An Excellent Mystery

aka The Adventure of the Lost Luggage

by Soledad

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern version belongs to BBC and Messires Moffat and Gatiss. The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: www. .uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.

Notes: Details about the Jewellery Quarter in Birmingham are borrowed from Wikipedia, with gratitude.

The real Cavendish's, while an actually existing jeweller's firm in Birmingham, has nothing to do with the one depicted in this chapter. The brooches described have been "borrowed" from their collection, though. Davies's and Morgan's are a product of my imagination; and so are the various hotels mentioned. Only The Grand Hotel is a true item.

Warning: Gratuitous descriptions of beautiful Victorian jewellery. Yes, I know it wasn't strictly necessary, but I simply couldn't resist. ;)

Beta read by my dear friend Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my eternal thanks.


Chapter 09 – Ladies' Day Out

The Jewellers' Quarter of Birmingham was situated in the south of the Hockley area, on a piece of land sold by the Colmore family in 1746, to help satisfy the demands of an increasing population. By that time, the family had moved out and let New Hall Manor to tenants. St Paul's Church, the most impressive building of the area, had been completed in 1779. Georgian houses aimed at the prosperous middle class had been constructed around St Paul's Square.

Now, a hundred years later, the Quarter showed clear signs of the growth of the manufacturing industry since that time. Even though the number of jewellers in the area had reduced significantly in the 1820s as a result of economic problems, Hockley had developed as a distinct 'quarter' at the centre of the city's jewellery industry after the mid-1930s, and in the 1950s many residential properties overlooking St Paul's Square had been converted into workshops, with the jewellers living above their workshops in the second and third storeys.

Alongside these refined and elegant show windows Mary Watson was now strolling, with Mrs Bradstreet accompanying her disguised in men's clothes, which she clearly was not wearing for the first time, seeing how comfortably she moved in them. Dr Sawyer had excused herself after having worked in the morgue half the night.

"Right now, the Jeweller's Quarter's output surpasses that of the jewellery trade in Derby, which is our closest competitor," explained Mrs Bradstreet. "In fact, half the gold- and silverware products on sale in London's Jeweller's shops are produced here. Most jewellers still work in small workshops that employ between five and fifty people. Nine out of ten master jewellers were originally craftsmen. And, as you can see, thy do beautiful work," she added with a faint smile.

"I am certain that you are much more familiar with all kinds of jewellery than I am, Mrs Bradstreet," replied Mary humbly.

Susan Bradstreet gave her an exasperated look.

"I see we must rehearse our tactics, Mary," she said. "Remember, I am your cousin – it is a good thing that we are both blonde – and here to help you choose your wedding anniversary gift. For God's sake, do remember to call me Basil, or the whole masquerade has been for nothing!"

"I am sorry," murmured Mary demurely. "I am not used to such… adventures. You, on the other hand, seem very comfortable in men's clothes. This is not the first time you have worn them is it?"

"You are very observant; Mr Holmes' skills must be rubbing off to you," said Susan Bradstreet. "You are right, of course. There are places where only men are allowed; but not all of us are willing to accept that. So we find ways to sneak in undetected."

"Who is we, if I may ask?"

"You may," Susan Bradstreet grinned widely under the fake moustache she was wearing; she played a man very convincingly.

Of course, having a not very feminine face helped.

"You see, Dr Sawyer, Emily Holroyd and I are childhood friends," she continued. "Even though Sarah comes from the country gentry and Emily and I do not. But we have always enjoyed considerable freedom, due to the wealth and influence of our families; which, by the way, helped our respective husbands to gain their current positions. We were not willing to give up all that, just to become meek little wives… no offence intended," she added hastily.

Mary smiled. "None taken. Personally, I prefer being the meek little wife of a good, decent man like John Watson to being a harassed governess in some wealthy house where the husband believes he could demand… err… personal services from me; but we come from different worlds in that aspect. I imagine things are vastly different for ladies of your social status."

"They are," admitted Mrs Bradstreet, "although the restrictions still chafe. Thus we have founded… well, a sort of club, you could call it, I guess. Sometimes we dress up as men to visit men's clubs or other gatherings where only gentlemen are welcome; it is great fun. Of course, I find it easier to disguise myself than, say, Emily," she added with a self-deprecating grin. "She is very pretty and quite curvaceous, and disguising that takes a lot of work. But it is doable; and it is definitely worth the effort."

"And no-one has ever recognised you?" asked Mary in surprise.

Mrs Bradstreet shook her head.

"Not once. We are careful, of course. I would never attend an event where James is likely to show up. He is very observant; not as good as Mr Holmes, naturally – no-one is – but much better than your average policeman. He would spot me in the middle of a crowd, even in disguise."

"What would happen if you were found out?"

"Nothing, I imagine," said Mrs Bradstreet with a shrug. "You see, unlike Emily, whose husband comes from our own social circles, I actually married below my status. My mother is Beatrice Vermont – I assume you have heard the name?"

Mary nodded. The Vermonts were the greatest competitors with the Colmore family in the textile industry, specialising in theatrical costumes all over England, and Beatrice Vermont, the head of the family, ruled over their empire with an iron fist – one covered in a velvet glove. Their wealth, like that of the Colmores, was legendary, and so was their influence in Birmingham and its surroundings.

"I met James in London, related to a case in which Mr Holmes, too, was involved," continued Susan Bradstreet. "He impressed me with his skills and his endurance, so when he applied for this post in Birmingham, I had my mother use her contacts. He was more than worthy, and I wanted him to get the chance he so richly deserved." She grinned. "And I had my personal agenda concerning him, of course. We married less than a year later."

"Why do you keep your… activities from him, then?" asked Mary.

"Because he would never understand my reasons," answered Mrs Bradstreet a little sadly. "He is a good man, but still a man, with the shared prejudices of all men towards women. You should have seen him while I was pregnant. You cannot believe all that hovering and concern."

"I think I can," said Mary drily. "I have a hovering, concerned doctor as a husband. Believe me, that is ten times worse."

Mrs Bradstreet laughed; as she had a naturally deep and somewhat rough voice, it sounded like the laughter of a man. Or very close to it, at least.

"I imagine it is," she said. "Now, let us begin at Cavendish's. Do you have a drawing of the brooch? It would be easier to find the source it came from if we could actually show it."

"I have a photograph," Mary Watson pulled a sheet of paper out of her handbag. "Not as detailed as a drawing, of course, but…"

"It will do," Susan Bradstreet examined the slightly blurred picture. "An experienced jeweller will be able to make out the details. It would help if we knew the colour of the stone, though."

"It is blue," said Mary promptly. "I asked."

"You are very good at this detecting business," Mrs Bradstreet complimented her.

"I have to be," replied Mary with a modest smile. "My husband associates with Sherlock Holmes, after all. I cannot afford to be stupid.

"That is an association you would best not to mention within the earshot of Mr Cavendish," advised Mrs Bradstreet. "He is as honest as the day is long, but jewellers tend to become concerned when detectives are mentioned."

"I will not," promised Mary.

"Good," Susan Bradstreet said. "Let us go in, then, and take a look around."


Cavendish's was one of the oldest jewellery workshops in the Quarter, with a dark-panelled exhibition room, in which the various items of jewellery were presented on velvet-lined display counters, also made from dark, polished wood. Mr Cavendish Senior, an elderly gentleman in a dark frock coat, hurried forth from the actual workshop situated in the adjoining room at the first ring of the bell to greet the potential customers.

It became obvious for Mary at once that Mrs Bradstreet's alias had to be a regular visitor in the Quarter, as Mr Cavendish greeted her in delight.

"Mr Blake, what a pleasure to have you in our modest establishment!" he exclaimed. "How may I be of assistance?"

"My cousin," Mr Cavendish gestured in Mary's direction, "is looking for a brooch, similar to the one she saw at a friend's house."

"I see," Mr Cavendish gave Mary a perfunctory bow, quickly reassessing his first impression of her, mentally elevating her to the status of a customer. "Could you describe the brooch, madam?"

"It was quadratic, with a single, elongated blue stone," explained Mary. "It had a gold-plated, milled edge border."

"Perhaps you should show Mr Cavendish the photograph," suggested Mrs Bradstreet and Mary complied.

Mr Cavendish studied the black and white picture for quite some time.

"It is surprisingly detailed," he finally said. "I never thought this new method could yield such an accurate picture. In any case, while the craftsmanship appears to be fine enough, we do not produce – or sell – such cheap items."

"Cheap?" echoed Mary in surprise. "I thought it was a valuable brooch."

Mr Cavendish gave her a politely condescending smile.

"Valuable, perhaps, but not a truly exquisite piece," he said. "This is the sort of jewellery you would find at Davies's or Morgan's – not in our workshop."

"Oh," said Mary, a little flummoxed. She had the vague feeling that her taste in jewellery had just been weighed and found wanting.

Not that it would be her taste, of course, it had been Anderson's choice, after all, but it was still rather embarrassing. Humiliating even.

Mrs Bradstreet recognised the need to interfere.

"Well, we can still pay Davies's and Morgan's a visit later," she said briskly. "But since we are already here, why don't we take a look at Mr Cavendish's exhibits? You can hardly find more exquisite pieces anywhere else."

Before Mary could protest, she turned to the shop owner. "Can you perhaps suggest something that has a similar shape? My cousin seems to have set her heart on that quadratic form."

Mr Cavendish looked at Mary – with more than a little doubt, to be honest – then at Mrs Bradstreet, whom he apparently believed to be a young gentleman named Basil Blake, and finally nodded.

"If you prefer a milled edge border, madam, then perhaps you would like this gold and amethyst brooch," he said, presenting them a brooch set with a single faceted oval cut amethyst.

It was about two inches long, with triple and double claw setting and a secure pin fastening with additional safety chain. Simple, lovely and elegant, it matched Mary's personal taste perfectly. She would have taken it at once, but Mrs Bradstreet wanted a somewhat broader selection.

"Do you have something with pearls?" she asked.

"Why, naturally," Mr Cavendish put the first brooch back to its place and selected another two.

One of them was slightly bigger than the first offering: an enchanting fifteen carat gold, amethyst seed pearl brooch, whose gemstones contrasted and complemented each other beautifully. This, too, was set with an oval amethyst, but additionally with twelve silky seed pearls encircling it, a delicate rope detailing and a scallop ending. It was truly exquisite, but the price made Mary blanch… even if Holmes would have been the one to pay for it.

The third piece was a nine carat gold and seed pearl brooch, shaped like a rhombus, with delicate detailing: raised, textured and engraved work throughout, with a simple central seed pearl completing it. The brooch had a hinged safety back pin fitting to hold it securely. It also cost only a little more than half the price of the second brooch.

"This is beautiful," said Mary, admiring the delicate little white and gold brooch. "I believe I should take this one."

"You need not to look at the price," murmured Mrs Bradstreet in a low voice. "You know Holmes could afford anything that is on display here."

"I know," replied Mary. "I think, however, that this one fits me best. The others would be too fancy for me."

"A good choice, madam," praised Mr Cavendish. "A very good choice indeed. The brooch will compliment your colouring perfectly; just watch out for the admiring looks once you start wearing it."

Mary blushed prettily and searched in her handbag for her purse, while Mr Cavendish placed the chosen brooch into its decorative velvet box. She then paid the price and the two ladies – one of them in disguise – left the jewellery shop.

"Well," said Mrs Bradstreet, once they were out of earshot. "We have not found the source of Alice's brooch; but at least we have found a nice one for you."

"Only that it was not our true intent," said Mary.

"We are not done yet," replied Mrs Bradstreet encouragingly. "We are going to Davies's next, and then to Morgan's; and if we have to, to any other shop that could be considered. First, though, let us have a nice cup of tea somewhere. We both need some sustenance, I would say."


At the same time, young Mr Jones was discretely following Miss Guppy from hotel to hotel, looking for any gentlemen matching the requirements of a rich and possibly nobly born lover of Miss Alice Spice.

They had already been to The Black Swan, The King's Head and The Three Ravens – all excellent hotels, know for their discretion – but none of those enquiries had resulted in any new insights. Currently, Miss Guppy was selling the story of Mrs Holroyd's (nonexistent) wayward cousin to the keeper of the Sea Wanderer: another well-recommended and exclusive place, with her usual skill.

Apparently, the hotelier had already worked in The Sea Wanderer ten years previously, at that time still as the night porter. As a result he knew all the regular guests of the hotel, ten to fifteen years back; including their respective appetites and the pastimes they wanted to keep private.

As much as young Mr Jones disliked Miss Guppy – a fact that mainly rooted in his unwavering loyalty towards Colonel Holroyd – he had to admit that she was selling her story well. Of course, one had to expect a certain amount of acting talent from somebody who had spent her youth as a thief, but even considering her colourful past, Miss Guppy was really good.

The elderly hotelier could no longer resist those falsely innocent, wide blue eyes, those trembling rosebud lips than a snowball could have resisted melting when placed on a hot oven top. Mrs Holroyd's name – and her reputation as a passionate saviour of lost souls – did the rest. Miss Guppy had barely finished her heart-breaking story when a bellboy was sent to the archive chamber where the old hotel books were being kept to fetch the tome from 1879.

Neither the hotelier nor the cautiously triumphant Miss Guppy noticed that the bellboy returning with the dusty old book was a different one than that which had been sent. Or that the dusty old book was far less, well… dusty than it could have been expected from a tome that had not been touched for ten years.

An oversight that could have been forgiven coming from an elderly man that had seen too many faces during his decades working in a hotel and for whom all young faces looked increasingly alike. It was, however, a serious mistake from somebody like Miss Guppy. She had clearly grown careless under the patronage of Mrs Holroyd. Should she have to fend for herself one day again, that could serve for her disadvantage.

Removing his wire-rimmed glasses and fake goatee, young Mr Jones swore to himself that he would never make the same mistake.

All things considered, he was satisfied with the results of his mission. Unlike Miss Guppy, he did not get the chance to copy the names of the hotel guests from August 1879, but fortunately, he did not need to do so. He had been blessed with an excellent memory, especially about things he saw in written form. A quick yet thorough look at the important pages enabled him to remember the names written on those pages for a long time, unless he consciously chose to forget them.

Which he would do, as soon as the investigation was over. Young Mr Jones was nothing if not discreet.

He also had a definite advantage over Miss Guppy: one of the names actually did tell him something. Serving Colonel Holroyd all those years had made him familiar with the peerage of the realm.

Eager to share the news with his master, he slipped out through the servants' entrance of the hotel and caught a hansom cab to reach the Holroyd residence before Miss Guppy. Colonel Holroyd liked to be the first to be informed.


Meanwhile Mrs Bradstreet and Mrs Watson had reached the jewellery workshop of Davies's and were now pretending to admire the various mourning brooches displayed in the exhibition room. Those weren't exactly the sort of jewellery they were looking for, but doing so made it easier to encourage the jeweller to become more talkative.

Mr Davies might have been less fancy than Mr Cavendish had been – he was also a decade or more younger – but he had the same keen eye for a potential customer's financial means. Therefore he started his offerings with the less expensive pieces.

"This one would look stunning when worn," he took out a brooch set in nine carat yellow gold, in a fancy scroll design. Underneath, the viewing glass was filled with a lock of brown hair.

"The hair can be exchanged, of course," added Mr Davies as an afterthought.

"That would not be necessary," said Mary, her chest tightening with decades-old pain. "I do not have even as much as a lock of hair left from my late father."

"Oh, if you want to wear it in the memory of a man, then perhaps this antique piece would be more fitting," Mr Davies picked up a brooch made from some yellow metal (that, however, did not look like gold) and adorned with striking black and white enamel. The viewing glass was filled with expertly plaited blond hair, bound in a small ring.

"No," said Mrs Bradstreet. "This is almost five inches long; way too large and clumsy for a delicate person like my cousin. She needs something more feminine; something with pearls perhaps."

Mary laughed. "What is it with you and pearls? You keep suggesting them for any possible occasion."

"Pearls seem fitting for you," replied Mrs Bradstreet with a shrug.

"In that case perhaps this one would be more to your liking," Mr Davies showed them a brooch whose rectangular middle piece was framed by twenty-two seed pearls, set in gold. Inside, it was filled with un-plaited blond hair with a single open knot. The whole thing was barely an inch long, in a gently curved shape, the craftsmanship truly amazing.

"The price is somewhat higher, I fear," said Mr Davies apologetically. "It was the masterpiece of my head craftsman and accordingly valuable. But it is worth every single penny."

"Indeed it is," agreed Susan Bradstreet; when Mary tried to protest – she had already bought one fairly expensive brooch, after all, and not with her own money, either – she silenced the younger woman with a stern glance. "Quiet, cousin. This is my gift to you."

She fished out her own purse. "Please have it gift-wrapped, Mr Davies."

"I really cannot accept this, Mrs Bradstreet," protested Mary, after having left Davies's, while they were strolled leisurely down the street towards Morgan's, their last hope of finding the source of the Anderson brooch.

"Yes, you can; and you will," replied Susan Bradstreet in a tone that brooked no argument. "I can easily afford it; and I owe the three of you for making this investigation possible in the first place. Neither Mr Holmes nor your husband would accept a gift from a woman; but you can. So please, be reasonable and accept it."

"Why are you so interested in this case?" asked Mary in surprise. "Was Miss Spice a close friend of yours?"

"No; I never actually met her," answered Mrs Bradstreet. "Dr Sawyer was the only one of us who knew her; and not even she did particularly like her."

"Then why…" trailed off Mary expectantly.

"Because of James," explained Susan Bradstreet. "He is very much like Mr Holmes when he stumbles over a mystery, even a minor one. He desperately wanted to solve this one, but Emily's husband did not want the police to be involved. He said they had more than enough urgent cases."

"Colonel Holroyd is a man of strong principles," said Mary.

"Susan Bradstreet pulled a face. "That is one way to phrase it. In any case, James is happy to work on this case; and to work with Mr Holmes once again. And when James is happy, my life is a great deal easier."

That was something Mary could understand; Inspector Bradstreet seemed like a man of strong personality who could impress his mood on the entire household. So she stopped arguing, and they entered Morgan's in tentative agreement.


Morgan's was another well-established jewellery shop; larger and less traditional than either Cavendish's or Davies's, and apparently no longer run by the original founder. Mr Jamison, the current owner, had begun his career as a simple craftsman before marrying the daughter of his master and eventually taking over the business from old Mr Morgan.

The pieces of jewellery on display were of fine workmanship but as a rule simpler and of more moderate cost than in the previous two shops, so Mary hoped that here they would at least get some information about the Anderson brooch.

Not wanting to jump head first into the investigation – and thus alienate the jeweller – Mrs Bradstreet started off by examining one of the better pieces: a beautifully crafted gilt on silver mourning brooch with four round, cabochon cut turquoise stones and a rectangular viewing compartment displaying a lock of plaited brown hair.

"Is this what you were looking for, cousin?" she asked.

Mary shook her head. "No, I am not looking for a mourning brooch. Also, I would prefer something simpler… something like this."

She pointed at an elaborate gold plated brooch with a single elongated golden stone. It was slim but at least four inches long.

Mrs Bradstreet shook her head. "Too large for you."

"I know," Mary sighed. "And not the stone I would choose for myself, either."

Once again, she took out the photograph and showed it to Mr Jamison. "I saw this picture recently and decided that I would like a brooch like this. Can you show me something similar?"

"Oh, I do know this!" exclaimed Mr Jamison in unabashed delight. "I believe this is my own handiwork – or, at least identical with the brooch I made some ten years ago, although why would someone want to copy it, I cannot tell."

"Are you certain about it?" asked Mrs Bradstreet sharply.

Mr Jamison shrugged. "As certain as one could be with only this blurred picture to judge by. I could tell without doubt if I saw the brooch itself; but even so, I am fairly sure that it is mine."

"Was it custom-made then?" asked Mrs Bradstreet.

"Oh, no, I was just experimenting with different gemstones and settings at the time. Then this odd chap came into the shop – it still was run by Mr Morgan then – saw it and wanted to buy it at once."

"An odd chap?" echoed Mrs Bradstreet encouragingly.

The jeweller shrugged again. "He did not look like somebody who could truly afford our wares, to be blunt. But he had it delivered to The Grand Hotel, so perhaps it was meant for someone else. Somebody who wanted to remain incognito. Gentlemen do that sometimes," he added with a knowing smile at Mrs Bradstreet, whose disguise was obviously working perfectly.

"So you do not have a similar brooch in stock?" Mary clarified, still playing her part.

Mr Jamison shook his head. "I fear not, madam. The design did not prove successful. Those who could afford it found it too simple, not refined enough. And for customers with less refined tastes it would be too expensive. A real shame, though; I did find it quite pretty, myself."

"Would you truly be able to identify it beyond doubt if your were shown it?" asked Mrs Bradstreet.

"Why of course!" replied Mr Jamison a little indignantly. "Even if I could not recognise my own handiwork, which I always do, there still would be the mark."

"What mark?"

"I engrave a small mark – that of two intertwined rings – into every piece I make with my own hands," explained Mr Jamison.

"That is fortunate," said Mrs Bradstreet. "You may be asked to pay a visit Police Station House Three, to take a look at a certain brooch and confirm if it is, indeed, the same one you have sold ten years ago."

The jeweller glared at them suspiciously. "Are you from the police?"

"No," answered Mrs Bradstreet truthfully. "We were just asked to find the source of the brooch… discretely. If you can identify it, the family of your customer can claim it."

"What happened to the chap who bought it?" asked Mr Jamison.

Mrs Bradstreet shrugged. "At this time, we do not know. He went missing ten years ago, right after he had bought the brooch from you. It showed up only a short time ago at the Lost Luggage Office with his other things."

"I shall go to the Station House," promised Mr Jamison. "It is only fair that the family should get the brooch; the man paid for it honestly, after all."


"Do you think Anderson's family can truly get the brooch back?" asked Mary.

They had returned to The Grand Hotel, for Mary was exhausted (though happy and excited) from their little excursion to the Quarter, and were now having tea. Mrs Bradstreet was still wearing her Basil Blake disguise.

"If Mr Jamison can identify it beyond doubt, then I see no problems," she answered. "Anderson has clearly bought the piece honestly. The dead man James and the others dug out last night is presumably Alfred Philip Anderson, although the final identification has yet to be confirmed . But if he is truly dead, then all his honestly acquired belongings will go to his family," she paused, looking at Mary with interest. "Do you know his family?"

"Not I; John does," explained Mary. "Anderson's younger sister, Betsy, is a trained nurse. For a while, John's family employed her to accompany Harriet, my sister-in-law, on her journeys in Italy. I believe she was with her until Harriet married a few years ago."

"And before that, she used to be Alice Spice's maid," murmured Mrs Bradstreet thoughtfully. "Which is how Alice and Anderson met in the first place."

"That was hardly Betsy's fault," Mary felt the urge to defend the young nurse who had been Harriet Watson's guardian angel for years. "She is a good girl; not everyone would have held out with Harriet for such a long time."

"I did not say that it was her fault," replied Susan Bradstreet. "But based on her letter found with Alice's things, she had known about the whole affair from the beginning. She likely encouraged them, too."

"She probably did," allowed Mary. "According to Harriet, she has always been a hopeless romantic. And I may not have known Alice Spice, but she apparently liked to read silly romances. So many of those books describe stormy love affairs between poor housemaids and dashing young gentlemen – or the other way round. They make young girl believe that things like that regularly happen in real life, too."

"Sometimes they do," Mrs Bradstreet reminded her.

Mary nodded. "Sometimes; but in most cases they end badly. I have seen such things often enough. And usually, it is the penniless party that pays the price."

"It is only fair, then, for the family to get the brooch," said Mrs Bradstreet. "Apart from its sentimental value, it does have a certain monetary worth, too."

"I doubt they would sell it," replied Mary. "It is the last thing of any value left from their brother and son. The rest that was found in Anderson's suitcase is nothing two women could truly use. But the brooch – either Mrs Anderson or Betsy could wear it in Alfred's memory."

"Hardly what he had in mind when he bought it," commented Mrs Bradstreet.

"True," admitted Mary. "But it is probably just what they need to move on."

"Hopefully," Mrs Bradstreet rose. "Well, I must go now. My marital duties call. Shall we see each other tomorrow?"

"You must be busy…"

"Nonsense. Let us meet at the Café Royal. Emily will invite Dr Sawyer, too, and the four of us will put together the individual pieces we have and make our own conclusions."

Mary suppressed a sigh and politely accepted the invitation. As much as she had enjoyed this little adventure thus far, the pregnancy made her tire easily. In the heart of her hearts she longed for a little more peace and quiet.

At home. With John.

"Promise me something," she said when her husband finally showed up. "Promise me that when this case is solved, we will lead a normal life for a while. At least until our child is born."

"I was afraid you would say until he or she turns twenty," laughed John.

Mary gave him a coy smile. "Now that you mention it… I could live with that, too."

~TBC~