The Housekeepers(10)

“If anyone could do it, you could,” she’d said, looking up at Mrs. King. “You know all the right people.” Winnie’s eyes had gleamed a little. She’d started to smile.

Because it was mad, this job. Of course it was. The best games always were. They were like the illuminations at the pantomime, laid with magnesium wires and quicklime blocks, fizzing and exploding before your very eyes. They drew in even the steadiest of folk, even Winnie.

“Oh, I know all the right people,” Mrs. King had said with a grin and a nod.

Winnie had always turned a blind eye to Mrs. King’s outside interests. She was no fool: they’d shared a room, and she noticed Dinah running side jobs for Mrs. Bone—passing messages, delivering hampers. Winnie had spotted goods being sneaked in through the back door: sealskin gloves, a tortoiseshell parasol, the most heavenly emollient soaps…

“Who gave you this?” she’d asked sternly, holding up a bolt of fine lace, concealed at the very back of Dinah’s wardrobe.

“I bought it myself,” Dinah said, truthfully. It was a risk, taking those side jobs. But risks always paid well.

Mrs. King had never worried that Winnie might snitch on her. The bond between them was absolute. “Here,” Winnie had said, rummaging inside the wardrobe, grimacing, loosening a back panel. “Hide your treasures if you must.” She paused. “But you should save your pennies. You might want them one day.”

Mrs. King remembered the advice. She stopped buying scent bottles and bracelets, and put her cash in old stockings instead.

“Sunday,” Winnie said now, scribbling in her notebook. She bit her lip. “Awfully soon, Dinah.”

“Sooner the better.”

Winnie looked serious. “I suppose you’re right.”

Mrs. King stretched out a hand. “You’ll make a terribly good thief, Win.”

Winnie frowned. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing in the least,” said Mrs. King, with mock seriousness. “I’ve never met such a bloodthirsty woman in my life.”

Winnie stared up at her from her chair, with an expression in her eyes that made her look suddenly much older. “And I’ve never met a woman in my life who decided to clear out a whole house, strip it right down to the bones, for no more reason than she feels like it.” She studied Mrs. King. “Remind me never to cross you.”

Mrs. King kept things easy. “I’m sure you don’t need reminding.” She tapped her pocket watch. “Now, come along. You’ve got a job to do, my fine lady-felon. Clock’s ticking.”

5

Winnie entered the Paragon through the doors on the Mile End Road. She crossed the crush room and saw herself reflected in the giant mirrors, flushed with heat. They’d replaced the gaslights with blistering new electroliers and put Chinese prints all over the walls. Everything was glazed and swagged with red velvet. She rather liked it. She took a breath and made straight for the auditorium, spying a door near the stage.

Mrs. King had given very clear instructions. “We need someone with a gift for deception, someone who knows all about acting.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Who do you think?”

“You can’t be serious,” Winnie had said, knowing exactly who Mrs. King meant. “She’s entirely unpredictable.”

“She’s perfect. And you’ve known her the longest. She’ll do it if you ask her.”

Winnie had shaken her head. “Not a good idea.”

“Nonsense. I have every faith in you,” Mrs. King had said. “Off you go,” she’d added when Winnie hesitated.

Winnie hadn’t been able to tell Mrs. King why she dreaded this appointment. It had depths and dimensions even she was only just beginning to comprehend. And she’d sworn to keep them secret. So she had nodded, stoically. “Very well,” she’d said. “I’ll do my best.”

Now Winnie felt a hand on her arm. “Madam!” It was an usher, barring the way. “Have you got a ticket?”

Winnie felt his eyes assessing her shabby coat, and marched back to the lobby. She spent all the cash Mrs. King had given her on a box. Necessary expense, she told herself, trying not to look at the price.

They gave her a program for free, which was something. It was printed on silk, the color of peaches and cream. She ran her finger down the acts, searching for one name: Hephzibah Grandcourt. Couldn’t find it.

She frowned, looking out over the balcony. There were an awful lot of shopkeepers and cutlery salesmen here. The men wore tartan jackets, luridly patterned, and left their umbrellas in the aisle. Stop being a snob, she reminded herself. She looked odder than they did, a lump of coal in a jewelry box, pins falling out of her hat.

Another usher peered in. “Something from the menu?”

“Brandy,” she said, summoning her courage. She might as well have asked for a tankard of stout.

The usher gave her a wink. Winnie didn’t know if this made her feel better or worse. Her legs were shaking, she noticed. Guilt.

Then she heard the door. The creak and rustle of silk.

“Well, they’re in a wonderful flap downstairs,” said a voice over her shoulder. “Some charlady’s gone and pinched the best seats in the house.”

Winnie steeled herself, and turned around.