that nothing here would ever move, that once the owners had lost their possessions, they would never see them again. ‘Money advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel and every description of property’ read the notice below and so it was, for even Aladdin in his cave would have been unlikely to stumble upon such a treasure trove. Garnet brooches and silver watches, china cups and vases, pen holders, teaspoons and books, fought for space on the shelves with such disparate objects as a clockwork soldier and a stuffed jay. Linen squares from tiny handkerchiefs to tableclothes and brightly embroidered bedcovers dangled at the sides. A whole army of chessmen stood guard over a battlefield of rings and bracelets laid out on green baize. What workman had sacrificed his chisels and saws for beer and sausages at the weekend? What little girl managed without her Sunday dress while her parents struggled to find food for the table? The window was not just a display of human degradation. It was a celebration. And it was here, perhaps, that Ross had come.
I had seen pawnbrokers in the West End and knew that it was customary for them to provide a side door through which it was possible to enter without being seen, but that was not the case here, for the people who lived around Bridge Lane had no such scruples. There was one main door and it was open. I followed Holmes into a darkened interior where a single man perched on a stool, reading a book with one hand, while the other rested on the counter, the fingers rolling slowly inwards as if turning some invisible object over in his palm. He was a slim, delicate-looking man of about fifty, thin of face, wearing a shirt buttoned to the neck, a waistcoat and a scarf. There was something neat and meticulous in his manner that put me in mind of a watchmaker.
‘And how may I help you, gentlemen?’ he enquired, his eyes barely leaving the page. But he must have scrutinised us as we came in for he continued: ‘It looks to me as if you are here on official business. Are you from the police? If so, I cannot help you. I know nothing about my customers. It is my practice never to ask questions. If you have something you wish to leave with me, I will offer you a fair price. Otherwise I must wish you a good day.’
‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’
‘The detective? I am honoured. And what brings you here, Mr Holmes? Perhaps it has something to do with a gold necklace, set with sapphires, a nice little piece? I paid five pounds for it and the police took it back again, so I gained nothing at all. Five pounds and it might have brought me twice that if it were not redeemed. But there you are. We’re all on the road to ruin but some are further ahead than others.’
I knew that in at least one respect he was lying. Whatever Mrs Carstairs’s necklace was worth, he would have given Ross only a few pence for it. Perhaps the farthings that we had found had come from here.
‘We have no interest in the necklace,’ said Holmes. ‘Nor in the man who brought it here.’
‘Which is just as well, for the man who brought it here, an American, is dead, or so the police tell me.’
‘We are interested in another of your customers. A child by the name of Ross.’
‘I hear that Ross has also left this vale of tears. Poor odds, would you not say, to lose two pigeons in so short a space