The Hand It Fit

Imogen’s copy of the objection receipt had softened at the fold in her coat pocket by the time she reached Saye’s shop. The notebook was in Ferro’s evidence room. The ring records were in his file. What she still had was a question no one had answered: whose hand had the replacement been made to fit?

Merrit Saye was bent over a watch movement beneath the green-shaded lamp. He covered it with a glass dome before he looked up. “You’ve got the certified record.”

“I need the fitting details behind it.”

“Those aren’t certified.” He set down his tweezers. “They’re in my father’s old cards. If you want a statement, I’ll have to check the card first.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

He led her to the narrow counter where he kept the account books. The shop smelled of metal filings and the oil he used on watch gears. Saye opened a drawer and took out a stack of stiff cards, each with a name and date in his father’s cramped hand. He found Quill’s entry and laid it beneath the lamp.

The card listed the two stones, their settings, and a measurement. A line beneath it read: “Right fourth finger. Customer present for fitting.”

“Your father measured him?” Imogen asked.

“I did.” Saye put one finger on the line. “He was still alive when I took over the shop. He came in himself.”

“You fitted the ring on him?”

Saye turned the card to check the reverse. “I fitted it in the shop. He wanted to see whether the stones sat properly when his hand was at his side. He turned his wrist twice, then asked me to make the setting lower.”

“Was that the ring with Pell’s stones?”

“It was the replacement. The garnet and moonstone were the stones taken from Pell’s old ring. I’ve already put that in the certified record.”

Imogen read the fitting line again. The record she had handed Ferro could connect Sera’s description to a dead man’s name. This card connected the ring to Quill’s own hand.

“Did he ask about a black-wax impression?”

“He asked whether wax could take an impression of the setting.” Saye rubbed the edge of the card with his thumb. “I told him it would distort. He asked once more whether I was certain. I said I was.”

“Did you make one?”

“No. He took the ring when he left.”

“And you never saw it again?”

“Not on his hand. Not in my shop.” Saye looked at her. “That distinction matters, I take it.”