‘James Smith and Sons,’ said Bryant, who had purchased something similar a few Christmases ago.
‘Exactly,’ agreed May. ‘Care to take a stroll down there?’
The brass-paneled store on the corner of Gower Street and New Oxford Street had sold canes and umbrellas for ever. Impervious to the changing times, it survived with unmodernized décor and traditional service, a charming oddity from the past, marooned in a fuming sea of oneway traffic.
The detectives stepped past the freshly polished nameplate and into a room filled with glistening wood. Walking sticks, shooting sticks, canes, and parasols of every size and description hung in racks like forgotten torture instruments. The genial shop assistant required a single glance at the evidence to describe the cane from which it had been broken.
‘I think we’ll have a record of this particular item, Sir,’ he said, turning the splinter over in his palm. ‘Canes with graining this rich are expensive, and are only produced as special commissions. The customer usually requires an engraved silver top.’ He pinched the wood between thumb and forefinger, and gently sniffed it. ‘Less than a year old, I’d say. Won’t keep you a moment.’
He summoned an assistant, and they marched to the rear office. Minutes later, they returned bearing a slip of paper. ‘We’ve made only two of these in the past year, one for a Japanese gentleman—’
‘Not the person we’re seeking,’ said May.
‘The other we engraved for an elderly gentleman.’
‘What was the engraving he required?’
‘A small symbol, fire in a goblet, surrounded by a circle of flame. The gentleman was very specific about the design, even drew it out for us. I served him myself.’
‘Is there an address on your receipt?’
The assistant checked the slip of paper. ‘NW3. Looks like somewhere in Hampstead.’
‘You don’t recall anything odd about your client, I suppose?’ asked Bryant.
‘Most certainly,’ replied the assistant. ‘I remember commenting to the cashier that his clothes were more suited to the previous century. Of course, we could have sold him the same cane back then.’
6 / Mother & Daughter
The uncharacteristic clemency of the day had produced a mist from the Thames which thickened with the passing hours. By six-thirty on Thursday evening, it had obscured much of the South Bank promenade, providing London’s few remaining tourists with a Turneresque vision of the city.
After her session with Dr Wayland, her therapist, Jerry caught a cab to Waterloo Bridge. She descended the stone stairway towards the hanging coloured bulbs that decked the National Film Theatre’s bar.
At the last minute, her mother had called to change their arrangement. It couldn’t be helped, Gwen Gates had explained, as she was due to address a charity trustees’ meeting at eight, and would only be able to spare an hour.
Jerry hoped she would be able to survive the full sixty minutes without being backed into another pointless argument. Gwen’s unhappiness with the choice of venue was apparent from her expression. Appearing awkwardly out of place in her fawn Dior suit and gold jewellery (the look that would be redefined as ‘bling’ thirty years later), she was seated at a counter near the window, surrounded by hairy students and film buffs. Although she tried to keep her attention focused on the fog-shrouded river, she could not resist revealing her distaste for her surroundings at every opportunity.
As Jerry pushed open the door, Gwen beaconed her location with a violent coughing fit, pointedly fanning the smoke from someone’s cigarette. As she herself was a smoker, the gesture was redundant. Jerry threaded her way to the table and pecked her lightly on the cheek.
‘All those badges are ruining your jacket,’ Gwen remarked, carefully shifting an empty coffee cup away from some imagined mark on the Formica. ‘I don’t know why we had to meet in such a ghastly place. Surely a few linen tablecloths wouldn’t compromise their socialist ideals. If you want coffee, you have to serve yourself, apparently.”
Jerry bought beverages and returned to the table. ‘I’m sorry you don’t have time for dinner,’ she told her mother. ‘There’s something I was hoping to discuss with you.’
Gwen’s eyebrows rose a fraction. Serious discussions rarely took place between them. ‘If it’s about the job, you already know my feelings,’ she said.
‘I like it there, Mother. It’s the Savoy, for God’s sake, not some flophouse. And it’s not as if I’m going to make a career out of it.’
Gwen examined her coffee suspiciously and sighed. ‘I suppose you’re mixing with the right sort of people.’