“No, one of the other lot. The Frazziniellis—is that their name?”
“Frazzini.”
“A Pierrot started the whole thing though, I think. The injured Frazzini man—his name was Aldo—was in quite a bad way. I don’t know if he survived. I helped them patch him up. One of the Pierrots was carted off, protesting very loudly—some kind of expiation, I think, gangs are quite keen on vengeance, apparently. Tit for tat, you know? Eye for an eye. I’ve no idea what happened to him but I didn’t fancy his chances. Anyway, to cut a very long story short, Inspector” （Oh, dear Christ, call me John, Frobisher thought）， “the matriarch offered me the position of manager—I should say manageress—of one of her clubs—the Crystal Cup.”
He was startled. “I’m sorry, Miss Kelling, could you repeat that?”
“All of it?”
“No, just the last bit.”
“I am to work for Nellie Coker. Isn’t that perfect? I shall be able to report back to you from the inside. A secret agent!” Her eyes shone with excitement. He hadn’t realized just how headstrong she was. Frobisher feared for her. What had he started? He sensed it would be unstoppable.
* * *
—
“Oh, good Lord, I almost forgot,” she said, as she got up to leave.
What now? Frobisher wondered with trepidation.
“This morning’s post brought the requested photographs of both Freda and Florence. From my friend Cissy.”
“Yes, Freda’s aunt.”
“Sister, actually, but it makes little difference.” She passed an envelope across the desk. “I’m afraid Freda’s photograph is one of her ‘professional’ ones, in stage costume and make-up. They seem to be the only ones there are of her. They make her look much older than she is. To be honest, Inspector, I haven’t seen her for a couple of years. I doubt very much I would be able to recognize her now.”
Frobisher slid the photographs out of the envelope and studied them. It was true, Freda seemed more woman than child, attired in some kind of insubstantial stage costume that looked rather risqué to his eyes.
Gwendolen laughed once more. “An amateur production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I believe. Freda was part of Titania’s fairy retinue. I’ve never liked Titania—so imperious and capricious, to boot. Don’t you think?”
Frobisher, who had never found himself needing an opinion about the character of Titania, gazed at Gwendolen rather stupidly before venturing, “Well, I suppose she is a queen.”
“And queens are by their nature imperious. Yes, of course—you’re right, Inspector.” （I am?, he thought.）
She seemed to be completely ignoring his concerns over her extraordinary plan to work for the Cokers. How vexing she was. She was treating it like a “lark,” he admonished, when it was clearly a venture fraught with jeopardy. “They’re not what they seem, Miss Kelling. I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Just a few days, then, Inspector,” she mollified him. “Surely it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. I shall find out as much as I can about the Coker enterprise and before you know it I’ll be back on the train home to York.”
“York?” Frobisher echoed, trying to disguise the disappointment in his voice. “To the Library?” he said. “Of course you must.” She had a life elsewhere, he reminded himself, a life he knew nothing of beyond the Library. Perhaps she had a beau （or several） waiting for her, or a loving family. In truth, he knew nothing about her, only that she had a quiet magnificence that he both admired and feared and the idea of her leaving so soon gave him a hollow feeling in his chest. Was her working for Nellie Coker the price he had to pay for her not leaving London?
“Nellie Coker is an astute woman,” he said. “She will see through the deception, and when she finds out that you are a viper in her nest then I don’t like to think what she might do.”
“Rip my heart out, I expect, Inspector,” she said cheerfully.
He sighed his surrender and returned to the photographs. Unlike Freda, Florence still looked like a child. Hers was a school photograph—pinafore and plaits. Spectacles, too. Impossible to see if there was a crucifix beneath the blouse and tightly knotted tie. It was possible that she was the girl in the mortuary, but a drowned exsanguinated girl looked very different to a robust schoolgirl.
“Catholic?” he murmured, more to himself than to Gwendolen.