“Henry, I’ve the workhouse order here. You know how it is made up.” He thrust the paper at the youth. “See to it.”
Mick Howell studied the small mother of pearl brooch carefully, handling it lovingly as he turned it to the light. By happenstance, he had seen the Beadle frequenting this shop; the owner was a known fencing agent masquerading as a jeweller-pawnbroker in Seven Dials.
On a hunch, Mick called in at the shop and spotted the brooch and a small inlaid box, both of which he remembered well. Both pieces were prominently displayed in the shop window, an indication that they had been acquired recently. He asked casually, “I’ve a mind to buy this, but I’ve a need for another piece like it—a locket mebbe, or ear trinkets. Have you anything to match?”
“Mebbe. Lemme see.” The man rummag
