The Housekeepers(9)

“Say that again,” he said, voice dropping, “and you won’t be able to sell a stitch to any living body in town.”

“Order book, please,” said Mrs. King, pressing her palms to the table.

There was a long silence. Winnie was holding her breath.

“Three guineas,” Mr. Champion said.

Mrs. King sometimes wondered, How do I do it? How did she get people to capitulate, to bow? She didn’t exactly like it. It made her feel chilly and contemptuous of the world. But of course it was necessary. Somebody had to put things right in life.

“Done,” she said, keeping her distance from Mr. Champion.

He made a lot of noise, a lot of fuss, counting out the change. “You’re nothing more than a thief. You won’t be coming around here again. They’ll lock the doors on you two, that I can tell you for sure and certain—”

But they got their three guineas.

Winnie shoved the pram out into the road. “For heaven’s sake.”

Mrs. King closed the shop door with a bang. “Here,” she said gravely, counting out shillings.

Winnie gave her a long look, as if deciding whether to say thank you or not. She pressed her lips together. “I need a sherry,” she said.

“Lead the way,” said Mrs. King, reaching for the perambulator. “I’ll mind Baby.”

They quick-marched to Bethnal Green, the perambulator listing and keeling all the way, men throwing them filthy looks as it ran over their toes. Mrs. King watched the sky changing. The sun drained away, as if giving up. It stirred her, the dusk: it put her in the hunting mood. And she was hungry for a very particular object. Mrs. King wasn’t the only housekeeper ever employed in that house on Park Lane. Winnie had held that illustrious title herself, only three years before. And she still held a most useful item in her possession.

Winnie lived in dreary lodgings at the top of a damp and narrow building: cramped and low ceilinged and desperately well scrubbed. So, this was freedom. Mrs. King looked at the bleach-stained floorboards, comparing them to the gleaming parquet in the saloon at Park Lane, and felt a quick, fierce flare of anger. She refused to end up like this.

Winnie shoved the cork back in the sherry bottle. They clinked glasses, swallowed.

“Have you got it?” said Mrs. King.

Winnie sighed. “Just a moment.”

She ducked out of the room, and returned carrying a large object wrapped in tissue paper. “Here.”

Mrs. King felt her heart start ticking. At last, here it was. That marvelous leather-bound book, those gray-green covers inlaid with gold, those thick pages crackling as they turned.

The Inventory.

“So, you’re the naughty thief,” said Mrs. King, reaching for it.

“I didn’t steal it,” said Winnie solidly. “I wrote it, didn’t I? It’s mine as much as anyone’s. I had every right to take it with me.”

The Inventory had everything listed in it. Every painting, every chair, every toothpick in that house. The pages smelled like gruel: oaty and wet. Oval Drawing Room. Boiserie. Long Drawing Room. Ballroom. Lines and lines and lines written on each page. All the way down to the smallest pantry. “One set snuffers, tin. One pair candle molds, tin. Two pairs paraffin lamps, blue. Two pairs paraffin lamps, yellow.” Mrs. King could picture them. Purple mottling, buttery tin. “Tinderbox. Three sets brass candleholders. Three sets candle boxes—dry room.”

She felt her breath tightening in her throat. She placed her hand against the page, covered the words. I can make everything disappear, she thought.

“Good,” she said, voice flat. “Thanks.” She closed the book with a tremendous thump, pressed her hands to the cover, possessing it.

“You’re welcome,” Winnie said, giving Mrs. King a dry look. Then her expression changed, hardening. “What now? Is your woman going to pay us?”

“Don’t let Mrs. Bone hear you call her ‘my woman.’ She’ll have your guts for garters.”

“But will she pay? We can’t do a thing without funds, Dinah.”

Mrs. King laughed. “Hark at you. Don’t worry about funds—I’ll sort those. You just worry about getting our final friend on board. We’ll need everybody in place by Sunday, not a day later.”

Winnie reached for her notebook, flipped through the pages. She’d already given herself hundreds of instructions; Mrs. King could see arrows and crossings-out and scribbles running slantways across the page.

“I hope you burn that book when we’re finished,” she said.

“This won’t give us away. I’ve made up a code.”

“Of course you have,” said Mrs. King with affection.

It was four weeks since Mrs. King had first mentioned the plan—obfuscating at first, circling around it, looking for the subtlest way in. “Do you mean you want to commit a robbery?” Winnie had asked, disbelieving. Mrs. King had backed off, shaking her head: “Goodness gracious, steady on, hold your horses, Win…” But Winnie’s frown had deepened, her thoughts burrowing down, down, down into the darker reaches of her mind.

“What do you think?” Mrs. King had finally asked. Winnie needed the money. That much was clear. Mrs. King remembered what Winnie had said when she’d first left Park Lane. “I’ve got to go my own way. I need to make something of my life.” There was something desperate, hurried, inexplicable about it. Winnie was fast approaching forty: she’d been working at Park Lane nearly all her life. But it wasn’t as if she had any fine prospects on the outside. She had no grand schemes. She barely made a pittance hawking those hats around the East End.