had the wits he was born with.” He sighed. “Although I admit that in the beginning I can see how many would have thought it was a grand adventure, with money to be made.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I … I went home the other day. I can’t stay away forever.”
Narraway waited.
Quixwood kept his eyes lowered. “I collected some of my clothes, a few personal things. I thought I might be ready to move back again, but I … I can’t. Not yet.” He looked up at Narraway. “I was looking at Catherine’s jewelry. I thought I should put it in the bank. I don’t really know why. I don’t know what to do with it, except keep it safe. I suppose there will be something to do with it … one day. I …” Again he stopped and took a long, jerky breath. “I found this.” He held out a small, delicate brooch, not expensive but very pretty—three tiny flowers in various stages of opening, like buttercups. It could have been gold, possibly pinchbeck. “It’s new,” he said softly. “I didn’t give it to her. I asked Flaxley where it came from. She didn’t know, but she could tell me when she last saw it. It was after Catherine had met with Hythe at an exhibition of some sort.”
Narraway looked more carefully at the piece, without touching it. “I see,” he said with sharp regret. “Is there any proof that Hythe gave it to her?”
Quixwood shook his head. “No. Only Flaxley’s word that that was the day she first had it.”
“And Flaxley would know?” Narraway pressed.
“Oh, yes. She is very good at her job, and completely honest.” Quixwood smiled. “She hated admitting it, but she would not lie … to me or to anyone. Of course it proves nothing, I know that. But I have no idea what would!” He looked very steadily at Narraway. “Perhaps it will help?”
Narraway took the brooch. “I’ll see if I can find out anything about it. It’s very attractive—individual. If I can trace it, it would at least be indicative.”
Quixwood stared at the floor. “Whatever happens, I’m grateful to you for your time and your patience, and … and for your great compassion.”
Narraway said nothing. He was embarrassed because he felt he had done so little.
HE TOOK THE BROOCH to a jeweler he had consulted with in the past when wanting to know the origin or value of a piece.
“What can you tell me about it?” Narraway asked, offering the old man the delicate little golden flowers.
The jeweler took it in his gnarled fingers, turned it over, and squinted at the back, then looked at the front again.
“Well?” Narraway prompted him.
“Old piece, perhaps fifty or sixty years. Pretty, but not worth a great deal. Perhaps two or three pounds. Individual, though, and women tend to like that. Come to it, I like that.” He looked at Narraway curiously. “Stolen? Who’d bother? Couldn’t sell it. Come from a crime?” He shook his head. “Shame. Somebody took care and I’d say a lot of pleasure in making that. Innocent little flowers. Tainted with blood and treason now?”
Narraway evaded the question. “Where would you buy or sell something like this?”
The old man pursed his lips. “Sell it to a pawnshop, not get more than a few shillings for it at most. Buy it there again for a bit more.”
“And if I wanted to be discreet?” Narraway pressed.
“Barrow in Petticoat Lane. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Gold or pinchbeck?”
“Pinchbeck, Mr. Narraway. You don’t need me for that neither. Pretty thing, nice workmanship. Sentimental, not worth money.” He handed it back. “You got as much chance of tracing it as you have of winning the Derby.”
“Somebody has to win,” Narraway pointed out.
“You’ve got to ride in it first,” the old man said with a dry laugh. “You thought I meant putting money on it? Any fool can do that.”
Narraway thanked him and went outside into the sun, the little brooch in his pocket again.
Reluctantly he visited Maris Hythe in her home that evening to show her the brooch and ask if she had ever seen it before. He loathed doing it, but he would be derelict not to find out.
She took it and turned it over in her hand. She looked puzzled.
“Have you seen anything like it before?” he asked.
“No.” She looked up at him. “Whose is it? Why do you bring it