Winnie shoved the pram out into the road. “For heaven’s sake.”
Mrs. King closed the shop door with a bang. “Here,” she said gravely, counting out shillings.
Winnie gave her a long look, as if deciding whether to say thank you or not. She pressed her lips together. “I need a sherry,” she said.
“Lead the way,” said Mrs. King, reaching for the perambulator. “I’ll mind Baby.”
They quick-marched to Bethnal Green, the perambulator listing and keeling all the way, men throwing them filthy looks as it ran over their toes. Mrs. King watched the sky changing. The sun drained away, as if giving up. It stirred her, the dusk: it put her in the hunting mood. And she was hungry for a very particular object. Mrs. King wasn’t the only housekeeper ever employed in that house on Park Lane. Winnie had held that illustrious title herself, only three years before. And she still held a most useful item in her possession.
Winnie lived in dreary lodgings at the top of a damp and narrow building: cramped and low ceilinged and desperately well scrubbed. So, this was freedom. Mrs. King looked at the bleach-stained floorboards, comparing them to the gleaming parquet in the saloon at Park Lane, and felt a quick, fierce flare of anger. She refused to end up like this.
Winnie shoved the cork back in the sherry bottle. They clinked glasses, swallowed.
“Have you got it?” said Mrs. King.
Winnie sighed. “Just a moment.”
She ducked out of the room, and returned carrying a large object wrapped in tissue paper. “Here.”
Mrs. King felt her heart start ticking. At last, here it was. That marvelous leather-bound book, those gray-green covers inlaid with gold, those thick pages crackling as they turned.
The Inventory.
“So, you’re the naughty thief,” said Mrs. King, reaching for it.
“I didn’t steal it,” said Winnie solidly. “I wrote it, didn’t I? It’s mine as much as anyone’s. I had every right to take it with me.”
The Inventory had everything listed in it. Every painting, every chair, every toothpick in that house. The pages smelled like gruel: oaty and wet. Oval Drawing Room. Boiserie. Long Drawing Room. Ballroom. Lines and lines and lines written on each page. All the way down to the smallest pantry. “One set snuffers, tin. One pair candle molds, tin. Two pairs paraffin lamps, blue. Two pairs paraffin lamps, yellow.” Mrs. King could picture them. Purple mottling, buttery tin. “Tinderbox. Three sets brass candleholders. Three sets candle boxes—dry room.”
She felt her breath tightening in her throat. She placed her hand against the page, covered the words. I can make everything disappear, she thought.
“Good,” she said, voice flat. “Thanks.” She closed the book with a tremendous thump, pressed her hands to the cover, possessing it.
“You’re welcome,” Winnie said, giving Mrs. King a dry look. Then her expression changed, hardening. “What now? Is your woman going to pay us?”
“Don’t let Mrs. Bone hear you call her ‘my woman.’ She’ll have your guts for garters.”
“But will she pay? We can’t do a thing without funds, Dinah.”
Mrs. King laughed. “Hark at you. Don’t worry about funds—I’ll sort those. You just worry about getting our final friend on board. We’ll need everybody in place by Sunday, not a day later.”
Winnie reached for her notebook, flipped through the pages. She’d already given herself hundreds of instructions; Mrs. King could see arrows and crossings-out and scribbles running slantways across the page.
“I hope you burn that book when we’re finished,” she said.
“This won’t give us away. I’ve made up a code.”
“Of course you have,” said Mrs. King with affection.
It was four weeks since Mrs. King had first mentioned the plan—obfuscating at first, circling around it, looking for the subtlest way in. “Do you mean you want to commit a robbery?” Winnie had asked, disbelieving. Mrs. King had backed off, shaking her head: “Goodness gracious, steady on, hold your horses, Win…” But Winnie’s frown had deepened, her thoughts burrowing down, down, down into the darker reaches of her mind.
“What do you think?” Mrs. King had finally asked. Winnie needed the money. That much was clear. Mrs. King remembered what Winnie had said when she’d first left Park Lane. “I’ve got to go my own way. I need to make something of my life.” There was something desperate, hurried, inexplicable about it. Winnie was fast approaching forty: she’d been working at Park Lane nearly all her life. But it wasn’t as if she had any fine prospects on the outside. She had no grand schemes. She barely made a pittance hawking those hats around the East End.
“If anyone could do it, you could,” she’d said, looking up at Mrs. King. “You know all the right people.” Winnie’s eyes had gleamed a little. She’d started to smile.
Because it was mad, this job. Of course it was. The best games always were. They were like the illuminations at the pantomime, laid with magnesium wires and quicklime blocks, fizzing and exploding before your very eyes. They drew in even the steadiest of folk, even Winnie.
“Oh, I know all the right people,” Mrs. King had said with a grin and a nod.
Winnie had always turned a blind eye to Mrs. King’s outside interests. She was no fool: they’d shared a room, and she noticed Dinah running side jobs for Mrs. Bone—passing messages, delivering hampers. Winnie had spotted goods being sneaked in through the back door: sealskin gloves, a tortoiseshell parasol, the most heavenly emollient soaps…
“Who gave you this?” she’d asked sternly, holding up a bolt of fine lace, concealed at the very back of Dinah’s wardrobe.
“I bought it myself,” Dinah said, truthfully. It was a risk, taking those side jobs. But risks always paid well.
Mrs. King had never worried that Winnie might snitch on her. The bond between them was absolute. “Here,” Winnie had said, rummaging inside the wardrobe, grimacing, loosening a back panel. “Hide your treasures if you must.” She paused. “But you should save your pennies. You might want them one day.”
Mrs. King remembered the advice. She stopped buying scent bottles and bracelets, and put her cash in old stockings instead.
“Sunday,” Winnie said now, scribbling in her notebook. She bit her lip. “Awfully soon, Dinah.”
“Sooner the better.”
Winnie looked serious. “I suppose you’re right.”
Mrs. King stretched out a hand. “You’ll make a terribly good thief, Win.”
Winnie frowned. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing in the least,” said Mrs. King, with mock seriousness. “I’ve never met such a bloodthirsty woman in my life.”
Winnie stared up at her from her chair, with an expression in her eyes that made her look suddenly much older. “And I’ve never met a woman in my life who decided to clear out a whole house, strip it right down to the bones, for no more reason than she feels like it.” She studied Mrs. King. “Remind me never to cross you.”
Mrs. King kept things easy. “I’m sure you don’t need reminding.” She tapped her pocket watch. “Now, come along. You’ve got a job to do, my fine lady-felon. Clock’s ticking.”