Conan Doyle lunged for the man, but Jean Leckie gripped his arm and held him back.
“Please, Doctor Doyle. These women are steeled by battle. They are not frightened by the rantings of a shabby drunk.” Jean Leckie spoke up, addressing the man herself. “Like all small men full up with drink, you are a bully and a coward. I pity the poor woman married to you.”
“Oh yeah?” the man slurred. His bleary eyes shifted to Miss Leckie and his face slid into a sloppy leer. “Why don’t you and your dollymop go and fuh—”
The man still had the word on his lips, coiled and ready to fire, when Conan Doyle swung an uppercut that slammed into the point of the drunk’s chin, snapping his head back and laying him out cold on the pavement.
The crowd cheered Conan Doyle, which awoke the constable who looked about himself dozily and then began to saunter their way, dimly aware that something was amiss.
“Quickly, Arthur,” she said, seizing his hand. “We must away!”
The two put their heads down and pushed through the press of people until they reached the road.
Conan Doyle was mortified by his outburst of violence and stammered an apology, but his companion erupted in an infectious titter. Conan Doyle could not help but join in and soon was barking with laughter.
“You were magnificent!” he said.
“And you were my brave Sir Galahad, defending my honor.”
He saw a line of hansoms parked at the corner and steered her toward them. “Let’s take a cab, shall we?”
But Jean Leckie’s eyes were following a passing omnibus. “No, let’s ride the omnibus.”
Conan Doyle frowned skeptically. “Are you quite sure?”
“Oh yes, it is so exhilarating! Come along!”
Conan Doyle let himself be led by the hand as they dashed into the street after a passing omnibus. He had assumed Miss Leckie would wish to ride inside, shielded by glass windows from the elements, but instead she ran straight to the rear staircase, grabbed the railing and pulled herself aboard the moving vehicle. Conan Doyle leapt up behind her. “You wish to ride on top?” he questioned. “It is not considered decorous for ladies!”
“Do come along, Doctor Doyle,” she teased and sprang up the steps ahead of him, her flying skirts revealing black lace-up boots and a thrilling glimpse of shapely ankles clad in black stockings. Heart rumbling and face flushing, Conan Doyle tromped up the stairs after her. As they filed between rows of occupied seats, they ran a gauntlet of disapproving stares from a gallery of top hatted, po-faced men. Oblivious, Jean led Conan Doyle to the very front of the omnibus where they squeezed hip-to-hip onto the narrow bench.
“Oh, isn’t this supreme!” she exulted. “I feel quite giddy up here.”
“It’s the altitude. Perhaps we should remove to the lower carriage.”
“No,” she countered. “It is not the altitude that makes me dizzy, it is the company of a brave and handsome man.” She boldly took his hand and squeezed.
Conan Doyle’s heart stepped off a cliff… and fell weightless.
The November air was cold and smoky. As they turned onto Park Lane, the sepulchral Dome of St. Paul’s floated above the rooftops, hanging weightless in the yellow haze. It had been years since Conan Doyle had ridden atop an omnibus and he found himself delighting in the experience. Although only fifteen feet up, from this perch they seemed to be riding in a winged gondola flying low through London’s stony canyons. And the great city was a whirring, hissing, steam-driven contraption clanking noisily about them. At eye level, every bus, every building, every shop awning bore a shouting banner that drowned the clop of hooves, the rumble of cart wheels, the cries of street hawkers in a visual cacophony: NESTLE’S MILK, PEARS SOAP, ALLSOPP’S, KOKO FOR HAIR, NESTLE’S MILK, BOVRIL, SANITAS SOAP, AZIL, NESTLE’S MILK, NESTLE’S MILK, NESTLE’S MILK.
At times, falling white ash, like a mockery of snow, swirled in the air about their heads and danced off their shoulders. But Conan Doyle heard nothing, saw nothing but the fine down on Miss Leckie’s cheek and the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
“It is chilly,” she laughed. “I’m rather looking forward to my tea.” She leaned a hip into him and suddenly stiffened, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh!”
“What is it?”
“I felt something… hard.”
“W-What?” Conan Doyle stammered. He fished a hand in his coat pocket and withdrew Kingsley’s windup soldier. “It’s my little boy’s favorite toy. I’m afraid it’s broken. I was supposed to find a place where it could be mended. He is quite distraught.”
The two shared an embarrassed laugh and then an idea lit up Jean Leckie’s face. “I know of the most splendid toy shop just up the way.” She leapt to her feet and tugged at his hand. “Come, we must get off at the next stop. You must see it. It is a wonderland!”
CHAPTER 9
JEDIDIAH’S EMPORIUM OF MECHANICAL MARVELS
The sign above the shop announced JEDIDIAH’S EMPORIUM OF MECHANICAL MARVELS. As Conan Doyle and Jean Leckie approached, a half-dozen street urchins scrummaged the windows, runny-noses smearing the glass as they ogled the multicolored toys on display.
Conan Doyle chided a path through the press of children with a throat-clearing harrumph. He thumbed the latch and a bell jangled as he swung wide the shop door and stood aside to allow Jean Leckie to enter. At that moment, one of the boys barged past, reached into the shop window, snatched a toy, and bolted.
“You young scoundrel!” Conan Doyle shouted impotently, but the boy was a blur of running arms and feet fast disappearing down the cobblestone street. “Stop!” He looked at his lady friend with concern. “That impudent tyke just pinched a toy right from under our noses.”
A rumble from behind made Conan Doyle turn. A large trapdoor in the floor flung upward and footsteps thumped up a flight of wooden steps. The figure that ascended from the cellar had a long white beard that spilled down upon his chest. He wore half-moon spectacles balanced upon his nose and a tasseled and richly embroidered burgundy smoking cap upon his head, beneath which his long white hair was pulled back and braided into a ponytail. With his avuncular demeanor and stained canvas apron, he resembled an emaciated Father Christmas.
“Welcome! Welcome,” said the man. “I am Jedidiah, owner of the emporium.”
Conan Doyle was about to speak when a mournful whistle interrupted him. He looked for the source of the sound and saw a miniature steam locomotive running on a set of steel tracks set high on the walls. The train orbited the shop in a frenzy of reciprocating motion and then plunged into the maw of a papier-mâché tunnel and vanished.
“I must apologize, sir,” Conan Doyle said. “We have inadvertently assisted a robbery. I was holding the door for the lady when a young guttersnipe snatched a toy from the display and took to his heels.”
The shopkeeper, a man who appeared to be in his sixties, rumbled with good-natured laughter.
“Do not be concerned. I think I know the boy. He has been staring at that toy for days with the kind of hopeless longing only a poor child can manifest.”
“But the lad is a thief! Should we not summon a constable?”
The older man shook his head dismissively. “There is no need. I did not become a toy maker seeking to become a rich man. I did so to make children happy.”
“How wonderful!” Jean beamed, and Conan Doyle, who was still perturbed about encouraging theft in the young, swallowed what he was about to say. “Now see here,” he said, drawing out his coin purse, “you must allow me to recompense you—”
The shopkeeper silenced him with a raised hand. “No, sir, that shall not be necessary. Perhaps if you find something to your fancy and make a purchase, that will help defray the loss.” Jedidiah looked from Conan Doyle to Jean Leckie with a sparkle in his eye and an amused smile. “But I see you are a handsome young couple, come to shop for your children.”