Mrs. King met Mrs. Bone on neutral ground, in Kensington Gardens. They met by appointment, as arranged. It was time to receive Mrs. Bone’s assessment of the risks—and her funding.
It reminded Mrs. King of the old days, of being schooled in her trades, learning how to pick a pocket. Mrs. Bone used to truss herself in her vulcanite and black bog oak beads and sit on a bench in Regent’s Park, going over and over the process: Gently, girl, like your fingers are made of air... She always said she had great expectations of Dinah. She said she knew a sharp eye and a good temper and a strong character when she saw one. They shared good, quick-moving O’Flynn blood, after all.
“Don’t get up,” Mrs. Bone said, and pressed both hands to her thighs. “Gawd’s sake, I’m puffed.”
The nursemaids were out in force, pushing modern perambulators with wheels that wouldn’t go amiss on an omnibus. The scene looked tranquil, but it wasn’t. Mrs. King had seated herself on a bench facing the palace and the sheep, and counted the men. One on the Broad Path, unmoving. Three under the parasols by the tea tent. Two more on the water, gliding past in a boat, very upright. She knew what that meant. They had pistols strapped to their ribs.
Mrs. Bone had brought reinforcements for this discussion. Mrs. King was inclined to take this as a good sign. She knew her aunt. This meant she was in a negotiating mood. She was ready to buy in.
Mrs. King rebuttoned her gloves. Smoothed her skirts. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bone,” she said pleasantly.
“Yes, yes, how d’ye do, splendid to see you. I’ve only got chilblains and blisters and bleedin’ corns popping up all over my feet, tramping around that great blooming place for you.” Mrs. Bone sat down with a thump, the vibration passing through the bench, and stretched her legs. She’d picked up the aroma of the back offices already. Stewed gammon and carbolic. It gave Mrs. King a strangely homesick feeling. She brushed that away at once: that sort of sensation was extremely dangerous, not required, not to be repeated.
“Well?” she said, awaiting Mrs. Bone’s decision.
Mrs. Bone breathed out. Closed her eyes. “I don’t like the odds.”
Mrs. King nodded her head at that. She’d expected that response. “I appreciate your candor.”
“Well, candidly, duck, the plan’s a load of balderdash.”
“Balderdash?”
“Hogwash. A load of old bull. I’ve looked around. I’ve sneaked into every nook and cranny I could find. You’ve got umpteen floors to sweep, a garden lying crossways to the house, a backyard in full view of the lane, and motor traffic the likes of which you wouldn’t see at the gates of hell, not even when they’re sending the pimps and whores and fornicators down for their just desserts...” She paused to take a lungful of air. “I mean for heaven’s sake, girl. You can’t give me one reason the whole thing won’t fall apart in five seconds.”
“Certainly I can.”
“Go on, then.”
Mrs. King gazed out at the water. Watched Mrs. Bone’s men paddling slowly by. “Because I’m running it.”
Mrs. Bone smiled sadly. “You’ve a good fire in your belly, dear. I’ll grant you that. But that’s all. You do my small jobs. Side stuff. You always have. Cheap soap and silk handkerchiefs.” She raised a finger. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m much obliged. You keep things ticking along nicely. All my men think you’re nice and prompt. But this is too big, even for you.”
First move. Clear as day.
Mrs. King thought about it. This job was big. It was huge, glittering, the sort of thing nobody in the world expected someone like her could pull off. It was exactly the reason she adored it. “Fair enough,” she said. “I can’t fault that. Thanks for giving it your consideration, Mrs. Bone.” She stood up. “Shall I walk you to the station?”
“Walk?” said Mrs. Bone. “Walk one more step and I’ll keel over. I’ll be lamed. I’ll be turned into glue.”
But she got up all the same, not hesitating, and linked arms with Mrs. King, her bony fingers digging into Mrs. King’s coat. This was a signal, too.
Mrs. King knew where to go for the next stage in the negotiation. There was a cigarette shop on Queensway, humble as anything, that would be waiting for them. Mrs. Bone swore she didn’t operate east of Cheapside. But even she kept a little outpost or two up in town. Mrs. King knew this. She had studied every inch of Mrs. Bone’s estate over the years.
“Mind if I pop in for some fags?” she asked when they reached the Bayswater Road.
Mrs. Bone chuckled under her breath. “Good girl. I guessed you knew about my little shop.”
“You know me,” said Mrs. King, giving her arm a squeeze. “Always got my eye on the side jobs, the small stuff.”
The bell clanged furiously as they entered the shop. Mrs. Bone was serene, flicking dirt off her filthy overcoat. The man behind the gargantuan cash register opened his mouth. Closed it again. Jars of sweets lined the counter, a radiant, marbled profusion of striped and glistening treats. Mrs. King lifted one of the lids. “Fancy a gobstopper?”
“Humbugs for you, dear,” said Mrs. Bone with a thin smile.
Mrs. King shoveled a stack of lemon sherbets into a paper bag. “Be an angel,” she said to the shopkeeper, “and give us a moment, would you?”
She could see shadows forming on the wall. Men in the street, men in the next room. A creak overhead. Mrs. Bone’s men were already upstairs. That meant Mrs. Bone had planned all her moves.
Another good sign.
The shopkeeper looked at Mrs. Bone, paled, nodded, and backed out in a hurry.
Mrs. King popped a sherbet on her tongue. Sucked. Felt the juices zinging on the roof of her mouth. “Tell me,” she mumbled. “If I could change one thing, what would it be?” Best not to circle around things with Mrs. Bone. If there was an objection lurking somewhere, Mrs. King wanted it out in the open.
Mrs. Bone put her hands behind her back, expression angelic. “Good Lord,” she said. “It’s not for me to say.”
“The date?”
“Any day’s a bad day for a bad job.”
“The time?”
“No.”
Mrs. King transferred the sherbet to the other side of her mouth. “The crew?”
Mrs. Bone shook her head. “No, they’re all right. Not an inch on my Janes, mind you.”
“I can’t change your fee.”
“Can’t you?”
Another figure appeared on the pavement.
Mrs. King offered the bag. “Sherbet?”
Mrs. Bone batted her hand away. “You’ve got dirty fingers.” She rummaged into a jar of pear drops, drew out a fistful, shoved two in her mouth. “Go on.”
“You go on.”
Mrs. Bone stared at her, eyes bright, sucking hard. “I want an advance.”
“You’ve got an advance.”
“No, I’ve got one of Danny’s trinkets, which you stole from him, at no cost to yourself, bearing no value at all.”
This was a bit rich. “It doesn’t have symbolic value?” said Mrs. King. “I chose it rather carefully.”
“These aren’t the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, my girl. We aren’t in the pyramids. I ain’t painting symbols all over the walls. I don’t need gestures. You’re doing this whole job on credit. Good for you, I’d do the same. But then I’ve got decent lines. You want to spend on my account, on my good name, then I need cash up front, to cover my risks.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. King, crunching her sherbet. “You do.”
Mrs. Bone looked annoyed at that. “Well, then, you understand, don’t you?” she said. “I can’t be making big investments until trading gets a bit brisker.”
Second move, thought Mrs. King.
“Your trade’s not about to get any brisker,” she said.
Mrs. Bone took another pear drop. “Says who?”
“I’ve got eyes.”
“And?”
“I can read accounts.”
There it was: a streak of anger. Startled you, didn’t I? thought Mrs. King. She felt almost sorry, prodding Mrs. Bone. Her aunt was the only person who’d ever kept an eye out for her when she was small. Gave her clean pinafores, sturdy boots, fresh stockings, when Mother couldn’t manage. But this wasn’t a time to be softhearted.
“Not your accounts,” she added smoothly. “I never pry into a lady’s affairs. But I’ve paid a call on Mr. Murphy. His books are looking splendid, Mrs. Bone. Heaving with orders. Whereas all I smell around your place is a pile of old debts.”
“Is that so?”
Mrs. King nodded. “Debts and debtors, crawling all over your patch.”
Mrs. Bone said nothing. The flesh around her neck was taut, as if she were holding her chin up with great effort, as if it were costing her dearly not to backhand Mrs. King. Then she mastered herself. Smiled, put the other pear drop into her mouth. “Shall I name the sum, dear? Or shall we bully each other till sundown?”
Mrs. King crossed her arms. “You may name the sum.”
Mrs. Bone did so.
The light outside was strange. Not stormy, not like the week before. But weak willed, almost slippery: grayish. Mrs. King disliked it. It depressed her.
She sighed. “Payable against what?”
“Two-sevenths of net receipts.”
“Two?”
Mrs. Bone nodded.
“I’d have to give up my own share to pay you that, Mrs. Bone.”
“Or someone else’s.” Mrs. Bone shrugged. “They’re not my people.”
“Alice Parker is my sister.”
“Lucky you.”
“Winnie Smith is my oldest friend.”
“So chuck the other old tart, if you must.” Mrs. Bone crunched her own pear drops.
Mrs. King held her gaze. “I’m not chucking any of them, Mrs. Bone. We’re all equals in this. I’ve made that quite clear.”
“I’m offering fair terms, my girl. You give me an advance against future earnings, and I put up the rest of the credit you need to get this thing moving. I mean properly moving.”
“I thought you said the whole plan was a load of nonsense.”
Mrs. Bone smiled, beadily. “It may well be, my dear. But that’s on you, not on me.”
Mrs. King considered this. She could pay Mrs. Bone’s advance, of course. In cash, too, just as Mrs. Bone would expect. It equaled almost everything she had saved, in a whole lifetime at Park Lane. She didn’t have any more than that. No backstop, no surety beyond it, at all. But if this job failed, a loss of savings would be the least of her worries. Mrs. Bone never loaned capital without expectation of full repayment. The cost of a default was an unspeakable punishment, whatever the family connection.
Mrs. King didn’t believe in God. Logic followed that she didn’t believe in the Devil, either. But she felt the presence of something then: a power greater and darker than her own. Her shadow loomed monstrously on the wall. She felt the presence of Mr. de Vries, his roar of laughter, lost in the air.
“Deal,” she said. She’d decide how to make it work later.
Mrs. Bone grimaced. “Not in here. I want it signed and witnessed. Two-sevenths, in black and white.”
She rapped loudly on the counter. A door at the back of the shop opened. “Through there,” she said, scratching her nose. “My boys will take care of you.”
Mrs. King looked through the door to the yard beyond. Those men weren’t the same as the ones in the street. They were heavier: older, denser and entirely impassive. They looked as if they were made of granite. They were carrying knives.
The chap nearest the door was smoking a pipe. He stepped to one side, making way for her. She looked through the door and saw a small table. Pen and ink. A contract, crisply minted, ready to sign. The walls in the next room had no windows, no escape routes at all.
Third move.
Mrs. King took one last lemon sherbet for luck. It left powdered sugar all over her hand. She licked it off, eyes on Mrs. Bone. “All right,” she said. “I’ll finish up here. Back to the house you go.”
Mrs. Bone was already adjusting her diabolical hat, racing for the door. “Ta-ta,” she said, and the bell clanged on the way out.
Honor thy family, thought Mrs. King wryly, as she went to sign the contract.