The Housekeepers(32)

Mrs. Bone had brought reinforcements for this discussion. Mrs. King was inclined to take this as a good sign. She knew her aunt. This meant she was in a negotiating mood. She was ready to buy in.

Mrs. King rebuttoned her gloves. Smoothed her skirts. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bone,” she said pleasantly.

“Yes, yes, how d’ye do, splendid to see you. I’ve only got chilblains and blisters and bleedin’ corns popping up all over my feet, tramping around that great blooming place for you.” Mrs. Bone sat down with a thump, the vibration passing through the bench, and stretched her legs. She’d picked up the aroma of the back offices already. Stewed gammon and carbolic. It gave Mrs. King a strangely homesick feeling. She brushed that away at once: that sort of sensation was extremely dangerous, not required, not to be repeated.

“Well?” she said, awaiting Mrs. Bone’s decision.

Mrs. Bone breathed out. Closed her eyes. “I don’t like the odds.”

Mrs. King nodded her head at that. She’d expected that response. “I appreciate your candor.”

“Well, candidly, duck, the plan’s a load of balderdash.”

“Balderdash?”

“Hogwash. A load of old bull. I’ve looked around. I’ve sneaked into every nook and cranny I could find. You’ve got umpteen floors to sweep, a garden lying crossways to the house, a backyard in full view of the lane, and motor traffic the likes of which you wouldn’t see at the gates of hell, not even when they’re sending the pimps and whores and fornicators down for their just desserts…” She paused to take a lungful of air. “I mean for heaven’s sake, girl. You can’t give me one reason the whole thing won’t fall apart in five seconds.”

“Certainly I can.”

“Go on, then.”

Mrs. King gazed out at the water. Watched Mrs. Bone’s men paddling slowly by. “Because I’m running it.”

Mrs. Bone smiled sadly. “You’ve a good fire in your belly, dear. I’ll grant you that. But that’s all. You do my small jobs. Side stuff. You always have. Cheap soap and silk handkerchiefs.” She raised a finger. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m much obliged. You keep things ticking along nicely. All my men think you’re nice and prompt. But this is too big, even for you.”

First move. Clear as day.

Mrs. King thought about it. This job was big. It was huge, glittering, the sort of thing nobody in the world expected someone like her could pull off. It was exactly the reason she adored it. “Fair enough,” she said. “I can’t fault that. Thanks for giving it your consideration, Mrs. Bone.” She stood up. “Shall I walk you to the station?”

“Walk?” said Mrs. Bone. “Walk one more step and I’ll keel over. I’ll be lamed. I’ll be turned into glue.”

But she got up all the same, not hesitating, and linked arms with Mrs. King, her bony fingers digging into Mrs. King’s coat. This was a signal, too.

Mrs. King knew where to go for the next stage in the negotiation. There was a cigarette shop on Queensway, humble as anything, that would be waiting for them. Mrs. Bone swore she didn’t operate east of Cheapside. But even she kept a little outpost or two up in town. Mrs. King knew this. She had studied every inch of Mrs. Bone’s estate over the years.

“Mind if I pop in for some fags?” she asked when they reached the Bayswater Road.

Mrs. Bone chuckled under her breath. “Good girl. I guessed you knew about my little shop.”

“You know me,” said Mrs. King, giving her arm a squeeze. “Always got my eye on the side jobs, the small stuff.”

The bell clanged furiously as they entered the shop. Mrs. Bone was serene, flicking dirt off her filthy overcoat. The man behind the gargantuan cash register opened his mouth. Closed it again. Jars of sweets lined the counter, a radiant, marbled profusion of striped and glistening treats. Mrs. King lifted one of the lids. “Fancy a gobstopper?”

“Humbugs for you, dear,” said Mrs. Bone with a thin smile.

Mrs. King shoveled a stack of lemon sherbets into a paper bag. “Be an angel,” she said to the shopkeeper, “and give us a moment, would you?”

She could see shadows forming on the wall. Men in the street, men in the next room. A creak overhead. Mrs. Bone’s men were already upstairs. That meant Mrs. Bone had planned all her moves.

Another good sign.

The shopkeeper looked at Mrs. Bone, paled, nodded, and backed out in a hurry.

Mrs. King popped a sherbet on her tongue. Sucked. Felt the juices zinging on the roof of her mouth. “Tell me,” she mumbled. “If I could change one thing, what would it be?” Best not to circle around things with Mrs. Bone. If there was an objection lurking somewhere, Mrs. King wanted it out in the open.

Mrs. Bone put her hands behind her back, expression angelic. “Good Lord,” she said. “It’s not for me to say.”

“The date?”

“Any day’s a bad day for a bad job.”

“The time?”

“No.”

Mrs. King transferred the sherbet to the other side of her mouth. “The crew?”

Mrs. Bone shook her head. “No, they’re all right. Not an inch on my Janes, mind you.”

“I can’t change your fee.”

“Can’t you?”