Page 91 of The Scot Who Loved Me
A bandy-legged man was worrying over a wooden cage with a blue parrot inside. The man turned, squinting into the sun. “Mr. MacDonald is it?”
Will picked up his pace and extended his hand. “It is, sir.”
A breeze batted crimped white hair that grew above his ears. Like twin banners, they were. The parrot squawked, its feathers ruffling. Pidcock pulled a bit of apple and fed it to the bothered bird.
“There, there, Mr. Wiggins,” the old man cooed. “You’ll be in a new grand home before you know it.”
Mr. Wiggins had been a fixture of Pidcock’s shop, but the old shopkeeper hoisted the cage and handed it to a waiting thrum-capped sailor. On the foreshore below, a lighterman’s vessel was loaded with caged creatures. Another parrot, three monkeys, two ferrets, and a turtle. Mr. Pidcock sniffed and withdrew a wrinkled handkerchief from his waistcoat.
Pidcock dabbed his eyes. “Blasted wind’s picking up. Must’ve got something in my eyes.”
“Looks like you sold half your inventory, sir. Business must be good.”
“Business is awful.” Pidcock planted a fist on his hip and gave Will the gimlet eye. “My store’s been broken into. No one bothered me when I had an oversized Scot living above my shop.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”
“Ehhhh.” Pidcock stuffed away his handkerchief. “It’s not all bad. Made up my mind to move to Great Russell Street. Has a nice ring to it.”
“Sounds better than Cock Alley and Maidenhead Alley.”
Pidcock chuckled. “Indeed, Mr. MacDonald. Women will find Great Russell Street less offensive.”
They both turned and faced the shop. The storefront boasted one mullioned window where a fat orange tabby pressed the glass from the inside.
“Is Fat George going with you?”
“Of course, I’d never leave him behind.” Pidcock was one part feisty and two parts softhearted. The old man scratched white whiskers sprouting from his chin. “’Sides women like Fat George. He takes a good scratch anywhere, he does. Your lady certainly enjoyed petting him, and he liked your lady.”
“My... lady?”
“The one who collected your things, dunderhead. A Mrs.—Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Neville.”
“I’m bad with names, but that sounds about right.” Pidcock sniffed and checked the skies. “I shall miss her.”
Will went very still. “Miss her?”
For someone to be missed, there had to be visits to make the missing noteworthy.
“What did Mrs. Neville look like?”
A low whistle and, “Black hair, slender... a bit too slender, ’cause I like some meat on a woman’s bones, I do.”
“You sound quite familiar with her.”
“Ehhhh. She’s come to the shop now and again.”
Anne? He couldn’t believe it. His cousin might haunt Wapping Wall to cultivate sources with the criminal element here.
It begged the question. “Are you sure the woman wasn’t blond, hazel eyed, well dressed but a bit of a tart?”
Pidcock jammed a fist on his hip, knocking back his coat. “Mr. MacDonald, ladies may not bang down my door to visit me, but I do know blond hair from black... especially if it’s attached to a pretty woman’s head.”
He loomed over Mr. Pidcock. “What else can you tell me about this black-haired woman?”
“Easy there, Mr. MacDonald. You’ve never cared—”
