The Housekeepers(33)

Another figure appeared on the pavement.

Mrs. King offered the bag. “Sherbet?”

Mrs. Bone batted her hand away. “You’ve got dirty fingers.” She rummaged into a jar of pear drops, drew out a fistful, shoved two in her mouth. “Go on.”

“You go on.”

Mrs. Bone stared at her, eyes bright, sucking hard. “I want an advance.”

“You’ve got an advance.”

“No, I’ve got one of Danny’s trinkets, which you stole from him, at no cost to yourself, bearing no value at all.”

This was a bit rich. “It doesn’t have symbolic value?” said Mrs. King. “I chose it rather carefully.”

“These aren’t the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, my girl. We aren’t in the pyramids. I ain’t painting symbols all over the walls. I don’t need gestures. You’re doing this whole job on credit. Good for you, I’d do the same. But then I’ve got decent lines. You want to spend on my account, on my good name, then I need cash up front, to cover my risks.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. King, crunching her sherbet. “You do.”

Mrs. Bone looked annoyed at that. “Well, then, you understand, don’t you?” she said. “I can’t be making big investments until trading gets a bit brisker.”

Second move, thought Mrs. King.

“Your trade’s not about to get any brisker,” she said.

Mrs. Bone took another pear drop. “Says who?”

“I’ve got eyes.”

“And?”

“I can read accounts.”

There it was: a streak of anger. Startled you, didn’t I? thought Mrs. King. She felt almost sorry, prodding Mrs. Bone. Her aunt was the only person who’d ever kept an eye out for her when she was small. Gave her clean pinafores, sturdy boots, fresh stockings, when Mother couldn’t manage. But this wasn’t a time to be softhearted.

“Not your accounts,” she added smoothly. “I never pry into a lady’s affairs. But I’ve paid a call on Mr. Murphy. His books are looking splendid, Mrs. Bone. Heaving with orders. Whereas all I smell around your place is a pile of old debts.”

“Is that so?”

Mrs. King nodded. “Debts and debtors, crawling all over your patch.”

Mrs. Bone said nothing. The flesh around her neck was taut, as if she were holding her chin up with great effort, as if it were costing her dearly not to backhand Mrs. King. Then she mastered herself. Smiled, put the other pear drop into her mouth. “Shall I name the sum, dear? Or shall we bully each other till sundown?”

Mrs. King crossed her arms. “You may name the sum.”

Mrs. Bone did so.

The light outside was strange. Not stormy, not like the week before. But weak willed, almost slippery: grayish. Mrs. King disliked it. It depressed her.

She sighed. “Payable against what?”

“Two-sevenths of net receipts.”

“Two?”

Mrs. Bone nodded.

“I’d have to give up my own share to pay you that, Mrs. Bone.”

“Or someone else’s.” Mrs. Bone shrugged. “They’re not my people.”

“Alice Parker is my sister.”

“Lucky you.”

“Winnie Smith is my oldest friend.”

“So chuck the other old tart, if you must.” Mrs. Bone crunched her own pear drops.

Mrs. King held her gaze. “I’m not chucking any of them, Mrs. Bone. We’re all equals in this. I’ve made that quite clear.”

“I’m offering fair terms, my girl. You give me an advance against future earnings, and I put up the rest of the credit you need to get this thing moving. I mean properly moving.”

“I thought you said the whole plan was a load of nonsense.”

Mrs. Bone smiled, beadily. “It may well be, my dear. But that’s on you, not on me.”

Mrs. King considered this. She could pay Mrs. Bone’s advance, of course. In cash, too, just as Mrs. Bone would expect. It equaled almost everything she had saved, in a whole lifetime at Park Lane. She didn’t have any more than that. No backstop, no surety beyond it, at all. But if this job failed, a loss of savings would be the least of her worries. Mrs. Bone never loaned capital without expectation of full repayment. The cost of a default was an unspeakable punishment, whatever the family connection.

Mrs. King didn’t believe in God. Logic followed that she didn’t believe in the Devil, either. But she felt the presence of something then: a power greater and darker than her own. Her shadow loomed monstrously on the wall. She felt the presence of Mr. de Vries, his roar of laughter, lost in the air.

“Deal,” she said. She’d decide how to make it work later.

Mrs. Bone grimaced. “Not in here. I want it signed and witnessed. Two-sevenths, in black and white.”

She rapped loudly on the counter. A door at the back of the shop opened. “Through there,” she said, scratching her nose. “My boys will take care of you.”

Mrs. King looked through the door to the yard beyond. Those men weren’t the same as the ones in the street. They were heavier: older, denser and entirely impassive. They looked as if they were made of granite. They were carrying knives.

The chap nearest the door was smoking a pipe. He stepped to one side, making way for her. She looked through the door and saw a small table. Pen and ink. A contract, crisply minted, ready to sign. The walls in the next room had no windows, no escape routes at all.