She nodded. “But don’t lock up. I’ve people coming later.”
“Do you, now?”
She began moving prints and pens and parchment from the displays to the drawers where they were kept. Ganor saw to the end-of-day sweeping.
“Do you remember the note I got last week offering to keep an eye on the shop and see to our safety?”
“For a quid, if I recall rightly.”
“Exactly.” She glanced over her shoulder at him.“There was another note from the Protector today, telling me this week’s payment would be collected tomorrow.”
His head tipped to the side, the way one often did when pondering on something surprising. “I didn’t realize ’twas more than the one payment.”
“Neither did I. And I haven’t the first idea who’s behind it, so I cain’t even ask questions.” She pulled the money box from the cash drawer. “Will he be asking £1 every week? And what’s he doing, exactly, for that quid? And if he’s made this promise to so many of the businesses on the street, can he promise to have enough eyes and ears hereabout to keep all safe who’re paying for it?”
“Hold, hold, hold.” He stood with the broom in one hand, but his attention fully on her. “Others in the area have received the same offer?”
She nodded. “Peter said he’s heard of it from quite a few. I’m having as many as’ll come to the shop tonight to see if we can’t twig the thing.”
“Twig, meaning ‘sort out,’ if I remember.”
She smiled. “I’ll have you sounding South London before too long.”
“Not if I have you sounding Irish first.”
She did enjoy when he flirted. “You’d have to spend a heap more time here for me to work that miracle.”
“Is that an invitation?” he asked, his voice low and warm. Quick as anything, his dashing expression dissolved into laughter. “I shouldn’t enjoy making you blush, lass. It ain’t charitable of me.”
Her heart leapt about, something it often did when he was nearby. “I don’t mind.”
“So, you don’t know who’s leaving the notes, but do you at least know who’s collecting the payment?” he said.
“Oi, but it ain’t anyone I’ve seen before, and he ain’t been in here since.”
He took up his sweeping. “You’re hoping someone else knows more.”
“I’m probably making an ocean out of a puddle,” she said. “But this ain’t the sort of mystery I like. It has me a bit unsettled.”
“Would you mind terribly if I hover about for your meeting tonight?” Ganor asked.
“I’d appreciate if you did.” And not merely because it’d mean spending some extra time with him, something she enjoyed even more than she’d let on. Having another mind spinning over the mystery would increase their odds of solving it.
Vera stood in the shop that night looking over the familiar and worried faces of her neighbors. The window shades were pulled down, giving them a whisper of privacy. Papa had returned from his errand a bit pensive, focused to the point of near silence. She wasn’t certain what that meant, but it was keeping him in the flat above the shop, making this meeting far less complicated.
Having called for the gathering, Vera was the evening’s foreman of the jury. Best get to it.
“Two weeks ago, I received a note,” she said, “promising to watch over this shop, in light of the burglary at the tobacconists, for the price of £1. Today, I found another note—”
“—about the next payment,” Mr. Overton tossed in, understanding dawning in his face and tone.
Vera nodded. “And I’ll confess, I’m more than a touch confused. The first note said nothing about any more payments.”
Murmurs of acknowledgment hummed around the room.
Peter spoke up from the back, surrounded by a few street sellers. “Ours is a touch different. This ‘Protector’ must know we ain’t got a quid to hand over. We’re being asked a sixpence.”
“Have any of you seen who’s leaving these notes?” she asked the group.
“I haven’t,” Mr. Okeke said.
“Me either.” Mr. Bianchi, whose misfortune had led to all this, was present as well. Apparently, he was being offered protection too.
Heads were shaking all around.
Vera looked at Ganor, sitting amongst her neighbors. He was jotting notes on a small writing pad. He truly meant to help her make sense of this, and he’d managed to do so without shoving her to the side.
“Has anyone made a second payment?” she asked the group.
“We have,” Mrs. Murphy said.
“Same bloke collected as last time?” Vera pressed.
Mr. Murphy shook his head.
“It’s curious.” Vera couldn’t make heads nor tails of any of it.
“May be strange methods,” Mr. Bianchi said, “but the street’s been peaceful this past week. That’s worth having a few unanswered questions.”
“I’d still like to know who the Protector is,” Mr. Okeke said. “I need to know how many payments we’re meant to make, and if we can bring the cost down a touch if we can’t afford it.”
“I agree,” Mr. Overton said.
“So do I.” Vera leaned against the counter. “How many of you, if you tossed it around your brain box a bit, could draft a list of the people who’d been in your shop or business the days you found your notes?” Seeing worry enter the faces of the two misses—the sort Soho was known for—and, knowing their profession made saying too much a dangerous thing, she quickly added, “Memories can be patchy, obviously. It wouldn’t need to be a full list.”
“The street sellers’ll never remember everyone,” Peter said. “Hundreds pass by our carts every day.”
She nodded. “You’d likely do better to set your mind to anything or anyone unusual.”
Peter turned to his fellow mongers and a low conversation began.
Vera looked over to the merchants and neighbors gathered as well. “What say the lot of you, then?”
They all agreed to do what they could. The group milled about, bemoaning their troubles and tallying their odds. Gemma, one of the misses, approached, concern in her eyes.
“Something else weighing on you?” Vera asked in a low voice.
She nodded quickly.