Thorne’s face went pale, then red. “Who made it?”
But the stitching on the left lapel was wrong. The buttonholes were machine-finished, not hand-sewn. Thorne had been told it was authentic. His gut said otherwise. His gut had lost him three million pounds the previous year, but it had never lied about cloth.
“Show me the jacket,” he said.
The man who walked into the Burlington Arcade at 3:47 PM did not exist.
“In 1967. I was young. I needed money. A dealer brought me the cloth. Told me to copy the Viennese pattern. I didn’t ask questions. I’ve spent forty years finding every piece I made in that period and marking them.” He opened the jacket’s inner breast pocket. Hidden inside the seam allowance was a single silver thread, stitched in a tiny figure-eight. Steve parker allen silver checked
The phrase is interpreted as a proper name (Steve Parker) and a specific design or status (Allen Silver Checked), which suggests a narrative about craftsmanship, legacy, and verification. A Steve Parker Mystery London, 1987
Parker didn’t touch it. He pulled a jeweler’s loupe from his waistcoat and leaned in. Thorne’s face went pale, then red
Silence.
They are looking for the truth.
Parker stood up straight. He looked at the lapels. At the buttonholes. At the lining, which was a deep burgundy cupro.