“Auctions?” said Mrs. Bone. “My agents need weeks to set up auctions.”
“Then we’ll set them up,” said Mrs. King, not allowing her smile to waver. “We can get messages out to the big buyers in no time. You can pave the way for us. Let everybody know there’s a big seller in town.”
“I’m not using my name! I can spread the word, get my men lined up for anything I want, but I need deniability, right up until things kick off. That’s my rules, for you.”
“We’ll use a code name, then,” said Mrs. King. “Leave it to me.”
Jane-one raised her pencil. “How many rooms in the house, please?”
Mrs. King approved of practical questions. “Winnie, bring me the soup tureen.”
Winnie nodded and drew out a vast silver bowl from behind the sofa. Mrs. King opened the lid, showed it around the room with a flourish, the light reflecting in their eyes. “Schematics, ladies. Floor plans of the cellar, ground floor, saloon floor, bedroom floor, old nursery and guest chambers, servants’ quarters and attics.” She saw Hephzibah leaning forward, incredulous. There were delicate etchings on the underside of the tureen lid, carved in minute detail. “If you’re lost, make for the dining room. These will set you straight. Winnie has made paper copies, but you’ll need to burn those after reading.”
“That’s clever,” said Jane-one, taking her pencil out of her mouth, examining the tureen.
Mrs. King nodded. “And necessary. Now, Winnie, tell us about the doors.”
Winnie straightened. “There are four entrances to the property.” She looked around, checked they could hear her. “Front door. Tradesmen’s door. Mews door. Garden door. These doors are all double or triple locked. The front door is double bolted, too.”
“And who’s got the key, Mrs. King?” said Jane-two.
“I had it, once,” said Mrs. King. “But I surrendered my set the day I left. Now the butler holds them. Mr. Shepherd. Until they recruit a new housekeeper, that is.” She glanced at Alice. “We are going to do our level best to impede that, of course.”
Hephzibah’s glass clinked on the table. “Shepherd? I’m not going anywhere near him. Repulsive, odious man.”
Mrs. King saw Winnie place a hand on Hephzibah’s arm, whether to soothe or silence her she couldn’t say.
“Does someone need to charm the butler?” said Mrs. Bone. “Get him onside?”
“There’s no use recruiting Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. King. “He was Mr. de Vries’s man, utterly loyal.”
Mrs. Bone scratched her nose. “But if somebody were to use a little persuasion…”
Mrs. King shook her head. “No knuckle-dusting, Mrs. Bone, but thank you for asking. You’ve brought us nicely to a central point. We will not use violence, nor any incapacitating force, on any person, in that house. We will not break or damage any lock, window, entrance, or door frame of any kind.”
“It’s a question of insurance, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie when Mrs. Bone scowled. “The house of de Vries holds a large policy against any act of burglary or theft. The terms of the contract are quite clear. A crime, if it has been committed, shall be evidenced by visible marks showing a violent entry to the property. Failing that, it shall be evidenced by a threat of violence of any kind against any person in the household.”
Mrs. Bone rolled her eyes.
“You see our conundrum, ladies,” said Mrs. King, snapping her fingers. “In either circumstance, the insurers would pay out the full portion of the policy.”
Alice twisted in her seat. “So?”
“So what?”
Alice looked alarmed, but she lifted her chin. “We’ll get our reward when we sell their property. Don’t they deserve to be compensated?”
A clock chimed peaceably in the hall.
“They?” said Mrs. King. “Who are ‘they’？”
“Well,” said Alice, blinking slightly, “Miss de Vries.”
Mrs. Bone spluttered before Mrs. King could reply. “Hang your ethics, girl. If we can’t knock ’em out, can’t screw ’em over, can’t lock ’em up, can’t break a bloody window, then we’re not going to get so much as a teaspoon out of the front door.”
“Leave Miss de Vries to us, Alice,” said Mrs. King. “You watch her—that’s all. We’ll manage things with her when the time comes.” She glanced at Winnie, who gave a silent nod. It didn’t pay to reveal everything all at once. Breadcrumbs, that’s what they needed.
That was all they’d be able to manage.
Alice looked uneasy, but didn’t object.
“So, to the finances,” said Mrs. King, knowing this would keep things moving. “Every penny made goes in a ledger. Mrs. Bone, we’ll let you inspect the books and distribute the profits. An equal portion of net receipts, as discussed.”
“How much in cash?” said Hephzibah.
Mrs. King named the sum.
The Janes eyed each other, expressions ferocious, devouring this.
Mrs. King fixed them all in her sights. “It’ll be enough to give you a future. Enough to make your own rum luck, however you please.” She opened her hands to them. “It’ll be enough to be free.”
A shiver passed around the room.
“Now, wait a minute,” said Mrs. Bone. “Don’t go playing snake charmer on me. I’ve seen jobs a fraction the size of this one go right up in flames.”
Mrs. King felt a wriggle of annoyance. “I said we’d cover risks later, Mrs. Bone.”
“And I say we cover the risks now. Janes?”
Jane-one nodded, went to the cabinet. Drew out a leather-bound folder filled with sheets of paper. “We’ve done our due diligence, Mrs. King.”
Winnie frowned. “Due diligence?”
“Big jobs gone bad,” said Mrs. Bone, eyes fierce. “You lot need educating.” She grabbed the folder from Jane-one’s hand. “Look at this. Harry Jackdaw tried a rush job in Vauxhall. Commissioned a hot-air balloon to take the silverware out of the pleasure gardens. The whole place caught fire.”
Mrs. King sighed. “We discounted hot-air balloons already, Mrs. Bone.”
“We really did, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie eagerly.
Hephzibah gave them a quizzical look. “Balloons?”
“Look at this one,” Mrs. Bone went on, shoving a typescript in Alice’s face. “Old Nanny March hired twenty men to dig a tunnel into Flatley Hall. What happened to them? Buried alive!”
“Did we look at tunneling, Winnie?”
“We did, naturally we did. London clay can be so unpredictable. Not at all suitable, Mrs. Bone—you’re quite right.”
Alice peered at the typescript. “Who’s Old Nanny March?” she asked.
“Who indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Bone, triumphant. “Nanny’s rotting in jail, good as dead, finished.”
Mrs. King caught Winnie’s eye. They’d planned what to do at this juncture. Go on, she mouthed.
Winnie stepped into the breach. “Now, ladies,” she said. “Certain preparations and contingencies will have to be made. Some elements of the plan carry greater risks than others. I don’t doubt we may need to correct course now and again.”