The Housekeepers(5)

She pulled out her purse, flipped a coin between her fingers. Studied the market stalls, separating herself from the crowd. The stallholders clocked her. Eyes swiveled sideways, nostrils flared.

Mrs. King raised her hand, shielding her eyes from the sun. She knew she looked strange to them. Not a lady, not a schoolmistress. Not a nurse, not a cook. An anomaly. Tightly buckled, hat tipped low over her eyes. A touch of stain on her lips—red, the color of garnets. Armored.

She folded her arms.

And waited.

It didn’t take long. The message must have been transmitted through the walls; it must have gone rippling down the back alleys. The door to the pawnshop opened with a bang. It startled the stallholders, the bell clanging in the air. A woman wearing widow’s weeds emerged squinting into the sunlight.

Mrs. King straightened. “Mrs. Bone,” she called.

Mrs. Bone was strong, compact, cunningly built. Perhaps fifty years old, at a guess. Sunshine didn’t suit her. It drained her, made her look as if she’d been hiding in the cellar. You’d overlook her altogether if you didn’t know any better. Which was just the way she liked it.

Her eyes narrowed, and Mrs. King saw her mind working: the click-click-click of the gears.

“Well, well,” Mrs. Bone called back, voice hoarse. “Aren’t we highly favored?”

The stallholders repositioned themselves. Casual, heads turned, gazing up at the sky as if it fascinated them.

Mrs. King crossed the street. Followed the old rules. Ducked her chin half an inch. Scraped one boot behind the other. Kiss to the cheek, kiss to the hand. “Good day, Mrs. Bone.”

Up close Mrs. Bone carried the same scent as always: rose water and hair that smelled of wood shavings. “How can I help you, dear?” she murmured into Mrs. King’s ear.

Mrs. King didn’t fall for that. Whatever your trouble, whatever the jam, you didn’t ask Mrs. Bone for help. Help was for the birds. You presented her with a proposition, nicely packaged, nothing else. Mrs. King straightened up, assessed the terrain. There was a skinny-looking chap leaned up against a lamppost, head buried in his newspaper. Frayed cuffs, bare ankles. Not a detective. A scout, a lookout. And not employed by Mrs. Bone. Her men didn’t dress like scarecrows. Mrs. King scanned the street. Another lad at the corner, by the pub. A third under the guttering.

Mrs. King considered this with interest. These were Mrs. Bone’s stalls, and that was Mrs. Bone’s house. She’d drawn and quartered and marked this part of the street as her domain. Her territory ran from here to Docklands, a snaking line of enterprises, legitimate and not so legitimate. Nicely demarcated ground. You didn’t play on Mrs. Bone’s turf if you didn’t want trouble.

And yet there were men playing all over it.

“Busy out here today,” Mrs. King said.

Mrs. Bone tutted in irritation. “Get inside.”

But she glanced over her shoulder as she closed the door.

Mrs. Bone’s pawnshop was a legitimate business. A humble one, too. An entirely sensible place to hold a meeting. Mrs. King’s eyes adjusted to the dull and respectable shimmer, the brass and silver and gold.

Mrs. Bone turned the sign on the door to Closed and dissolved into the gloom, scuttling behind a gigantic desk, grabbing a pile of receipts pinioned to a nail. “This your afternoon off?”

“No.”

“You’ve come shopping, then.”

“Not exactly.”

Mrs. Bone rifled through her receipts. “You’re in trouble.”

“No trouble. I’m on a leave of absence.”

“Oh, lovely.”

“Yes.”

“Must feel marvelous.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not one for taking holidays myself. Not got the time.”

Mrs. King smiled. “You should treat yourself.”

“And I should call myself Princess Do-As-I-Please, but I can’t always have my way, now, can I?”

Mrs. King raised an eyebrow and unbuckled her Gladstone bag. She pulled out a copy of the Illustrated News, held up the photograph of the old master. The image flashed and winked at them. That famous spotted neckerchief. His teeth bared and gleaming. Black scrolls at the top of the page: “Wilhelm de Vries. Born 1850. Died 1905.”

“Yes, yes, I heard,” said Mrs. Bone, voice tight.

Mrs. King tilted her head. “And?”

“I’m a Christian lady. I don’t gloat about nobody’s passing.” Her eyes darkened. “They’re calling him that name in the papers.”

“You still don’t care for ‘de Vries’？”

Mrs. Bone began shredding receipts. “He was Danny O’Flynn when he was born. He was Danny O’Flynn when he died.” She sniffed. “If he died. If it’s not a great prank. If it’s not an almighty tease.”

Mrs. Bone’s personal feelings about Danny O’Flynn, the man who transformed himself into Wilhelm de Vries, were well-known to Mrs. King. They were among the category of sensitive things, topics avoided.

“No, he’s gone, Mrs. Bone.”

“And what’s he left behind?”

Mrs. King glanced down at the paper. They’d printed a photograph of Madam, too. “A fair flower in bloom, Miss de Vries in her winter garden…” She appeared in a cloud of chiffon, blurry, hard to pin down. Innocent looking.