The Housekeepers(6)

Mrs. King had been present when they’d taken that photograph. They did it in the winter garden, the conservatory overlooking the park. They made the photographer stay all day, long after the light had faded. Madam faced the window, eyes flat and unreadable, telegraphing a silent order through the air. Get it right. Make it perfect.

“The daughter.”

Mrs. Bone’s gaze tightened. “And?”

“And nothing.”

“Were his affairs in order? That’s what I want to know.”

Mrs. King sighed. “I’ve no notion, Mrs. Bone.”

“Then what are you here for?” Mrs. Bone replied, snapping her fingers. “I’m a busy lady. I don’t have time for nonsense conversations.”

She’s rattled today, thought Mrs. King. Combing the newspapers, picking over old ground.

“Perhaps I just came to say hello,” said Mrs. King calmly.

Mrs. Bone’s eyes flew upward. “You’re up to something.”

“Am I?”

“You’ve got something cooking up here.” Mrs. Bone tapped the side of her head. “Not a nice thing. It never is.”

“Heavens,” said Mrs. King. “You taught me everything I know.”

Mrs. Bone’s mouth thinned. Evidently, she didn’t like that: she saw it as an aspersion on her character. And Mrs. Bone took good care of appearances. Gave generously to the church collection, kept an entirely dull front parlor, still wore mourning clothes for her long-departed Mr. Bone, erstwhile husband and ironmonger. Her jet ornaments clanked every time she moved.

“They gave you the shove,” she said, “didn’t they?”

Mrs. King inclined her head. “For a minor indiscretion.”

“What did you do?”

Mrs. King told her. Mrs. Bone raised an eyebrow.

“You were visiting your fancy man?” she asked.

“It was all a great misunderstanding,” said Mrs. King smoothly.

“You’ve got something cooking. I can smell it!” Mrs. Bone sighed. “Come on back.”

Mrs. Bone’s private office was behind the shop, far away from the street. The windows faced another dirty courtyard where young men stood smoking. Mrs. Bone banged on the window. “Company,” she shouted, and they started like pigeons, scattering, disappearing into the shadows.

The front of the shop was gloomy, shabby, full of cheap rings and watches. The private office was different altogether. Here Mrs. Bone kept her fancies, her shiny things. Queer inventions, oddities, curios. Mrs. King knew she had other secret houses, scattered all the way to Essex, full of machines and portraits and furs and looking glasses. Exotic artifacts, paid for on credit and imported from across the empire. Mrs. Bone darted around, dodging footstools and side tables, armoires and escritoires.

“How’s business?” said Mrs. King courteously.

“Splendid,” said Mrs. Bone.

It didn’t look splendid. Mrs. King picked up a silver bowl, gave it a quick once-over. Painted tin. She could have peeled the skin off with her teeth.

“Were those Mr. Murphy’s boys, hanging about in the street?”

Mrs. Bone grimaced. “Murphy. Don’t mention him.”

“He’s not tried intimidation before, Mrs. Bone. What’s changed?”

“Intimidation? Who’s intimidated? He can send his little goblins to leer at me anytime he likes. I’m hardly ever in. I’m rushed off my feet.”

Mrs. King smiled. There was some truth to this: she was lucky to have got hold of Mrs. Bone herself, for she never stayed for long at the pawnshop. She had the factory out by the docks. Warehouses all down the coast. Plus a whole line of cigarette shops and barber shops and ironmongers and the rest. Plenty of street work, too. Though Mrs. Bone didn’t sell dirty daguerreotypes, she ran no bawdy houses. She engaged in elegant, useful trades. A neat bit of housebreaking. Some calculated affray. She’d taught Mrs. King nearly all of it herself. Always kept an eye out for her. “Somebody has to,” she’d said, fiercely. “Your ma hasn’t even brushed your hair.”

“So, what have you got, then?” Mrs. Bone asked. “A bit of business?”

“Always.”

The air smelled as if it were ripening, as if the whole house were on the turn. Mrs. Bone looked out of the window.

“You’ve been casing a place?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Park Lane.”

Mrs. Bone’s expression changed. “Eh?”

“Interested?”

Mrs. Bone propelled herself up and out of the chair. She picked up an empty dove cage. Swung it back and forth. “Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t tell me you’re that foolish.”

Mrs. King said nothing.

“Park Lane.” She made a tsk sound. “Dinah. You never, never do a job when it’s personal. I taught you that myself.” She rubbed her chin again. “Park Lane?”

“Yes.”

“You beggar belief. Marching in here, without a by-your-leave or word of warning…” She straightened. “I know my patch. We don’t do anything west of Gracechurch Street, for God’s sake. I’m not tripping up to town for any geegaws on Park Lane.”