21

I ARRIVED AT THE police station as Dorling was coming out. A black carriage had drawn up in the street and he began giving the driver instructions.

‘Sergeant!’ I called as I approached him. ‘I need to speak with you.’

He opened the carriage door and indicated I should get inside. ‘Very well. You can keep me company.’

This seemed uncharacteristically genial, but I was glad to have the conversation in private.

The carriage was plain and dark, with two wooden benches facing one another. Dorling indicated the bench opposite him, which meant I would be travelling backwards, never my preference.

‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Did the widow Broadman finally say something useful about her husband’s death?’

‘No, she hasn’t said anything, but—’

‘I knew Bill Broadman from years back, you know. He was trouble from the off. Petty larceny, moving stolen goods, you name it. Wasn’t above a bit of stealing neither. The world’s better off without him, some might say.’

I hope this didn’t mean he would be making even less effort to catch Bill’s killer. Not that his efforts had yielded any results so far.

‘I may have some useful information for you, Sergeant. I have good reason to think Mr Quinton ordered the three killings.’

As I was saying the words out loud, I knew they weren’t strictly true. Honey had told us a great deal about the deaths of Natalia and Micky, but nothing about Bill.

‘And what is this reason?’

‘I will tell you, but—’

‘Hmm.’ He stared out of the window. We were passing the railway station, heading north. ‘Are you about to propose another deal, Stanhope? Seems to me that our previous arrangements haven’t work out very well, at least for me. I still haven’t seen any sign of an article praising our work here, and when we went to that club, no crime was being committed. Some damn fool story about rehearsing a play. You live and learn, I suppose. I’m not buying this time.’

‘Mr Quinton ordered their murders for the Blood Flower, Sergeant.’

He scoffed. ‘Ah, the rumoured ruby, more valuable than a barrel of gold. And magical, to boot.’ He fluttered his fingers in front of him, presumably to indicate something supernatural, and then laughed. ‘A lot of nonsense. I doubt it’s real.’

‘It is real. And Quinton killed Micky Long and Natalia La Blanche for it. I need your help in proving his guilt. I’m not proposing a deal; I’m giving you an opportunity to catch a murderer.’

‘And for you to get a good story, I’m sure.’

Out of the window, I could pick out the masts and anchor lines of the ships in the harbour, and beyond them, the grey smear of Gosport on the other side. The familiar stink was growing.

‘Where are we going, Sergeant?’

His mouth split into a smile, like a lemon being broken open.

‘Finally, a sensible question. See, there was a break-in at the hospital last night. Sad to say, someone desecrated a body. Can you guess which one?’

My heart started thumping so hard I thought it must be audible.

‘How would I know?’

‘It was your own brother-in-law. Someone cut him up.’

‘What? That’s awful.’ I did my best to look shocked. ‘Body snatchers, I suppose.’

‘No bodies were taken. Seems more like someone was rummaging inside of him. I remember you told me you’d been an assistant to a surgeon of the dead, Mr Stanhope.’

‘So?’

‘You’d know all about a man’s guts, wouldn’t you? How the parts fit together.’

In the half-dark of the carriage, I hoped he couldn’t see the redness blossoming on my cheeks. I swallowed hard and raised my chin.

‘Are you accusing me, Sergeant? Why on earth would I break into a hospital to search through Bill’s organs?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘See, there’s the thing. Up until a minute ago, I wouldn’t’ve been able to hazard a guess at that. But you mentioning the ruby, the Blood Flower, well, it’s given me an inkling.’

I had wondered why he’d been willing to let me ride with him in the carriage, and now I knew. He wasn’t a complete fool, this sergeant. There was at least one detective inspector in London I could name who couldn’t match his wits.

‘You said you didn’t believe it was real.’

He interlocked his fingers and pointed both forefingers at me. ‘And you said it definitely is.’

‘I had nothing to do with what happened to Bill. I’m a respectable journalist and I’m more interested in who killed him than who cut him open after he was dead. And what about Natalia La Blanche and Micky Long? Don’t you want to arrest their killer?’

Dorling sighed deeply. ‘I suppose you’d better tell me what you have in mind.’

Having explained my plan to the sergeant and gained his reluctant agreement, I was not anxious to remain in his company. The feeling appeared to be mutual. As we reached the queues heading for the hospital, he opened the carriage door and indicated I should exit.

The sun was setting by the time I got back to Viola’s house. Rosie opened the door before I could knock, alerted by Jack-the-bloody-dog’s barking. I was assailed by the unmistakeable aroma of fish pie.

Rosie’s expression was grim. ‘The landlord heard about Bill,’ she said. ‘He came round. Luckily, we’d finished cleaning up.’

‘How long does she have?’

‘Six weeks, and that’s every penny she owned. After that, she’s out. She’ll be giving birth homeless and broke.’

I had the urge to put my arm around my wife’s shoulders, but I couldn’t. That wasn’t how we were.

‘We won’t let that happen.’

She led me through to the back room. The fish pie was on the table, mostly eaten but with a good helping still left in the bowl.

Viola was staring out of the window at the yard. ‘Mr Black’s at the theatre,’ she murmured. ‘He said he’d be back later in case anyone comes to murder us. I’ve made up Eddie’s bed for him.’

‘What about Mr Honey?’

‘He left with that … with Miss Brown. She said they had space at their lodging. Mr Black came back before they left and there was an argument. I think she has a poor opinion of Mr Black.’

I glanced in Rosie’s direction. ‘I’m sure you did nothing to dissuade her from that view.’

She inclined her head in affirmation. ‘I don’t think well of a man who brings a gun into the house.’

‘Oh, you saw that, did you? I shouldn’t worry. I’m sure it’s a theatre prop, not real.’

‘Even a fake gun can be dangerous if someone thinks it’s real.’ She pushed the remains of the pie in my direction. ‘Codling and apple, and there’s a bowl of kale on the dresser.’

She spoke casually, almost apologetically, but it was the best news a person could receive. If I hadn’t missed her remarkable cooking while we were apart, it was only because I’d missed Rosie herself so much more.

I explained that my afternoon had been a success.

‘Quinton will meet us at the pier tomorrow evening at nine o’clock. Alice – Miss Morgan – will come too.’

Rosie looked nauseated. ‘And the sergeant?’

‘Dorling agreed. He’ll get there early and hide under the pier.’

Rosie looked vaguely surprised, but also impressed. ‘You’ll have to persuade Mr Quinton to confess to the murders,’ she said. ‘It won’t be easy.’

‘I know. And there’s something else too, something I need to test.’ I turned to my sister-in-law. ‘Viola, did Bill own a compass?’

She stirred as if reaching wakefulness after a nap. ‘No, but I do.’

‘You have one?’

A compass seemed an entirely practical item. I couldn’t imagine Viola having such a need.

‘Of course. Haven’t you heard of the Vegvisir? The Viking rune of a compass. It keeps you safe when you can’t find your way.’ She clutched her hands together on the table, her knuckles white. ‘Though I confess my own way is still unclear to me.’

I was trying very hard to remain patient. ‘I need an actual proper compass that points north, not a rune. Do you have one of those?’

‘Yes. I mean, I think it points north.’

Pull and repel.

When Viola had left the room, I exchanged a look with Rosie, or I attempted to, which is to say I gave her a look which she correctly interpreted as scepticism and chose not to return.

‘You removed the stone from the box,’ I said to her. ‘You don’t trust me.’

Her expression didn’t change. She had no qualms. ‘It seemed prudent. I trust your honesty absolutely, but this woman … she’s manipulative, Leo, and you have a tendency to be soft-hearted.’

‘I’m not a fool. I would never have given it to her.’

‘Probably not, but why take the chance? You’re not a fool, but you do believe you can save people. You think it’s heroic. You think that’s what it is to be a man.’

‘Isn’t it?’

She gave me a wan smile. ‘Not in my experience.’

Viola returned with a metal compass the size of a small clock, its face inscribed with a symbol. I thought it rather elegant and pretty, and somewhat regretted having doubted her before.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Rosie, would you fetch the jewel please?’

She reached into her apron pocket and produced it, as if it was something she’d picked off the floor and hitherto forgotten about.

Viola gazed at it. ‘What a beautiful thing,’ she said. ‘But also evil. I can see that. It’s made from blood.’

The compass needle was pointing at the dresser.

‘Due north,’ I said, nodding in that direction. ‘And south is that way, towards the sea.’

I took the stone and placed it directly next to the needle, and then moved it a quarter of an inch around the perimeter, still touching the metal body of the compass. The needle went with it.

Rosie watched, open-mouthed.

‘That’s not possible,’ she said.

I moved it further, so the stone was at the north-west point, and then west and all the way round to the south. Each time, the needle followed. I found that if I went too fast, the connection was lost and the needle swung back towards the dresser. But if I was careful, moving the stone a tiny distance each time, I could rotate the needle through a full 360 degrees.

Viola shivered and backed away from the table. ‘I told you that thing is evil.’

That evening, I remained alone in the sitting room with a glass of Bill’s unpleasant whisky, wondering why Jacob hadn’t replied to my telegram. I chose a book from the bookshelf to distract myself, a copy of Oliver Twist which, as far as I could tell, had never been opened. I had just settled down in an armchair when Peregrine came back from the theatre, the blush of his stage make-up still colouring his cheeks.

‘They’re closing us down,’ he declared, sprawling on the sofa. ‘Hardly anyone was in again tonight. The locals don’t appreciate true art. They’d rather watch people dangling cannons from their teeth.’

‘Yes, I heard you didn’t get on well with Miss Brown.’

‘She believes her talent is the equal of Shakespeare’s.’ He lit one of his sweet cigarettes and eyed me through the smoke. ‘Half her audience is only there to see a woman in her underclothes. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t unkind to her, I promise.’

‘And Mr Honey left with her.’

He gave a plaintive shrug. ‘He does as he pleases.’

I sensed that my friend’s feelings had been hurt, so I poured him a glass of whisky and topped up my own.

‘Well, I’m sorry about your play. I’m sorry about everything, Peregrine.’

A smile lit up his doleful face. ‘Oh, that’s all right. You’re forgiven. And as for the play, it’s for the best. The director wants us to go back to London with The Merry Wives.’ He lifted his chin dramatically. ‘I am to be his Falstaff. So, you see, it’s an ill wind which blows no man to good.’

‘Well, that is welcome news. Congratulations.’ We clinked glasses. ‘The whisky is ghastly, I warn you.’

‘Excellent. I much prefer bad whisky to good. You know where you stand with a truly terrible whisky. It asks nothing of you.’

‘You realise that’s completely meaningless, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I prefer bad conversation too. And bad clothes, though not as bad as what you’re wearing.’

His exuberance, often an irritating feature of his personality, was oddly comforting when faced with the possibility of imminent death. My plan had seemed flawless when I’d devised it, but with every passing minute I was less and less convinced.

‘Thank you for being here,’ I said. ‘We need all the help we can muster.’ My voice was hoarse. The whisky was burning the skin from the back of my throat.

‘I couldn’t leave you to your own devices, could I? Especially after you got Quinton and Stephan off my back. Anyway, I quite like a scrap. It’s been a while.’

‘It might be worse than a scrap. Quinton knows we have the stone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes here tonight to take it.’

Peregrine considered the prospect. ‘Why would he, when you’ve agreed to give it to him tomorrow?’

‘To save himself two hundred pounds, which was my price. He wouldn’t have believed me if I’d offered to hand over a jewel of such value for nothing. But now, we’re at risk, and if something happens—’

‘We’ll be ready.’ Peregrine gulped his whisky and pulled a face. ‘Christ, what awful stuff. If Quinton doesn’t kill us, this will.’

I swirled the alcohol around in the glass. As it stilled, sediment drifted down to the bottom.

‘Are you ever going to tell me your story, Peregrine?’

He surveyed me. ‘What story?’

‘Yours. All right, let me guess. I think you know this town better than you claim.’

He shrugged. ‘I know lots of places. I’ve toured all over England.’

‘No, it’s more than that. You were brought up here, weren’t you?’

He sat back in the sofa. ‘I wasn’t brought up anywhere.’

The way he said it was laced with bitterness, but also pride. He had created himself, much as I had.

‘I see. An orphanage then?’

‘For a while.’ He grimaced at my expression. ‘Don’t pity me, Leo. It was perfectly fine. They did their best with what they had.’ He nodded towards my book. ‘You read too much Dickens.’

I could see he was growing annoyed at my intrusiveness, but I was feeling reckless. My dread of the next day was diluting my usual reserve. I supposed this was how Alice had felt when she lost the Blood Flower; all the normal boundaries collapsed, and nothing meant anything any more.

‘And after that, you were on the street, I dare say. Honey said something about you I thought was interesting. He said you asked for nothing in return. That’s what set me thinking. You look after these lads, give them somewhere to stay and some money, because you were one of them once. Am I right?’

‘It was a long time ago. I was a child.’

‘But you haven’t forgotten. You’re giving them the helping hand you didn’t get. That’s why you were in debt to Quinton.’

‘Don’t be romantic. These lads aren’t saintly, sickly Oliver Twist and I’m not Mr bloody Brownlow. A few pennies and a night of safety, that’s all they get.’ He downed his whisky. ‘Not everyone’s like you.’

‘No one’s like me.’

‘I’m not talking about that.’ He waggled a finger up and down to indicate my physical self. ‘That’s all very difficult, I’m sure, but you were brought up in a nice, safe home with food on the table, weren’t you? No doubt your mother made you say your prayers before she tucked you in. You left because you chose to.’

I sensed that his anger with me hadn’t altogether drained away.

‘I had to leave.’

‘You probably thought so, but it was a choice you were able to make. You might consider, just occasionally, that you’re not actually the most unfortunate person on the planet. It’s pure arrogance to think that God has singled you out.’

I didn’t reply, stewing in my resentment and imagining that he was doing the same.

Eventually, he held out his glass and I poured him another tot.

‘Mrs Mackay called you her Thrush.’

He sighed deeply. ‘You don’t bloody give up, do you? Very well. The orphanage gave me a name, but I never used it after I left. The girls called me Thrush because they thought I had a nice singing voice. I was Thrush for years.’

I had a vision of a small boy entertaining the girls between their appointments; moments of simple delight for them to hold on to.

‘Why did you change it?’

‘Thrushes are little birds, aren’t they? They get eaten by bigger birds. So, I chose to be Peregrine. Seemed like a good idea when I was sixteen, as with so many things.’

My recklessness was fading as quickly as it had come, replaced by a feeling of exhaustion. I yawned, and Peregrine yawned in sympathy.

‘Your sister-in-law put my things in the back room,’ he said. ‘The bed vacated by that drip Hapsworth. Still smells of his pomade. You can take if you’d rather.’

‘No, I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

At least, I thought, it was more comfortable than the bench outside.

Peregrine heaved himself up and bade me goodnight.

As he left the room, I called after him, ‘Goodnight, Thrush,’ and relished his roar of laughter.

I had managed to get myself comfortable on the sofa when I heard another noise. I leapt up, about to rush to the window and look outside, when I realised it was Rosie, coming in from the back room in her dressing gown.

‘You can’t sleep there,’ she said.

Her voice was croaky, as if she’d recently awoken, and her hair was like wild grass.

‘I’ll be all right. I’ll get up before Viola. She won’t know we didn’t sleep in the same bed.’

Rosie shook her head. ‘No, and I’m too tired to argue. You’re going into danger tomorrow and you need a proper night’s sleep. Come along.’

And so, for the first time, after more than a year of marriage, I was able to join my wife in bed; or, more accurately, on a straw mattress so narrow we were pressed together, our shoulders and feet touching. We stared up at the cracks in the ceiling plaster, and I was reminded of being back at the vicarage. My favourite times were when my sister allowed me to share her bed, reading me stories before Mother came up to insist that we said our prayers. Peregrine had been right about that.

I blew out the candle and within ten minutes, Rosie was gently snoring.

The night was damp and sweaty, and I found myself overly warm beneath the blanket. I stuck a leg out into the cooler air and then shoved the blanket aside completely, lying in my drawers and undershirt, having removed my binding. The skin under my arms had been scoured to callouses and needed this respite.

I realised that I didn’t feel exposed, though I wasn’t alone. Rosie was different. There was nothing of me I wouldn’t allow her to see.

Finally, I went to sleep.

I was jolted awake by sounds outside. I went to the parlour window, but it was only some drunken fellows coming back from somewhere, two of them towing a third along the street in a handcart.

I returned to bed, and Rosie stirred and turned over, facing away from me.

I hadn’t intended to look. I held Rosie in the highest esteem and wouldn’t dream of prying and peeking while she was asleep. But as I pulled back the covers to get in, I couldn’t help but see her skin under her nightdress. From one shoulder blade to the other, scars criss-crossed, some an inch long and some seven or eight times that length. My scientific mind told me they were old and long-healed, but another part, the feral part, wanted to take the throat of the man who did this to her and squeeze until his face went blue. But I could not. Jack Flowers was long dead.

‘What is it?’ she mumbled.

I must have inadvertently gasped, or perhaps she’d been disturbed by my getting up. Neither of us was used to sharing a bed these days.

‘Go back to sleep,’ I whispered.

She turned to face me, her cheek squashed by the pillow and her hair straggling across her forehead. Our faces were no more than eight inches apart.

‘Are you worrying about tomorrow?’

‘No.’ It was only partially a lie. ‘Do you regret us marrying?’

‘I don’t know, Leo. We didn’t really think everything through, did we?’

‘Not everything, no.’

She closed her eyes again, but I sensed that she was still awake. The rattle of the handcart in the street grew quieter and faded to nothing.

‘Is it because of Jack? What he did to you?’

She stiffened. ‘That’s in the past. You’re not him. I wouldn’t’ve married you if I’d thought for a second—’

‘I know, but you must remember what happened. We carry our hardest times with us, don’t we, no matter what we do? Anyone bitten by a dog must afterwards be a bit more nervous of dogs.’

‘You’re not like other dogs.’

‘Maybe I am.’

She put her palm to my cheek, a rare gesture. ‘Oh, Leo. It’s not only your fault: I haven’t been fair to you.’

I smiled and closed my eyes. ‘We’re in an unusual situation.’

‘That we are. Now go to sleep.’

In the morning, I dozed, listening to Rosie’s singing. She was always up at six; you could set your clock by her. Viola was still in bed, where she’d been for much of the last two days, and Peregrine was rarely up before ten. So, when I heard a noise outside, I was alert in an instant.

I ran into the parlour and peeked out between the curtains. I could hear voices and caught sight of someone going round to the back of the house. Jack-the-bloody-dog started barking and then, cutting through the racket, a scream – it was Rosie.

I reached the door in one second flat, before realising that her scream was one of delight.

And a voice: ‘Bah! This whole town smells worse than a cesspit.’

Jacob! I couldn’t imagine what he was doing here.

I didn’t want to greet him in my drawers and undershirt. Fortunately, my clothes were still in the parlour, so I was able to get dressed in private, using an onyx pyramid as a mirror to tie my ascot.

In the back room, Rosie was frying eggs, and Jacob was seated at the table with his back to me, his hat in one hand and his cane in the other. What little hair he had left was every which way, and I could see his pink scalp beneath it, blotchy and scabbed where he’d bumped into things. Facing him at the table was Constance.

‘Mr Stanhope,’ she said, forgetting that she was now calling me ‘Leo’. ‘I was just hearing how a man tried to sell you a partridge that was really a crow.’

‘Oh, yes. On the train.’

It seemed like a decade ago.

‘Crow meat is perfectly edible,’ said Rosie. ‘I simply objected to him lying about it.’

Jacob tapped his cane on the floor. ‘Why are we talking about damned crows?’

Outside of his home, he was prone to irritability. In fact, it was true inside his home as well, but was worse when he was out.

I squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you, Jacob. What would you rather talk about?’

He looked up at me, and I could see in his face that he regretted his outburst. Sometimes, he was like two people, one of them constantly frustrated by the other.

‘I don’t … I mean, I don’t mind. We could talk about … ’ He clicked his fingers.

‘Rubies,’ offered Constance. ‘That’s why we came. Mr Kleiner was telling me all about them on the way. It was most interesting.’

I doubted that very much, but I admired her diplomacy.

‘Yes!’ barked Jacob, suddenly animated. ‘Rubies. You sent me a telegram. I came immediately. Miss … ’ he clicked his fingers again, harder this time, as if the louder sound would force his memory to bend to his will. It didn’t work. ‘She wanted to come also, and I was happy to allow it.’

‘Does your father know you’re here, Constance?’

Her eyes slid away towards the yard. ‘I may have forgotten to mention it to him.’

I was about to commence an avuncular lecture on the topic of responsibility but caught Rosie’s brisk shake of the head.

‘Constance told me that Mrs Kleiner suggested she might like to accompany Mr Kleiner on the journey,’ she said. ‘They took the early train and will be back by late afternoon.’ She gave Constance a pointed look. ‘Won’t you?’

I understood. Jacob had insisted on coming and Lilya, concerned he might get lost, had asked Constance to go as well. It suited Jacob to think he’d brought Constance, but the truth was that she’d brought him.

‘Ah, yes, the train,’ said Jacob. ‘That was a duel. The pridurok at the ticket office refused to sell me a second-class ticket. Can you believe it?’

‘We encountered some problems,’ Constance said, a flicker of anguish crossing her face. ‘But third class was perfectly all right.’

‘He called me a name,’ said Jacob. ‘A bad word for a Jew. I won’t repeat it. I almost turned back. Nearly, but not quite. I had to come.’

‘Because of the ruby?’

‘Yes, of course. Why else? You think I want to sit on the beach?’

‘It might help your complexion.’

He laughed, and his sour mood was broken. Indeed, he was positively cheerful as we ate our fried eggs and bread, and he told us a story about a customer of his who’d bought a ring for the woman he hoped would become his wife. The poor sap had tried it on his sister’s finger first, only to find it couldn’t be removed.

‘I told the sister I would cut it off with a saw,’ he said, his whiskers twitching. ‘And she screamed. She thought I meant her finger.’

He hooted with laughter, and we all laughed along, though I had heard the story several times before. The details changed depending upon his audience. Sometimes, as now, it was customer’s sister who tried on the ring, but if Constance hadn’t been present, the same role would have been taken by the customer’s former wife. Had Jacob and I been alone, it would have been a prostitute the customer had visited. This was the way with him; lots of bluster, but he really just wanted to make people happy.

When we had finished breakfast and I’d enjoyed my second cup of tea, Rosie left the room and came back with the cigar box. She tipped out the Blood Flower on to the table.

‘My goodness,’ exclaimed Constance. ‘It’s beautiful. Is it real?’

Jacob peered at it down his nose and waved a hand towards Constance. ‘Fetch my case from the hall.’

She was so captivated, she did as she was told without a murmur. Jacob rummaged through his case and produced a loupe and two cloths. He polished the stone thoroughly with one of the cloths and placed it in the centre of the other. Against the white cotton, it shone blood red.

‘A fine colour,’ he said, looking at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘And nicely cut too. Excellent workmanship. And you think it is … magnetic, yes? That it has the ability to leap from its own chain.’

‘Yes. I mean, I know it can’t leap from its chain, but it truly is magnetic. I tested it with a compass. But rubies can’t be magnetic. They’re not made of metal.’

‘Hmm. You’re right. And you’re wrong.’ He sniffed and sat back in his chair. ‘Mostly wrong.’

I wasn’t going to rise to his bait. Constance was less patient.

‘What do you mean?’

‘First, you are wrong that things have to be metal to be magnetic. Ask Mr Clerk Maxwell, he will tell you.’

I saw no point in informing him that the acclaimed physicist had been dead for three or four years. Jacob tended to treat such demises as personal affronts.

‘What am I right about?’

‘You’re right that rubies are not magnetic.’

‘This one is.’

He grinned, enjoying the attention. ‘Yes, but that’s because you’re wrong about something else. This is not a ruby.’

I stared at him. ‘What? Then what is it?’

He placed the stone under his loupe. ‘I will tell you in a moment. But certainly not a ruby. Can you imagine if it was? It’s, what, twelve carats? Fifteen? A ruby of this size would be worth a fortune. It would belong in your Queen’s crown jewels.’

He removed his spectacles and put his eye to the lens, taking on a stillness I was familiar with. When working, he was utterly engrossed.

In the silence that followed, I could hear Jack-the-bloody-dog wheezing in his sleep in the next room.

After a few seconds, Jacob looked up. ‘Red tourmaline,’ he said. ‘Some call it rubellite.’

Rosie folded her arms. ‘So, it’s not valuable?’

‘Oh, it is. You or I could not afford it.’

‘How much?’

‘Hmm.’ He moved his hands up and down like a pair of scales. ‘Twenty guineas, perhaps. Or twenty-five, depending on the weight. You’re lucky, actually. I thought at first it was a garnet, which would have been less. But it’s a tourmaline, I’m sure of it. A lovely colour, but not exactly like a ruby.’

I put my head in my hands. All those secrets, deceptions and deaths for a misunderstanding. Twenty guineas? Six months of my salary. I almost wished it had been made of glass, completely worthless, the kind of thing you could buy at a stall on the seafront. But twenty guineas? That was God laughing at us.

‘People have died for this stone,’ I said.

He picked it up and squinted at it, so from my perspective he appeared to have a bright red eye. ‘People have died for less, my friend, believe me. Much less.’

‘And one of these – what did you call it – a tourmaline? They’re magnetic, are they?’

‘They can be. Manganese and iron in the crystal. Unusual in a red one, but not unknown. It’s a lovely piece. What will you do with it?’

I exchanged a look with Rosie. ‘As of this minute, I really have no idea.’

She picked up the Blood Flower and dropped it back into the cigar case. ‘We don’t have a choice. We must continue with the plan.’

‘How can we? I’ve asked Quinton for two hundred pounds, which I thought was a fraction of its worth. But now we know it’s far too much.’

‘But he doesn’t know that, does he?’ Rosie started pacing up and down. ‘And by the time he finds out, he’ll be in prison.’

‘What plan?’ asked Constance, her face lighting up.

‘Nothing you need be concerned about,’ I said.

I tried to imagine myself handing over the Blood Flower to Quinton, acting as though it was worth tens of thousands of pounds when in fact it was worth twenty guineas, maybe twenty-five, depending on its weight. If I’d been scared before, now I was truly terrified.

Rosie was still pacing, her heels clicking on the floor. ‘More than that, you’ve arranged to meet him. So, if you don’t give him the jewel, he’ll think you’ve kept it for yourself, and then we’re really in trouble.’

Jacob was looking from one of us to the other. ‘If you can sell this gemstone, this tourmaline, for two hundred pounds, then do it. Otherwise, I know people in the trade who’ll buy it for a fair price. Very fair.’

‘What trouble?’ asked Constance, leaning forward.

She’d been known to complain that her life was tedious and lacked excitement, and I fully intended to keep it that way. In fact, her questions had decided me on my first course of action. I would dearly love to have spent the afternoon playing chess with Jacob and taking Constance to one of the tea-rooms on the seafront for cakes. I yearned to listen to them talk and watch them breathe and know that they were whole and well.

But the risk was too great.

‘How’s Lilya?’ I asked Jacob. ‘I hope she’s quite safe without you there to care for her.’

‘Hmm,’ he muttered. ‘Yes, quite safe. She’s less clumsy than me. She finds her way by sense of smell, I think.’ He pondered for a moment. I could always tell his moods from the way his whiskers twitched. ‘But still, perhaps we should go back. She will be worried for me.’

‘This soon?’ Constance looked aghast. ‘I thought we’d spend most of the day. I want to see the sea, at least.’

Jack-the-bloody-dog trotted in, his tail wagging, and before I could stop her, Constance leaned down to stroke him. I was certain she’d be bitten, but instead the evil monster started licking her hand. It was infuriating.

‘I’ll go with you to get a cab,’ I said. ‘We can go via the beach.’

The weather was delightful, neither too cold nor too humid, with bright sunshine and a gentle breeze coming off the sea. We walked along the promenade at Jacob’s speed, and I listened to his griping with peculiar joy. This was true magic: the familiar, the day-to-day, the expected. Alice had called me ordinary and meant it as an insult, but ordinariness was all I desired.

‘How’s that new lodger at the pharmacy?’ I asked Constance. ‘What was his name?’

She quickened her pace. ‘I’m sure he’s quite well.’

‘You seemed … struck by him when I was there.’

She raised her eyebrows unconvincingly. ‘Would you prefer I was rude to him?’

I made a play of considering the question. ‘Your father probably would.’

‘Father didn’t like him initially but has warmed to him since he expressed certain views. My opinion has gone in the opposite direction.’

‘Oh? What views did he express?’

Her face hardened. ‘That a woman has no place in the medical profession. Or any profession. He believes we’re not capable of rational thought and should restrict our ambitions to mothering babies and housekeeping.’

‘I see. Well, it’s certainly been a bad week for lodgers.’

Jacob had caught up to us. He could still make a reasonable pace on the downhill slopes. ‘What nonsense!’ he exclaimed, winning a rare look of approval from Constance. ‘I know of at least one woman who’s been an assistant to a surgeon in a hospital and is now a journalist. A poor one, but that has nothing to do with her sex.’

Truly, I would suffer this treatment from no one else in the world. I directed a filthy look at him, and he gave me a broad wink. Fortunately, Constance was pondering his point and didn’t notice.

‘She’s followed a similar path to yours, Mr Stanhope. How amusing. Though of course, you’re a fine journalist.’

‘Well, thank you. I do my best. Shall we go on to the beach?’

Jacob said he’d seen more than enough of the sea in his youth and had no wish to examine it further, so Constance and I were alone as we picked over the shingle, avoiding the horse dung and half-clad bathers coming and going from the beach huts and bathing machines. When we reached the water’s edge, she crouched down, not minding her damp hems.

‘I’m glad you’ve apologised to Mrs Stanhope. She truly is a most admirable lady, and the two of you are a perfect match. But I also wish … ’ She swished her fingers in the sea. ‘When you lived with us in Little Pulteney Street, it was the best of times, wasn’t it? Just you and Father and me.’

‘Indeed, it was. The best of times.’

After a few minutes, she’d seen enough. We walked back and found a cab on the promenade, and I watched them climb inside.

‘I hope you get a second-class ticket for the train this time.’

Jacob scowled. ‘Bah! Let them try and stop me.’

Constance leaned out the window as they pulled away. ‘And we won’t buy any crows!’

I watched them go, feeling that part of my heart was leaving with them.

I walked slowly back to Viola’s house, lost in my own morbid imaginings about what might happen that evening. A carriage was waiting in the street and a man was standing beside it. As I pushed open the gate, he tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Mr Stanhope, is it?’

‘Yes.’

I turned, and he punched me in the stomach.