Petticoat Lane. Mrs. King felt the sun on her neck. She’d walked all the way from Mayfair to Aldgate to save the twopence on the Tube. She had to jostle her way with the crowd, but it was worth it, a necessary investment. There was one person she needed to see. Not an easy person to manage. Not someone who liked surprises. You didn’t charge into Mrs. Bone’s territory without due preparation, and a good reason to call. But Mrs. King was nothing if not prepared, and she had the best proposition in town.
The heat gave the lane a whirring, jangled energy. It smelled like old things, manure and wrinkled fruit and drains. Everyone seemed dislocated, running in packs, a sea of flat caps. Mrs. King heard the distant dandle-dandle-rum-tum-tum of music, spied a fiddler balanced on a stool. It gave her a queer twist in the chest. She always felt it, coming home.
Concentrate, Dinah, she told herself.
She pulled out her purse, flipped a coin between her fingers. Studied the market stalls, separating herself from the crowd. The stallholders clocked her. Eyes swiveled sideways, nostrils flared.
Mrs. King raised her hand, shielding her eyes from the sun. She knew she looked strange to them. Not a lady, not a schoolmistress. Not a nurse, not a cook. An anomaly. Tightly buckled, hat tipped low over her eyes. A touch of stain on her lips—red, the color of garnets. Armored.
She folded her arms.
And waited.
It didn’t take long. The message must have been transmitted through the walls; it must have gone rippling down the back alleys. The door to the pawnshop opened with a bang. It startled the stallholders, the bell clanging in the air. A woman wearing widow’s weeds emerged squinting into the sunlight.
Mrs. King straightened. “Mrs. Bone,” she called.
Mrs. Bone was strong, compact, cunningly built. Perhaps fifty years old, at a guess. Sunshine didn’t suit her. It drained her, made her look as if she’d been hiding in the cellar. You’d overlook her altogether if you didn’t know any better. Which was just the way she liked it.
Her eyes narrowed, and Mrs. King saw her mind working: the click-click-click of the gears.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Bone called back, voice hoarse. “Aren’t we highly favored?”
The stallholders repositioned themselves. Casual, heads turned, gazing up at the sky as if it fascinated them.
Mrs. King crossed the street. Followed the old rules. Ducked her chin half an inch. Scraped one boot behind the other. Kiss to the cheek, kiss to the hand. “Good day, Mrs. Bone.”
Up close Mrs. Bone carried the same scent as always: rose water and hair that smelled of wood shavings. “How can I help you, dear?” she murmured into Mrs. King’s ear.
Mrs. King didn’t fall for that. Whatever your trouble, whatever the jam, you didn’t ask Mrs. Bone for help. Help was for the birds. You presented her with a proposition, nicely packaged, nothing else. Mrs. King straightened up, assessed the terrain. There was a skinny-looking chap leaned up against a lamppost, head buried in his newspaper. Frayed cuffs, bare ankles. Not a detective. A scout, a lookout. And not employed by Mrs. Bone. Her men didn’t dress like scarecrows. Mrs. King scanned the street. Another lad at the corner, by the pub. A third under the guttering.
Mrs. King considered this with interest. These were Mrs. Bone’s stalls, and that was Mrs. Bone’s house. She’d drawn and quartered and marked this part of the street as her domain. Her territory ran from here to Docklands, a snaking line of enterprises, legitimate and not so legitimate. Nicely demarcated ground. You didn’t play on Mrs. Bone’s turf if you didn’t want trouble.
And yet there were men playing all over it.
“Busy out here today,” Mrs. King said.
Mrs. Bone tutted in irritation. “Get inside.”
But she glanced over her shoulder as she closed the door.
Mrs. Bone’s pawnshop was a legitimate business. A humble one, too. An entirely sensible place to hold a meeting. Mrs. King’s eyes adjusted to the dull and respectable shimmer, the brass and silver and gold.
Mrs. Bone turned the sign on the door to Closed and dissolved into the gloom, scuttling behind a gigantic desk, grabbing a pile of receipts pinioned to a nail. “This your afternoon off?”
“No.”
“You’ve come shopping, then.”
“Not exactly.”
Mrs. Bone rifled through her receipts. “You’re in trouble.”
“No trouble. I’m on a leave of absence.”
“Oh, lovely.”
“Yes.”
“Must feel marvelous.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not one for taking holidays myself. Not got the time.”
Mrs. King smiled. “You should treat yourself.”
“And I should call myself Princess Do-As-I-Please, but I can’t always have my way, now, can I?”
Mrs. King raised an eyebrow and unbuckled her Gladstone bag. She pulled out a copy of the Illustrated News, held up the photograph of the old master. The image flashed and winked at them. That famous spotted neckerchief. His teeth bared and gleaming. Black scrolls at the top of the page: “Wilhelm de Vries. Born 1850. Died 1905.”
“Yes, yes, I heard,” said Mrs. Bone, voice tight.
Mrs. King tilted her head. “And?”
“I’m a Christian lady. I don’t gloat about nobody’s passing.” Her eyes darkened. “They’re calling him that name in the papers.”
“You still don’t care for ‘de Vries’?”
Mrs. Bone began shredding receipts. “He was Danny O’Flynn when he was born. He was Danny O’Flynn when he died.” She sniffed. “If he died. If it’s not a great prank. If it’s not an almighty tease.”
Mrs. Bone’s personal feelings about Danny O’Flynn, the man who transformed himself into Wilhelm de Vries, were well-known to Mrs. King. They were among the category of sensitive things, topics avoided.
“No, he’s gone, Mrs. Bone.”
“And what’s he left behind?”
Mrs. King glanced down at the paper. They’d printed a photograph of Madam, too. “A fair flower in bloom, Miss de Vries in her winter garden...” She appeared in a cloud of chiffon, blurry, hard to pin down. Innocent looking.
Mrs. King had been present when they’d taken that photograph. They did it in the winter garden, the conservatory overlooking the park. They made the photographer stay all day, long after the light had faded. Madam faced the window, eyes flat and unreadable, telegraphing a silent order through the air. Get it right. Make it perfect.
“The daughter.”
Mrs. Bone’s gaze tightened. “And?”
“And nothing.”
“Were his affairs in order? That’s what I want to know.”
Mrs. King sighed. “I’ve no notion, Mrs. Bone.”
“Then what are you here for?” Mrs. Bone replied, snapping her fingers. “I’m a busy lady. I don’t have time for nonsense conversations.”
She’s rattled today, thought Mrs. King. Combing the newspapers, picking over old ground.
“Perhaps I just came to say hello,” said Mrs. King calmly.
Mrs. Bone’s eyes flew upward. “You’re up to something.”
“Am I?”
“You’ve got something cooking up here.” Mrs. Bone tapped the side of her head. “Not a nice thing. It never is.”
“Heavens,” said Mrs. King. “You taught me everything I know.”
Mrs. Bone’s mouth thinned. Evidently, she didn’t like that: she saw it as an aspersion on her character. And Mrs. Bone took good care of appearances. Gave generously to the church collection, kept an entirely dull front parlor, still wore mourning clothes for her long-departed Mr. Bone, erstwhile husband and ironmonger. Her jet ornaments clanked every time she moved.
“They gave you the shove,” she said, “didn’t they?”
Mrs. King inclined her head. “For a minor indiscretion.”
“What did you do?”
Mrs. King told her. Mrs. Bone raised an eyebrow.
“You were visiting your fancy man?” she asked.
“It was all a great misunderstanding,” said Mrs. King smoothly.
“You’ve got something cooking. I can smell it!” Mrs. Bone sighed. “Come on back.”
Mrs. Bone’s private office was behind the shop, far away from the street. The windows faced another dirty courtyard where young men stood smoking. Mrs. Bone banged on the window. “Company,” she shouted, and they started like pigeons, scattering, disappearing into the shadows.
The front of the shop was gloomy, shabby, full of cheap rings and watches. The private office was different altogether. Here Mrs. Bone kept her fancies, her shiny things. Queer inventions, oddities, curios. Mrs. King knew she had other secret houses, scattered all the way to Essex, full of machines and portraits and furs and looking glasses. Exotic artifacts, paid for on credit and imported from across the empire. Mrs. Bone darted around, dodging footstools and side tables, armoires and escritoires.
“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.”