Mrs. King straightened. “Mrs. Bone,” she called.
Mrs. Bone was strong, compact, cunningly built. Perhaps fifty years old, at a guess. Sunshine didn’t suit her. It drained her, made her look as if she’d been hiding in the cellar. You’d overlook her altogether if you didn’t know any better. Which was just the way she liked it.
Her eyes narrowed, and Mrs. King saw her mind working: the click-click-click of the gears.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Bone called back, voice hoarse. “Aren’t we highly favored?”
The stallholders repositioned themselves. Casual, heads turned, gazing up at the sky as if it fascinated them.
Mrs. King crossed the street. Followed the old rules. Ducked her chin half an inch. Scraped one boot behind the other. Kiss to the cheek, kiss to the hand. “Good day, Mrs. Bone.”
Up close Mrs. Bone carried the same scent as always: rose water and hair that smelled of wood shavings. “How can I help you, dear?” she murmured into Mrs. King’s ear.
Mrs. King didn’t fall for that. Whatever your trouble, whatever the jam, you didn’t ask Mrs. Bone for help. Help was for the birds. You presented her with a proposition, nicely packaged, nothing else. Mrs. King straightened up, assessed the terrain. There was a skinny-looking chap leaned up against a lamppost, head buried in his newspaper. Frayed cuffs, bare ankles. Not a detective. A scout, a lookout. And not employed by Mrs. Bone. Her men didn’t dress like scarecrows. Mrs. King scanned the street. Another lad at the corner, by the pub. A third under the guttering.
Mrs. King considered this with interest. These were Mrs. Bone’s stalls, and that was Mrs. Bone’s house. She’d drawn and quartered and marked this part of the street as her domain. Her territory ran from here to Docklands, a snaking line of enterprises, legitimate and not so legitimate. Nicely demarcated ground. You didn’t play on Mrs. Bone’s turf if you didn’t want trouble.
And yet there were men playing all over it.
“Busy out here today,” Mrs. King said.
Mrs. Bone tutted in irritation. “Get inside.”
But she glanced over her shoulder as she closed the door.
Mrs. Bone’s pawnshop was a legitimate business. A humble one, too. An entirely sensible place to hold a meeting. Mrs. King’s eyes adjusted to the dull and respectable shimmer, the brass and silver and gold.
Mrs. Bone turned the sign on the door to Closed and dissolved into the gloom, scuttling behind a gigantic desk, grabbing a pile of receipts pinioned to a nail. “This your afternoon off?”
“No.”
“You’ve come shopping, then.”
“Not exactly.”
Mrs. Bone rifled through her receipts. “You’re in trouble.”
“No trouble. I’m on a leave of absence.”
“Oh, lovely.”
“Yes.”
“Must feel marvelous.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not one for taking holidays myself. Not got the time.”
Mrs. King smiled. “You should treat yourself.”
“And I should call myself Princess Do-As-I-Please, but I can’t always have my way, now, can I?”
Mrs. King raised an eyebrow and unbuckled her Gladstone bag. She pulled out a copy of the Illustrated News, held up the photograph of the old master. The image flashed and winked at them. That famous spotted neckerchief. His teeth bared and gleaming. Black scrolls at the top of the page: “Wilhelm de Vries. Born 1850. Died 1905.”
“Yes, yes, I heard,” said Mrs. Bone, voice tight.
Mrs. King tilted her head. “And?”
“I’m a Christian lady. I don’t gloat about nobody’s passing.” Her eyes darkened. “They’re calling him that name in the papers.”
“You still don’t care for ‘de Vries’？”
Mrs. Bone began shredding receipts. “He was Danny O’Flynn when he was born. He was Danny O’Flynn when he died.” She sniffed. “If he died. If it’s not a great prank. If it’s not an almighty tease.”
Mrs. Bone’s personal feelings about Danny O’Flynn, the man who transformed himself into Wilhelm de Vries, were well-known to Mrs. King. They were among the category of sensitive things, topics avoided.
“No, he’s gone, Mrs. Bone.”
“And what’s he left behind?”
Mrs. King glanced down at the paper. They’d printed a photograph of Madam, too. “A fair flower in bloom, Miss de Vries in her winter garden…” She appeared in a cloud of chiffon, blurry, hard to pin down. Innocent looking.
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.