A Covent Garden Mystery

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The young woman buying peaches in Covent Garden in the early morning had honey brown hair under a small bonnet, clear white skin, deep brown eyes, and a faint French accent. The stall owner was trying to cheat her.

"Ha'penny for two, miss," the stall owner, a stooped man with a fat red nose and strands of greasy hair under a cap, said. "Best to be had."

He was goading her to take two shriveled specimens. When she pointed to the firm, ripe fruit near the man's hand, he shook his head. "Penny apiece for those, love."

I'd just seen him sell two fine peaches to a housewife for half that price, but he probably thought he could fleece a foreigner, especially an inexperienced girl.

I turned to the peachseller's stall, walking stick in hand. A lady in distress, even over peaches, spoke to my knight-errant instincts.

"Prices have changed, have they?" I asked the peach seller.

He shot me an irritated look. "They do, Cap'n."

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