Toad in the Hole

by Paisley Ray

  “Is that code for something?”

  “GG may have left a message, in case we call. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before now.”

  He squinted at me.

  Passing through cosmetics, a woman spritzed me with Calvin Klein Eternity. “I saw a red phone box on the street corner. It can’t hurt, right?” I liked winning him over.

  “Stop rushing. We don’t even have the phone number for the hotel.”

  Pushing through the front glass doors, we landed on the sidewalk in Covent Garden where shops butted against brick pavers and a bustling street. To the left was the telephone box. I dug in my pocket, past the Pall Malls, I clutched a pack of matches. A gargoyle like the ones on top of The Oakley Court smirked on the match pack front flap.

  Peering into my hand he flipped the matchbook over. On the back was the address and phone number. “You smartass.”

  I gloated, of course.

  The two of us squeezed into the red box and I held out my hand. He removed a palmful of coins from his pocket. “Which one?”

  “The one with the queen on it.”

  “All the coins have the queen on them.”

  “The gold one.”

  After I dialed the number, I got rapid beeping and finally figured out by reading the information on the phone that I needed to dial 020 first. The sound wasn’t at all American, but a bling-bling in rapid succession.

  “The Oakley Court. May I help you?” a sprite British woman answered.

  “I stayed with you earlier in the week and think I left some luggage behind. I was wondering if you could check for me?”

  “Most certainly. What name?”

  “I’m O’Brien, but the reservation was under my grandmother’s name, Geneva McCarty.”

  “Will you hold please?” she said, and switched the line to “Do You Want To Know A Secret.”

  “What’d she say?”

  Wind rattled the partially open booth door. I put the phone to his ear. “They love their Beatles.”

  I held one large shopping bag and Travis had two. Stuffed into a space smaller than a portable toilet, I noticed that a similar smell permeated the air. The longer I waited, the more I began to think about who’d been in here before me and what they’d done.

  Travis eyed the golden arches down the street and quipped, “Where’s the beef?”

  I began to drool over the thought of a Big Mac and Coke with lots of ice. After some of the meals we’d eaten, the thought of the special sauce made my mouth water.

  Without room to move and air that hung around us like week-old sweat socks. Travis said, “Hang up.”

  About to bail on the Oakley angle, I pulled the phone from my ear when I heard a man’s voice ask, “Rachael O’Brien, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “We do have some items left for you. If you can give me your location, I can have a car bring them to you.”

  A wayward crumpled newspaper blew past the booth, triggering a switch in my head. The voice that spoke on the phone was different. It was British, but the way he addressed me was slow like I was a child. “What items do you have exactly?”

  He paused. “There’s a suitcase in back with your name pinned to it.”

  I could hear a slight clicking on the line, subtle and not as raspy as static. This was taking forever. “Just one suitcase?”

  “As far as I know. Are there others in your party?”

  Travis pretended he was holding a burger then thumbed a gesture in the direction of the McDonald’s down the street.

  “Are there any messages for me?”

  “Messages?” he repeated. “If you’ll hold the line, I’ll…”

  “Please deposit another twenty pence,” a voice echoed. I hung up.

  Travis futzed to get the door open. “What was all that about?”

  “He said they had a suitcase of mine.”

  “A lot of good that does us.”

  “They said they’d drop it off.”

  “Is someone from the hotel coming to the dock?”

  Burying our heads in our jacket collars we moved down the block. “I think he was fishing for our location so I hung up.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Have a sinking feeling that whatever went down at The Oakley Court the night we left was not good.

  CHAPTER 17

  Sacked

  I slid out of the taxi on Regent Street. Standing beneath the glow of a streetlamp, a twinge of guilt flinched in my chest. Truth be told, it was the Big Mac I’d greedily consumed. Eating American fast food in a foreign country somehow seemed indulgent. No one said anything, but my conscience told me I’d snubbed English cuisine.

  After paying the taxi driver, I stood on the sidewalk and hesitated. A few businesses up the street were open, but it was dark inside Garrard’s storefront. Dead end, I thought and cursed myself for letting the taxi go.

  Arm in arm, two well-endowed women with outlandishly tight, low cut dresses and four-inch heels waddled toward us. One of the ladies had a sparkly purse under her arm.

  Travis gawked as they passed and one abruptly stopped. “Buy us a drink, lover, and there might be some fluff and tickle in your future.”

  “Are you a pearly queen?” Travis asked.

  Each had thirty years on us but they didn’t seem to care. Placing a hand on her heart, she pursed her lips, “If that’s what you fancy, then I am.”

  Slipping my arm through Travis’s, I tugged. “Have a nice night.”

  “Charming, be that way.” Giggles softened as the two continued on their way down the street.

  “Are you sure this is the right address?”

  I was sure GG’s handwriting in the notebook read Regent Street.

  The storefronts we stood against were constructed from a white-gray stone. The elaborate building entrances were intricately carved with cherubs and vines placed in repetitious symmetry on top of the arched windows. Up and down the cobbles, Union Jacks were strung like clothes on a line, connecting one side of shops to the other.

  In front of number one hundred and twelve the overhead lights were off, but we could see a pile of papers, dust, and flattened cardboard boxes unevenly stacked in the center of the marble floor. A dustpan and broom lay nearby. The velvet-lined jewelry cases were bare. In the corner, a wispy-haired old geezer in a tweed vest and tartan bowtie sat slumped with his chin on his chest in an office chair.

  Turning on his heel, Travis said. “Well, we tried. Let’s find a pub walking distance and sample all the ales.”

  I reached for the door and Travis gripped my hand.

  “Rachael, this place is empty.”

  “Maybe they moved. The guy inside may know something.”

  “These shopping bags are heavy. Let’s get back to the boat, unload, and regroup.”

  “We’re here,” I said as I swung the door open.

  The man in the chair tipped his head back and swigged from a bottle of amber scotch. Without acknowledging us, he broke into a low and somber tune. “Through the streets broad and narrow, crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O.”

  It surprised me that the door of a vacant shop was unlocked. I had both feet inside when Travis warned, “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  With a wave, I said, “Hello, Sir.”

  The man in the tweed kept singing. The next verse came out louder and slurred. “Crying cockles and mussels and mussels and cockles and cockles alive-O.”

  “Is everyone in this town a pearly king?” Travis asked.

  When we were halfway across the room, Travis stopped to rest the shopping bags on top of an empty glass case.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Ah no. This is your show.”

  I handed him my purchases and moved toward the karaoke king in the corner. He’d stopped singing words, and started to hum.

  “Excuse me. So sorry to trouble you. We were looking for Garrard’s Jewelry store.”

  “Gone. It’s all gone,” he stammer
ed then took a heavy gulp from the bottle.

  Travis motioned a come-hither wave in my direction. “Alrightie. Thanks very much. We’ll be going now.”

  “What do you mean it’s all gone?”

  “A lad,” he said emphasizing the ‘a’ into a long vowel. “An apprentice to my father at fifteen I was.” Raising a finger, he made sure we paid attention. “My old man worked on the crown jewels and the world’s finest collections under a fine sovereign, the ‘Uncle of Europe.’ Fifty three years of my life!”

  Struggling to decipher his words, I snapped to attention when he spouted, “Go on, get out of here. Garrard’s is closed. As management liked to say, merged. They’ve shagged the competition. My position is eliminated. Sacked, goddamn it.”

  My feet shuffled backward and locked. A tingle of excitement surged. “I didn’t catch your name?”

  “They call me Sonny. It’s my disposition. Always cheery you know.” he said, attempting a smile that turned into a crooked leer.

  Travis held the door open and bobbed his head in the direction of the street.

  “Lad’s got a funny tick,” Sonny said. “Ought to get it seen to.”

  Fishing inside my jacket pocket, I opened my palm, holding the amethyst-encrusted oyster.

  My hand was steady, but the old man’s left eye began to twitch.

  “Can you tell me anything about this?”

  “Who are you?” he rasped.

  “I’m Rachael O’Brien.”

  “Another bloody American. She didn’t have children. Not with him. Are you some destitute descendant of that woman?”

  I noticed the glint of a golden chain fastened to his buttonhole and the jeweler’s magnifying loupe that hung down his chest. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  He drew back and gave me a bleak look. “It’s junk. The door’s behind you.”

  “It’s an Asprey.”

  “Hapless amateurs,” he spat. “They can go to hell.”

  A gust from outside blew the swept dirt pile into disarray. Travis’ foot lodged against the glass door. “Come on, Rachael. You must have misread Geneva’s note.”

  I knew I hadn’t. It definitely said Sonny at Garrard’s on Regent Street.

  A cane I hadn’t noticed was hooked on the back of Sonny’s chair. Snatching it, he leveraged himself up and moved forward. “Geneva McCarty?”

  I nodded.

  “She asked me to look you up. The oyster brooch was gifted to her from Wallis Simpson. She wanted to get it valued and find out if there’s any history behind it.”

  “Where is she?”

  Travis let go of the door and it shut.

  I focused on the toe of my shoe as I drew circles on the gritty floor tile. “It’s a long story. The short version is that while we were staying at The Oakley Court there was some kind of raid. Geneva, my grandmother, sent us down the river on a boat. We’re due to meet up in a few days.”

  “Grandmother? Bloody hell,” he chuckled. “So she has an American granddaughter. I should have guessed. You look a bit like her, just not as pretty.”

  Travis and I locked eyes. Finally we’d get some answers and I’d cash in on the bet we made. After tonight, he’d be dining on English cuisine of my choosing.

  I placed the oyster in Sonny’s palm. Moving along the empty jewelry counter, he pulled out a cushion display stand from inside a case. Placing the oyster on the velvet as though it were a feather, he examined it from top to bottom.

  We moved in closer, but were careful not to cast our shadows in the dim light.

  Flipping it over, he scanned the back.

  “There’s a compartment,” I said.

  Sonny placed the brass jeweler loupe in his left eye. Years of intricate craftsmanship had taken a toll and his long fingers curved at the joints. Centering the tremble in his hand, he splayed his fingers on the two largest stones and twisted until we all heard the click. As the brooch opened, he grinned and a sigh quivered from his throat. Without lifting his head, he reached under his vest and removed a leather pouch. Unsnapping it with one hand, his fingertips removed a tool the length of a drinking straw. The handle was wooden, shaped like a mushroom, and the tool reminded me of a dental plaque scraper. Holding the brooch in place, he touched the implement to the underside.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” I said as I threw my hand on top of his, attempting to nab the tool he held.

  Sonny had surprisingly quick reflexes for a snozzled old dude and in a flash the tool was back in his pocket. His back straightened. “I etched the engraving, I can remove it too.”

  Travis’s mouth winced.

  “But this is Garrard’s. The clasp says Asprey. Did you work at Asprey or Garrard’s?” I asked.

  “Asprey! Never. Garrard’s was my life,” he said, wiping a tear from his cheek.

  I made a mental note to avoid mention of Asprey.

  “I’m lost,” Travis said.

  Under the florescent light, the brooch gleamed.

  “When they buried her, I figured it was forgotten. Secrets are pesky buggers. The older they become, the more vengeful they grow.”

  “Buried?” I asked.

  Sonny’s feet pivoted. With his cane still in hand, he scurried across the empty showroom toward the back of the store.

  Contorting his face, Travis twirled a single finger around his temple. A soft whistle from his mouth rang, “Cuckoo.”

  We both heard the clip, clomp of the cane tip fade away. “Um Sonny,” I called. “Where are you going?”

  He re-directed his path and picked up the bottle of scotch. “I’m too old for this. I was so enthralled to meet someone of such prestige.” He stopped to guzzle. “Thought the connection would be worthwhile. Damned foolishness. That’s what it was.”

  We followed him through a doorway and down a hall. He was so inebriated, I worried that he’d fall and hurt himself before we learned anything. In passing, his fingers flicked light switches on in empty office spaces.

  “What connection?” Travis asked.

  “Cockles and mussels, life is a muck bed,” he said, as he descended a narrow flight of stairs.

  Travis grabbed my arm. “Rachael, we have no business being here. Let’s just go.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s the key to the brooch. He may know why the Turk is following us.”

  “Us?” Travis repeated. “You’re the one that attracts the creepy types.”

  Sonny’s steps stopped at the bottom of the staircase. “What Turk?”

  “Ahmed Sadid,” I said.

  His eyes appeared glazed and he wavered. Steadying himself, he anchored a hand on the wall. “Never heard of him.”

  “He keeps showing up offering to buy the brooch. Says he’s from the Turkish Department of Antiquities.”

  “Like that position even exists,” Travis scoffed. “Rachael has a way of luring crazies.”

  I scowled at Travis. His insight wasn’t helping us send Sonny a ‘we-are-trustworthy-tell-us-your-life-story’ vibe.

  Snapping his head to attention, Sonny threw his hands in the air and he shook the cobwebs out of his head. “Bloody hell,” he roared and scurried through a maze of hallways.

  Shopping bags rustled as Travis and I trotted behind him. It wasn’t clear if we were chasing or following.

  A light cast into the hallway. Inside a windowless room, Bisley file cabinets with map size compartments lined the cement block walls. Sucking wind up his nose, Sonny centered himself and tapped a thumbnail on his front tooth then started opening and slamming drawers in a flurry.

  Travis and I watched with curiosity.

  “Haunts me from the grave. Gems do that. Lure you into thinking you can possess them. Minerals don’t perish like flesh.”

  As far as I could tell the building was deserted. Everything but the display cases and some furniture had been cleared out. “Why is Garrard’s empty?” I asked.

  “Mergers and acquisitions. They sold out to bloody Asprey.”

&
nbsp; “So you stayed behind,” Travis asked.

  “Retirement, they called it. Offered me a package. Like it was my idea.” Sonny began tapping his tooth again. “Think, think.”

  “What is this, storage?” I asked.

  “It’s the vault.”

  “Oh, for locking up the jewelry at night.”

  “Your boyfriend’s a clever one, eh?”

  I shrugged. Sonny was like a roller coaster without brakes and I stayed silent so I wouldn’t derail him.

  With animated vigor, his wrist flicked above his head. “Back in the day, this room housed it all.” Dropping to his knees, he removed the lower drawer from a middle cabinet.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s the relevance of this vault to the brooch?” Travis asked.

  With his back pressed to the floor, Sonny stretched a hand inside the blueprint size drawer. Besides a layer of dust bunnies, it was empty. His wrist twisted, enabling his fingers to scale the topside of the compartment. A smile pricked his lips and he removed a yellow envelope, slightly thicker than my roommate’s phone bill.

  “A rake, he liked the ladies.” Sonny straightened and nudged Travis’s thigh with his elbow. “What handsome lad wouldn’t? My old man said he was generous and the brooch was just another little something.”

  “Sounds harmless,” I said.

  “That’s what I thought. And when he asked me to engrave it, I did.”

  Inside, my head danced with questions. Sonny had engraved the oyster. “The oyster was a gift from Edward the King to Ms. Simpson?”

  My voice fell on deaf ears. Sonny moved to a worktable in the middle of the room. As far as I could tell the outside of the envelope was blank. His fingers toyed with it as if deciding their next move.

  Travis put the shopping bags down by the door and I put the one I carried at my feet.

  “What’s inside?” Travis asked.

  The light overhead was soft and cast a vanilla glow. Sonny’s hands, I noticed, stayed steady, and a boyish smile smoothed the skin on his cheekbones. He withdrew a piece of parchment, folded like a road map that had yellowed over time. “Ah, here you are. It’s been ages.”

  The unfolded paper was the size of a desk calendar. My eyes took in a charcoal sketch of a long staff. Portions of it were labeled in script.