They gawked at Mrs. King. Then they saw Mr. Lockwood’s hand touch her elbow, and they squared up.
“I think we should have a private discussion,” Lockwood said.
“I agree,” she replied, lifting her mask.
“May I?” he said. He offered his arm. He wasn’t her equal—he would never countenance that notion—but he could pretend to be civil.
“No,” she said, and they walked upstairs, men at her back—trapped, as intended.
27
Three hours to go
The ball had begun. But the lady of the house was still below stairs, just where they wanted her. Mrs. Bone was being held in the butler’s pantry, and the chauffeur barred the door. Mrs. King had been very clear about this. Let them interrogate you as long as they want. We need them down in the servants’ hall, so the men can pack up the old nurseries. Mrs. Bone pictured rocking horses creaking as they were lifted onto runners, gigantic dolls blinking as they were turned upside down. The nursery was a forlorn sort of place, preserved in aspic: too big, too bleached. The wallpaper was metal colored, a bleak and relentless pattern. The whole place had given Mrs. Bone the shivers. She was glad it was being packed away.
“Alice, tell Mr. Shepherd what you told me,” Miss de Vries said, her face glinting in the lamplight.
Alice kept things brief. “I saw her,” she said, pointing at Mrs. Bone, “selling silver spoons to a man in the street. She had them hidden in her apron.”
So far so good. Mrs. Bone tutted loudly. “I was cleaning them.”
“No, she was not,” said Alice.
Mrs. Bone shook her fist, per her stage directions. “Rot!”
“Madam, I had no idea,” began Mr. Shepherd.
“That’s what’s troubling me, Shepherd.”
Mr. Shepherd went very red in the face then. He gripped Mrs. Bone by the shoulder. His fingers felt surprisingly dense. “Tell us at once,” he said, and his breath smelled, soured by wine. “Are you a thief?”
She wrenched herself away. “Yes, I helped myself to a fork or two,” she said. “What of it?”
Silence, but for Mr. Shepherd’s intake of breath.
“There’s plenty of cutlery going spare. She sits upstairs and has dinner by herself every night—” Mrs. Bone gestured at Miss de Vries, whose eyes were like steel “—using one little cheese knife, one little butter knife, and don’t even get me started on the spoons. And yet here we are, counting ’em, polishing ’em like our lives depend on it. I took a couple to make something useful out of ’em. Who cares?”
“Someone call for the constable,” Mr. Shepherd exclaimed, “to apprehend this wicked woman.”
Wicked? Mrs. Bone thought, staring at him. I’m not the wicked one.
Shepherd knew about the girls. He had to know. He was the one with the keys. Mrs. Bone pictured him, disappearing into the bowels of the house at night, concealing his movements. Bowing to a gentleman slipping through the garden door. Pocketing a little tip for himself.
Wicked, Mrs. Bone thought again, mind hardening.
They’d planned for Mrs. Bone to grow wild with fear, to distract them all with hysterics. But when it came to it, she did the more satisfying thing. She locked her hand into a fist, and she punched Mr. Shepherd straight in the mouth. Knuckles met bone. Hot, clean justice.
“Aaah,” he cried, reeling back.
A gasp went up from the servants watching at the open doorway.
“Get—Call the constable—” Mr. Shepherd’s voice was muffled, hand pressed to his lip. He had blood on his fingers.
Alice spoke quickly, as rehearsed. “A constable? With the princess on her way to the house, and a pack of detectives sitting out in the yard? Are you mad? But look here…” Alice fished something out of her pocket. “I found this in her room.”
She held up a silver watch, sparkling dimly in the light. Mrs. Bone recognized it by those narrow letters engraved on the underside: WdV.
Miss de Vries showed immense restraint. She didn’t reach for the watch. But something crossed her face. Something hard and furious.
“Alice is right,” she said calmly.
The others stilled.
“Don’t send for the constable until tomorrow morning. We can’t afford any disturbances tonight. Take this woman upstairs and lock her in her room. And go and wash your face, Shepherd. You look a fright.” Miss de Vries turned to Mrs. Bone, expression rigid. “You might have thought you could do what you like here,” she said in a deadly voice, “but you can’t.”
Mrs. Bone was transfixed. Anger was coming off that girl in waves, but it was controlled, harnessed. She’d only lost a watch. An old silver watch, and a couple of teaspoons. Her fury was all out of proportion.
But she understood it entirely. She pictured Mr. Murphy’s men finding their way into her hidey-hole, rifling through her drawers, sniffing her peach-colored tea gown. It made her feel unsteady. The same would happen to this house: it would be carved up, sliced into bits, profits shared. Extracted from its current ownership. Taken out of the family.
It prickled at her. A tiny, wicked thought. This house belonged to O’Flynns. It belonged to her blood. The notion had been circling all day at the back of her mind. It had been there for weeks, if she was honest about it. It was her loan that bought Danny his ticket to Cape Colony, his ticket to his new life. It was her cash, earned from her own jobs, that got him going in the first place. Just like it was her cash that had got this job on the move. My carts, she thought. My vans. My men. My loans. My Daimler. My Janes.
Lucky sevens. Two equal portions. Just two. It made her teeth ache. It made her feel like she’d been punched in the face. Like Mrs. King was laughing at her, curls gleaming, eyes dancing…
Mrs. Bone knew what envy felt like. She recognized the low burn, the rage that existed deep in her gut. It was far too easy to get lost in it. She forced her mind to come back to the room. Miss de Vries was gathering her skirts, her costume shimmering darkly. She sent her voice down the hall so that all the servants would hear her.
“Don’t ever touch my things,” she said.
Hephzibah didn’t enjoy parties. Never had. They gave her the willies. But she knew she’d never be at a ball like this again. She held on to her wig with one hand. Her skirts ballooned around her, taking up space, sweeping the floor. People stared.
“I know,” she said, raising her glass. “I look marvelous.”
Naturally she had business to take care of. Once the ball was underway, she’d begun surreptitiously gathering her actresses, sending them circling around the ballroom, knocking over drinks, upsetting supper plates, causing confusion. “Movement,” Winnie had said when they were going over the program for the evening. “We must have constant and immediate movement. We need people away from the windows, eyes on the entertainment. We’ve got ropes going up the eastern side of the house. We can’t have anyone spotting that.”
“I’ve got it,” Hephzibah had said. Winnie had made her apologies half a dozen times, but Hephzibah still wouldn’t meet her eye. “Don’t fuss.”
There was no delay to the dancing, no wallflowers spoiling the mood: Hephzibah’s actresses saw to that.