The Housekeepers(7)
There were a dozen clocks piled on the mantelpiece, ticking furiously, all out of time.
“Perhaps it’s time to branch out, Mrs. Bone.”
“I don’t need to branch out!”
Mrs. King softened her tone. “It’s a big house. Bigger than anything. Marble like you’ve never seen before. Chairs from Versailles. Silks. Jewels the size of goose eggs.”
“You think I don’t know all that? You think I don’t know what sort of palace Danny built for himself?”
Of course she knew. Diamonds made Danny O’Flynn. Gave him a fortune beyond all comprehension: stockpiles, monopolies, loans even governments couldn’t win. He made his whole new life on the back of them, a whole new name. Mr. de Vries had a fierce, white-hot sort of wealth, the kind that stopped your heart in your chest. Millionaire, they called him. Millionaire.
Mrs. Bone never forgave him for it.
“Well, then,” said Mrs. King, spreading her hands.
The clocks shimmered, bright and angry.
Mrs. King reached into her pocket and drew out an object wrapped in a handkerchief. She lifted a silver watch into the air, dangled it by its chain. It turned in the light, revealing little engraved letters: WdV.
“How about an advance?” she said. “Against services rendered?”
Mrs. Bone looked at the watch, the swiftest possible glance. The silver reflected in her eyes. “I told you. I don’t do jobs when it’s personal.”
Mrs. King doubted that very much. Mrs. Bone’s whole operation was personal. It had been formed out of a hundred thousand tiny chain links, a whole line of gifts given and received, favors sought and granted, enmities formed and settled. Mrs. King had been counting on this. Her motives were personal, too, although they had their own secret, slanted edges. They were driving her brain, her blood, every muscle in her body. It had taken her the best part of a month to put this plan together, but really it had been building for years. It must have lurked in Mrs. Bone’s mind, too. The kind of thing you dreamed of doing, the kind that took everyone’s breath away. All those treasures, sitting idly in that house. Mrs. King intended to take them all.
Calmly Mrs. King said, “If you’re not interested, I can go elsewhere.”
Mrs. Bone’s face did something curious then, a puckering of the mouth. Not annoyance, exactly. A flash of hunger.
She sniffed, and studied the watch. “What services do you need?”
“Funds, principally.”
“Everyone always wants my funds. Have you got people?”
“The principal players, yes. Naturally we’ll need more. Alice Parker is in residence already.”
“Alice Parker? That odd little fish? Now, I don’t like the sound of that at all. Who’s acting aide-de-camp?”
“Winnie Smith.”
“Never heard of her. Namby-pamby sort of name. You won’t get me backing strangers.”
Mrs. King handed over the watch. “I’m holding a meeting on Sunday to go over the details. Come and inspect everybody then.”
“Sunday? This Sunday?”
“No use hanging about.”
Mrs. Bone’s eyes widened, and she began to chuckle. “I’d need to see your numbers.”
“Naturally.” Mrs. King reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a slim envelope.
Mrs. Bone snatched it up. “Bottom line?”
“Lucky Sevens,” said Mrs. King. “My favorite split.”
“Sevenths?” Mrs. Bone held the watch up to the light, let it spin slowly on its chain. “You’ve got seven fools lined up for this job?”
Mrs. King went to Mrs. Bone and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’ve got three, besides myself, if you’re in. Why don’t you have us over on Sunday, and tell a couple of your best girls—I need a pair of sturdy types for the indoor reconnaissance.”
Mrs. Bone bristled. “Oh, I see. You think you can come marching in here, frazzling my nerves, spoiling my afternoon, giving me orders…”
Mrs. King drew back. She fixed her coat, adjusted her hat. “Sunday, Mrs. Bone. You say where. You say when.”
Mrs. Bone folded the envelope into her sleeve, twirling the silver watch. “I am not in,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Not yet. Not even a little bit.”
4
To Spitalfields, and a cloud of dust was rising high into the air over Commercial Street. Mrs. King perched on the edge of a fruit barrow, munching an apple, waiting for her aide-de-camp. She had her eyes pinned on the hat shop across the road. The sign sparkled in the sunlight: Mr. Champion, Milliner. In normal circumstances she would have found it very disagreeable, wasting time like this. But of course she didn’t have chores anymore. Her objective for the day had become altogether more interesting. There was something very particular she needed.
Nobody noticed her waiting there, except for a little girl in a mud-spattered pinafore who watched her hungrily. Mrs. King flicked her a sixpence.
“That’s for good observation,” she said. The girl leaped for it, scrabbling on the cobblestones, and hurtled away.
Mrs. King didn’t need to check her pocket watch. She knew exactly what time it was. She crunched apple pips with her back teeth, counting seconds in her head.
It was another five minutes before her quarry appeared. Winnie Smith came lurching around the corner with her gigantic perambulator, heading for Mr. Champion’s shop. That pram carried hatboxes, not babies, stacked in teetering, dangerous piles. Mrs. King felt a familiar stirring of affection. Winnie: trussed up in a violently mended purple dress, hat pinned at a hopeless angle, steering the perambulator as if it were a tank. Something snapped, the suspension or a spoke, and she staggered. Oh Lord, thought Mrs. King, and closed her eyes.