“How’s business?” said Mrs. King courteously.
“Splendid,” said Mrs. Bone.
It didn’t look splendid. Mrs. King picked up a silver bowl, gave it a quick once-over. Painted tin. She could have peeled the skin off with her teeth.
“Were those Mr. Murphy’s boys, hanging about in the street?”
Mrs. Bone grimaced. “Murphy. Don’t mention him.”
“He’s not tried intimidation before, Mrs. Bone. What’s changed?”
“Intimidation? Who’s intimidated? He can send his little goblins to leer at me anytime he likes. I’m hardly ever in. I’m rushed off my feet.”
Mrs. King smiled. There was some truth to this: she was lucky to have got hold of Mrs. Bone herself, for she never stayed for long at the pawnshop. She had the factory out by the docks. Warehouses all down the coast. Plus a whole line of cigarette shops and barber shops and ironmongers and the rest. Plenty of street work, too. Though Mrs. Bone didn’t sell dirty daguerreotypes, she ran no bawdy houses. She engaged in elegant, useful trades. A neat bit of housebreaking. Some calculated affray. She’d taught Mrs. King nearly all of it herself. Always kept an eye out for her. “Somebody has to,” she’d said, fiercely. “Your ma hasn’t even brushed your hair.”
“So, what have you got, then?” Mrs. Bone asked. “A bit of business?”
“Always.”
The air smelled as if it were ripening, as if the whole house were on the turn. Mrs. Bone looked out of the window.
“You’ve been casing a place?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Park Lane.”
Mrs. Bone’s expression changed. “Eh?”
“Interested?”
Mrs. Bone propelled herself up and out of the chair. She picked up an empty dove cage. Swung it back and forth. “Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t tell me you’re that foolish.”
Mrs. King said nothing.
“Park Lane.” She made a tsk sound. “Dinah. You never, never do a job when it’s personal. I taught you that myself.” She rubbed her chin again. “Park Lane?”
“Yes.”
“You beggar belief. Marching in here, without a by-your-leave or word of warning…” She straightened. “I know my patch. We don’t do anything west of Gracechurch Street, for God’s sake. I’m not tripping up to town for any geegaws on Park Lane.”
There were a dozen clocks piled on the mantelpiece, ticking furiously, all out of time.
“Perhaps it’s time to branch out, Mrs. Bone.”
“I don’t need to branch out!”
Mrs. King softened her tone. “It’s a big house. Bigger than anything. Marble like you’ve never seen before. Chairs from Versailles. Silks. Jewels the size of goose eggs.”
“You think I don’t know all that? You think I don’t know what sort of palace Danny built for himself?”
Of course she knew. Diamonds made Danny O’Flynn. Gave him a fortune beyond all comprehension: stockpiles, monopolies, loans even governments couldn’t win. He made his whole new life on the back of them, a whole new name. Mr. de Vries had a fierce, white-hot sort of wealth, the kind that stopped your heart in your chest. Millionaire, they called him. Millionaire.
Mrs. Bone never forgave him for it.
“Well, then,” said Mrs. King, spreading her hands.
The clocks shimmered, bright and angry.
Mrs. King reached into her pocket and drew out an object wrapped in a handkerchief. She lifted a silver watch into the air, dangled it by its chain. It turned in the light, revealing little engraved letters: WdV.
“How about an advance?” she said. “Against services rendered?”
Mrs. Bone looked at the watch, the swiftest possible glance. The silver reflected in her eyes. “I told you. I don’t do jobs when it’s personal.”
Mrs. King doubted that very much. Mrs. Bone’s whole operation was personal. It had been formed out of a hundred thousand tiny chain links, a whole line of gifts given and received, favors sought and granted, enmities formed and settled. Mrs. King had been counting on this. Her motives were personal, too, although they had their own secret, slanted edges. They were driving her brain, her blood, every muscle in her body. It had taken her the best part of a month to put this plan together, but really it had been building for years. It must have lurked in Mrs. Bone’s mind, too. The kind of thing you dreamed of doing, the kind that took everyone’s breath away. All those treasures, sitting idly in that house. Mrs. King intended to take them all.
Calmly Mrs. King said, “If you’re not interested, I can go elsewhere.”
Mrs. Bone’s face did something curious then, a puckering of the mouth. Not annoyance, exactly. A flash of hunger.
She sniffed, and studied the watch. “What services do you need?”
“Funds, principally.”
“Everyone always wants my funds. Have you got people?”
“The principal players, yes. Naturally we’ll need more. Alice Parker is in residence already.”
“Alice Parker? That odd little fish? Now, I don’t like the sound of that at all. Who’s acting aide-de-camp?”
“Winnie Smith.”
“Never heard of her. Namby-pamby sort of name. You won’t get me backing strangers.”
Mrs. King handed over the watch. “I’m holding a meeting on Sunday to go over the details. Come and inspect everybody then.”
“Sunday? This Sunday?”
“No use hanging about.”
Mrs. Bone’s eyes widened, and she began to chuckle. “I’d need to see your numbers.”
“Naturally.” Mrs. King reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a slim envelope.
Mrs. Bone snatched it up. “Bottom line?”
“Lucky Sevens,” said Mrs. King. “My favorite split.”
“Sevenths?” Mrs. Bone held the watch up to the light, let it spin slowly on its chain. “You’ve got seven fools lined up for this job?”
Mrs. King went to Mrs. Bone and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’ve got three, besides myself, if you’re in. Why don’t you have us over on Sunday, and tell a couple of your best girls—I need a pair of sturdy types for the indoor reconnaissance.”
Mrs. Bone bristled. “Oh, I see. You think you can come marching in here, frazzling my nerves, spoiling my afternoon, giving me orders…”
Mrs. King drew back. She fixed her coat, adjusted her hat. “Sunday, Mrs. Bone. You say where. You say when.”
Mrs. Bone folded the envelope into her sleeve, twirling the silver watch. “I am not in,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Not yet. Not even a little bit.”
4
To Spitalfields, and a cloud of dust was rising high into the air over Commercial Street. Mrs. King perched on the edge of a fruit barrow, munching an apple, waiting for her aide-de-camp. She had her eyes pinned on the hat shop across the road. The sign sparkled in the sunlight: Mr. Champion, Milliner. In normal circumstances she would have found it very disagreeable, wasting time like this. But of course she didn’t have chores anymore. Her objective for the day had become altogether more interesting. There was something very particular she needed.