I leaned closer to the doll seller, to better separate his words from the surrounding street noise. "I take it, then, that if shown a particular doll's head, you could identify the premises of its origin?"
He preened himself a bit, smoothing his shirt-front with one hand. "As I said, in all things pertaining to dolls, Dick's your man."
From the velvet bag I drew forth the ugly doll given me by my last night's host. "If you'd be so kind, then," I said, holding it forth. "Which of the shops you mentioned sold this?"
I saw his eyes widen, startled, as he gazed at the thing; an ashen pallor drained into his face. Then he recovered a measure of his composure, and looked up at me.
"Never seen the like," said the doll-seller, shaking his head. His voice held only a fraction of its former bravado. "Never in my days. Right 'bominable-looking, it is." He tucked his own wares back into his basket, and moved away from me.
I clutched his coat sleeve to restrain him, "You say you have never seen one like this before?" An evident falsehood; the look in his eyes had been one of fearful recognition.
He jerked his arm out of my grasp. "No, never," he said grimly. "It's not a fit plaything for a child – best throw it away, sir, or on the fire." He began a quick walk, pushing into the shifting wall of the massed crowd.
"But surely-" I called after him.
A stern glance came over his hunched shoulder. "You've had a shilling's worth of information, sir. Believe me – you don't want to know any more." Then he was gone from my sight.
I stared after the vanished figure, long after the intervening crowd had swallowed him up. Thus far, my inquiries had yielded only meagre fruit: blows in one case, and a hasty evasion in another. I knew little more than when I had started. Indeed; the mysteries had been compounded by the fright that had been visible in the doll seller's face. Was this Saint Monkfish a figure of sinister import unknown to me? I had only one other possible informant in mind, and thus turned my steps in that direction.
At previous times in the course of my business, I had had some brief acquaintance with various of the city's numismatists. When dealing with rare and treasured articles – be they watches or whatever – an informal weave often arises, linking the various trades that service the wealthy enthusiast's desires. A few of my clients, being country gentlemen unfamiliar with London's commercial intricacies, asked me for references to the most knowledgeable dealers in various arcana, rare coins among them. I soon acquired the knowledge necessary to steer them aright.
Some time after my discussion with the costermonger on the Tottenham Court Road – my financial condition precluded any faster mode of transportation than my own limbs – I entered the shop of the numismatist I considered likely to be most helpful. In the dark, museum-like atmosphere the coin dealer looked up from a tray of ancient Roman denarii; long hours of huddling over such small objects had given him the appearance of a mole with paws together, examining beetles for particular delicacy. He soon recognised my name, if not my face, and I put my query for his consideration.
I laid the coin that the Brown Leather Man had paid me on the counter for the dealer's inspection. "I'd like to know about this minting," I said. "What can you tell me about a Saint Monkfish crown?"
"Saint who?" He picked up the coin in his spatulate fingertips and held it to the light. With his other hand he brought his eyeglasses down from his high forehead. "Very curious," he pronounced after a moment. "Very curious, indeed."
"What is that?"
"There's never been such a coin minted, English or otherwise, that I know of. Not with a portrait of any such Saint Monkfish." He peered closer at the profile. "Ugly looking sort of devil, isn't he? It would have been a memorable issue on that ground alone, I would think. But here – it's not a real coin, anyway." He held it out on his palm.
I glanced from the coin to the numismatist's face. "What do you mean?"
"It's a forgery," he said simply, pushing his spectacles back up. "See; look closer – it's nothing but a lump of base metal that's been electroplated. The coiners use a galvanic battery and cyanide of silver to achieve the effect. Though this is quite a fine example of that devious art; near perfect, I'd say." He handed it back to me. "Though what the purpose would be of forging a coin that doesn't exist in the first place – I couldn't speculate."
"Indeed," I murmured, taking it between my thumb and forefinger. "Who would do such a thing?"
"Oh, who is not the problem." The numismatist gestured dismissively. "I recognize the work; I'd lay considerable odds it's a Fexton you're holding."
"Fexton?" I had never heard the name.
"Quite. There are a few collectors with an enthusiasm for forged coins, considering them as curiosities more notable than the items they imitate. And among that lot, a Fexton coin is considered the most desirable. A true artist; pity about his moral nature. Yes. I'd say that no other hand but his could have produced that."
I turned the coin round, studying it. The glittering object was even more mysterious now. "Can you direct me to this master forger?"
"Oh, I'm afraid I can't help you there." He shook his head. "I knew the man, or as well as anyone did; very secretive fellow, beyond even the requirements of his trade. Perhaps deleterious fumes, from the chemicals he used, eventually affected his reason. The last I heard of him was a few years ago; he wrote me a letter, saying that he was relocating to – what was the phrase? -ah, yes, "the borough of Wetwick," said the letter. And then I heard no more from him since."
Another mystery – I fancied myself reasonably familiar with the districts of London, but had never heard of Wetwick before. (Would that I were innocent of that knowledge now!) I said as much to the numismatist.
"Nor I," he agreed. "As I said, perhaps his reason was impaired. Perhaps such a place only existed in his poor knackered brain, or at the weedy bottom of the Thames. Though I confess that my knowledge of the city is not encyclopaedic – here, why not hail a cabby, and ask him?"
"Yes; yes, of course." I dropped the coin back into the velvet bag. The drivers of hansoms were noted for their knowledge of London's byways; their trade depended on it. If anyone would know of such a district, it would be one of their number. "Thank you."
My investigations, fruitless as they might have been, had nevertheless taken all day to perform. Evening was already enveloping the city as I stepped from the numismatist's shop on to the thoroughfare. Within short order, I heard the creak of wheel and clop of hoof heralding the approach of a hansom cab. I raised my hand and bade it approach; the driver, from his lofty perch, adjusted the horse's progress with rein and whip, and was soon stopped in front of me.
I looked up at the caped, top-hatted figure. He seemed a good choice; his luxuriant moustache was flecked with grey of age and experience. "Do you know the city well?" I called up to him.
"Of course; get in, sir." His pride seemed somewhat nicked by my possible lack of confidence. "There's not a part I don't know, sir."
My hand reached up to the cab's handle. "Can you take me to the borough of Wetwick?" I asked.
His look of surprised indignation stayed my hand. He drew himself upright and glared down at me. "You didn't look to be that sort of gentlemen." His voice was harsh with barely suppressed outrage at my request. "You might find some other cabby who would take you there – but not this one. A good night to you, then." He snapped the reins and sent the vehicle moving off.
My puzzlement had reached its limit; my brain could encompass no more. Every attempt to penetrate a mystery had been like a lantern's beam down an endless shaft, that reveals only receding murk. My course around London had been a pointless chase; the velvet bag with its curious contents might as well have been tied on a stick to the top of my head for all that I had laid hold of them. Wearied, I turned my steps towards home.