There was a haze on the waterfront, a tissue-paper mist. The Thames smelled of brine and coal smoke. Mrs. Bone’s favorite factory sat between the sugar refinery and the India-rubber warehouse, on a road swamped with mud. Men struggled through it, getting swilled like pig food. Mrs. King wondered why they couldn’t take the other path. People should consider all their options, she thought dryly.
There was a villa attached to the factory, with high walls around the perimeter, and blood-colored glass in the windows. A wraithlike porter bolted the door behind her when she entered. She unpeeled her gloves. Better to meet this lot bare-skinned, knuckles out.
Mrs. Bone was standing in a dim-lit parlor, shutters drawn, drapes drawn, hands on her hips. “This is my inventions room,” she said, raising a warning finger. “No memorizing anything. I’ve got patents. Don’t even try.”
Old-fashioned lamps gave the room a rum-colored glow. There were flecks of paint and varnish everywhere, and rifles holstered to the walls. Guns, in all shapes and sizes. A striking choice in decoration. Mrs. King understood this impulse entirely. Mrs. Bone was just making a point.
The women were punctual: a good start. Hephzibah raced in like an emu, feathered and beaded, wig bobbing, eyes everywhere.
“Good to see you, Hephz,” said Mrs. King, going to embrace her.
“Is that a pudding trolley?” Hephzibah exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “Bring it here at once!”
Winnie steered her straight to the couch, giving Mrs. King an agonized expression. Long day, she mouthed.
Alice followed close behind, ducking a half curtsey and pecking Mrs. Bone on both cheeks, then kissing her hand.
Mrs. Bone had brought in a pair of housemaids in mismatched aprons. “You said you wanted my best girls. Here they are. Sisters,” she said. “Useful. They come as a pair. They’re called Jane.”
Mrs. King eyed them. These girls weren’t sisters. They were too deliberately alike, hair like broom bristles, squashed under their caps. Country girls, carted into town. They weren’t called Jane, either. Mrs. Bone always reserved rights of nomenclature.
“Worked in the circus, didn’t you, girls?” said Mrs. Bone. “I like my girls to have some capability,” she said, facing the room. “You learn all about mechanics when you work at the fair. And they’re entirely schooled—I always make sure of that. We all know our letters in this household.”
Mrs. King studied the girls. Eighteen, maybe nineteen, no older. She pictured them at the edge of a field, perched on a gate, scaring villagers. She could guess where they’d have ended up if Mrs. Bone hadn’t acquired them. A paid-for flat, somewhere off the Charing Cross Road, taking calls after dark. Girls like these, with no family to speak of, didn’t get shop work, or secretarial positions, or positions in decent houses. They got swooped on. Everyone knew that.
“We’ll differentiate between them somehow, Mrs. Bone. We can’t just call them Jane-one and Jane-two,” she said.
“That’s what I call ’em.”
Mrs. King raised an eyebrow. “Girls?”
They glanced at each other, a quick, uninterpretable look. “Makes no odds to us.”
“Well, we’re all equals here,” said Mrs. King. “You can sit down next to Mrs. Bone.”
Mrs. Bone’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t make the rules around here, my girl.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Mrs. King pleasantly. “And that’s the first. Equals, Mrs. Bone, one and all.”
“You can eat your rules for breakfast. You’re the one asking me to pay for this enterprise.”
“And I’ll be infinitely grateful to you if you make that considered investment, but I’ve got my own terms of engagement.” Mrs. King kept her gaze dead straight. “Second, and to quote Mr. Disraeli, ‘Never complain, never explain.’” She scanned each of them. “We will have one object, one single plan. There will be no grumbling, no discord. If you’re given an order, you follow it. Additionally, all your other duties and obligations are hereby suspended. Until this job is concluded, you’re answerable to the members of this group, no one else.” She looked at her sister. “I am God, till July.”
Mrs. Bone snorted.
“Third,” said Mrs. King. “Speak before you’re spoken to. You have a voice, so use it. See a risk? Speak up. Make an error? Confess. Say boo to the goose, if you will. Content, Mrs. Bone?”
Mrs. Bone pulled the Janes to sit down beside her on the couch. “I’m not signing up to anything until I hear this plan in full.”
Winnie leaned in, voice steady. “We’d really better get on,” she said. Agreement rippled around the room.
Mrs. King gave them a brisk nod. “Very well. Ladies, lend me your ears.”
They’d gathered in a circle. Mrs. King wanted them seated where she could see them. Winnie on her right hand, positioned as aide-de-camp. Mrs. Bone, eyes glittering as she judged whether to invest. Hephzibah, restless and magnificent, concocting her stage directions. The Janes, notebooks on their knees, inspecting the engineering. And Alice, eyes wide, jaw set, the canary already in the coal mine.
Mrs. King beckoned to Winnie. “Bring out the Inventory, will you? Ladies, this is critical. We have a record of nearly every item in the de Vries house on Park Lane. Nearly every item. You girls—” she nodded to the Janes “—are going to need to fill in the gaps.”
Jane-one raised her pencil into the air. “What for, Madam?”
“Don’t call me Madam. Call me Mrs. King.”
“What for, Mrs. King?”
“Because we’re going to take the items listed and sell them.” Mrs. King gave them a smile. “I don’t intend to miss a thing.”
Jane-two crossed her arms. “How much are you selling?”
“Everything, darling,” said Hephzibah, reaching for the dessert trolley, swiping a lemon pudding. “Am I right?”
“Quite right.”
Mrs. Bone rubbed her chin. “Fantastical.”
“Risks later,” said Mrs. King. “Maneuvers first. The job will be executed on the twenty-sixth of June. Mark the date in your diaries, ladies. Alice, tell us what’s happening that night.”
Alice started, but found her voice. “There’s going to be a ball.”
“A ball?” said Hephzibah, licking her lips.
Mrs. King opened her arms wide. “A costumed ball, ladies. The most magnificent party. The kind you’ll tell your grandchildren about. It will be, I can tell you, a right knees-up.”
Mrs. Bone pursed her lips. “While their precious master’s still warm in his grave?”
“Life goes on, Mrs. Bone. And just think of the crowd that the house of de Vries could command. Americans. High rollers. Royalty.”
Hephzibah smoothed her gown. “Royals are usually very dowdy.”
“Mad,” said Mrs. Bone at once.
“No, entirely sane,” said Mrs. King. “We couldn’t ask for more favorable conditions for this enterprise. I myself have been intimately involved in all the preparations. Half the rooms will be closed off for their own protection. A quarter of the goods can be put into safekeeping before the first guests even arrive.” She nodded to her sister. “Alice won’t be the only new arrival on Park Lane. They’ve got a big staff but a ball on this scale requires an even bigger one. I’ve lined up all the appropriate posts: house-parlormaids, daily women, et cetera. Mrs. Bone, if we can count on your resources, we’ll be able to get people expediting our affairs on every floor of the building.” She looked at Hephzibah. “And with your talents, Hephz, we’ll be providing half the guests, and all of the entertainment. They’ll be really rather critical: moving people around is important. Our estimates are that we’ll commence the full clearance at midnight.”
“Our estimates?” said Mrs. Bone, sending a piercing gaze across the room.
“I’ve gone over the timings, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie helpfully. “In great detail.”
“Nobody knows this house better than Winnie Smith,” said Mrs. King smoothly, before Mrs. Bone could speak. She patted the Inventory. “Believe me.”
Mrs. Bone folded her arms. “And I s’pose you’d be expecting my fences to get the stuff moving?”
“Every van you’ve got, Mrs. Bone,” agreed Mrs. King. “Every carthorse, come to that.”
“Have some donkeys,” said Mrs. Bone. “There’s a few in this room.” She shook her head, tutting. “You don’t rob a place when there’s a party going on. You wait till they’ve gone away, cleared off to the country, sent the butler down to the seaside for his week off. You don’t do it in high season, for God’s sake.”
Mrs. King often noticed this. Other people simply didn’t know how to take bets, how to set wagers. It showed such a disagreeable lack of imagination. She wondered if Mr. de Vries had noticed this shortcoming in Mrs. Bone. He’d built his empire without her help, after all.
She quashed the thought: that was a disloyal line of thinking, never to be expressed out loud.
“We want this job to have a little fizz, Mrs. Bone,” she said. “A little get up and go. Imagine it, ladies: the grandest house in London, licked clean on the biggest night of the season. People won’t be able to sleep for thinking about it. The papers will be full of it. And wouldn’t you want something from that house? A little clock, perhaps? Some drapes? A hearth rug for the nursery? Something wicked, something naughty, something stolen, just for you? Don’t you think you deserve it?” She gave Mrs. Bone a hard look. “We can add a fifty percent surcharge to the prices, possibly double, no question about it. And the best items can go straight to auction.”
“Auctions?” said Mrs. Bone. “My agents need weeks to set up auctions.”
“Then we’ll set them up,” said Mrs. King, not allowing her smile to waver. “We can get messages out to the big buyers in no time. You can pave the way for us. Let everybody know there’s a big seller in town.”
“I’m not using my name! I can spread the word, get my men lined up for anything I want, but I need deniability, right up until things kick off. That’s my rules, for you.”
“We’ll use a code name, then,” said Mrs. King. “Leave it to me.”
Jane-one raised her pencil. “How many rooms in the house, please?”
Mrs. King approved of practical questions. “Winnie, bring me the soup tureen.”
Winnie nodded and drew out a vast silver bowl from behind the sofa. Mrs. King opened the lid, showed it around the room with a flourish, the light reflecting in their eyes. “Schematics, ladies. Floor plans of the cellar, ground floor, saloon floor, bedroom floor, old nursery and guest chambers, servants’ quarters and attics.” She saw Hephzibah leaning forward, incredulous. There were delicate etchings on the underside of the tureen lid, carved in minute detail. “If you’re lost, make for the dining room. These will set you straight. Winnie has made paper copies, but you’ll need to burn those after reading.”
“That’s clever,” said Jane-one, taking her pencil out of her mouth, examining the tureen.
Mrs. King nodded. “And necessary. Now, Winnie, tell us about the doors.”
Winnie straightened. “There are four entrances to the property.” She looked around, checked they could hear her. “Front door. Tradesmen’s door. Mews door. Garden door. These doors are all double or triple locked. The front door is double bolted, too.”
“And who’s got the key, Mrs. King?” said Jane-two.
“I had it, once,” said Mrs. King. “But I surrendered my set the day I left. Now the butler holds them. Mr. Shepherd. Until they recruit a new housekeeper, that is.” She glanced at Alice. “We are going to do our level best to impede that, of course.”
Hephzibah’s glass clinked on the table. “Shepherd? I’m not going anywhere near him. Repulsive, odious man.”
Mrs. King saw Winnie place a hand on Hephzibah’s arm, whether to soothe or silence her she couldn’t say.
“Does someone need to charm the butler?” said Mrs. Bone. “Get him onside?”
“There’s no use recruiting Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. King. “He was Mr. de Vries’s man, utterly loyal.”
Mrs. Bone scratched her nose. “But if somebody were to use a little persuasion...”
Mrs. King shook her head. “No knuckle-dusting, Mrs. Bone, but thank you for asking. You’ve brought us nicely to a central point. We will not use violence, nor any incapacitating force, on any person, in that house. We will not break or damage any lock, window, entrance, or door frame of any kind.”
“It’s a question of insurance, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie when Mrs. Bone scowled. “The house of de Vries holds a large policy against any act of burglary or theft. The terms of the contract are quite clear. A crime, if it has been committed, shall be evidenced by visible marks showing a violent entry to the property. Failing that, it shall be evidenced by a threat of violence of any kind against any person in the household.”
Mrs. Bone rolled her eyes.
“You see our conundrum, ladies,” said Mrs. King, snapping her fingers. “In either circumstance, the insurers would pay out the full portion of the policy.”
Alice twisted in her seat. “So?”
“So what?”
Alice looked alarmed, but she lifted her chin. “We’ll get our reward when we sell their property. Don’t they deserve to be compensated?”
A clock chimed peaceably in the hall.
“They?” said Mrs. King. “Who are ‘they’?”
“Well,” said Alice, blinking slightly, “Miss de Vries.”
Mrs. Bone spluttered before Mrs. King could reply. “Hang your ethics, girl. If we can’t knock ’em out, can’t screw ’em over, can’t lock ’em up, can’t break a bloody window, then we’re not going to get so much as a teaspoon out of the front door.”
“Leave Miss de Vries to us, Alice,” said Mrs. King. “You watch her—that’s all. We’ll manage things with her when the time comes.” She glanced at Winnie, who gave a silent nod. It didn’t pay to reveal everything all at once. Breadcrumbs, that’s what they needed.
That was all they’d be able to manage.
Alice looked uneasy, but didn’t object.
“So, to the finances,” said Mrs. King, knowing this would keep things moving. “Every penny made goes in a ledger. Mrs. Bone, we’ll let you inspect the books and distribute the profits. An equal portion of net receipts, as discussed.”
“How much in cash?” said Hephzibah.
Mrs. King named the sum.
The Janes eyed each other, expressions ferocious, devouring this.
Mrs. King fixed them all in her sights. “It’ll be enough to give you a future. Enough to make your own rum luck, however you please.” She opened her hands to them. “It’ll be enough to be free.”
A shiver passed around the room.
“Now, wait a minute,” said Mrs. Bone. “Don’t go playing snake charmer on me. I’ve seen jobs a fraction the size of this one go right up in flames.”
Mrs. King felt a wriggle of annoyance. “I said we’d cover risks later, Mrs. Bone.”
“And I say we cover the risks now. Janes?”
Jane-one nodded, went to the cabinet. Drew out a leather-bound folder filled with sheets of paper. “We’ve done our due diligence, Mrs. King.”
Winnie frowned. “Due diligence?”
“Big jobs gone bad,” said Mrs. Bone, eyes fierce. “You lot need educating.” She grabbed the folder from Jane-one’s hand. “Look at this. Harry Jackdaw tried a rush job in Vauxhall. Commissioned a hot-air balloon to take the silverware out of the pleasure gardens. The whole place caught fire.”
Mrs. King sighed. “We discounted hot-air balloons already, Mrs. Bone.”
“We really did, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie eagerly.
Hephzibah gave them a quizzical look. “Balloons?”
“Look at this one,” Mrs. Bone went on, shoving a typescript in Alice’s face. “Old Nanny March hired twenty men to dig a tunnel into Flatley Hall. What happened to them? Buried alive!”
“Did we look at tunneling, Winnie?”
“We did, naturally we did. London clay can be so unpredictable. Not at all suitable, Mrs. Bone—you’re quite right.”
Alice peered at the typescript. “Who’s Old Nanny March?” she asked.
“Who indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Bone, triumphant. “Nanny’s rotting in jail, good as dead, finished.”
Mrs. King caught Winnie’s eye. They’d planned what to do at this juncture. Go on, she mouthed.
Winnie stepped into the breach. “Now, ladies,” she said. “Certain preparations and contingencies will have to be made. Some elements of the plan carry greater risks than others. I don’t doubt we may need to correct course now and again.”
Mrs. Bone leaned back in her seat. “You’re Icarus, my girl,” she said to Mrs. King. “You’re flying a good deal too close to the sun.”
“Then leave, by all means,” replied Mrs. King evenly. “Talk to Mr. Murphy. He’ll happily take over your patch.”
The women grew still.
Mrs. King looked at Alice. “Or you. Go back to making cheap dresses in a department store for the rest of your days.” A flush ran up Alice’s neck. “Or you, Hephz. Run on down to the music hall. Let’s see all your dreams come true.”
Hephzibah set down her glass. It let out a high, clear ring. “Don’t be beastly,” she said. Then she glanced at the Janes, sitting in the corner. “What do you think, you little oddities?”
They had hardly moved. “We can manage risks,” said Jane-one.
“I’ll keep a log,” said Jane-two. “Anything we need to keep an eye on.”
“Hold your horses,” said Mrs. Bone. “I want to do some preliminaries. I’d need to do a full survey on that house, from the drains to the bloody cock on the roof, if it comes to that. And I want to do it myself.”
“You want to do it, Mrs. Bone?” Winnie said gently, clearly trying to work out how they could manage this.
“’Course I do! What, d’you think I’m going to sit in here with my feet up, having a little smoke, twiddling my thumbs, while you lot eat my dinner—” she pointed at a startled-looking Hephzibah “—take my loans, run riot around town, pricing up trinkets you ain’t never even seen before, on my credit, on my account?” She took a breath. “Not on your life. You think I don’t know how to do my own due diligence?”
Mrs. King sighed again. Best to seem annoyed: it paid to give Mrs. Bone the easy wins. Naturally she’d accounted for this. “We do have an opening ready, if you’d like to take it, Mrs. Bone. As I say, I cued up all the new posts before I left. We can work up some false references for you with no trouble.”
“References?”
“Yes. For the post of daily woman. Does that suit you?”
“What, scrubbing floors?” exclaimed Hephzibah in delight. “Emptying piss pots? Oh, heavenly for you, Mrs. Bone!”
Mrs. Bone bristled. “You can give me a hand,” she said.
“Been there,” said Hephzibah. “Done that. Believe me.”
“Mrs. Bone,” said Mrs. King. “Is that role acceptable?”
Mrs. Bone folded her arms. “More than acceptable,” she said. Her maids goggled at her. “What?” she added. “You think I’m too proud to scrub a floor?”
Mrs. King smiled. “Splendid. Then I think everything is quite settled.”
There was silence. The women—her women—were pondering this.
Mrs. King raised a finger, swept it through the air, encompassing them all. “Ladies,” she said. “It’s time for us to get what we deserve. But be quite certain—I’ll be watching each of you. Don’t even think about selling me out. If I hear a canary singing out of tune, I’ll wring its neck myself.”
“Or I will,” said Winnie Smith, voice soft. Then she reddened, as if she’d startled herself.
“Clear?” said Mrs. King.
They all nodded, one by one.
She drew out her slips of paper. She’d inscribed these words herself: “I pledge allegiance to this plan, and to the bonds herein defined—with firm intent, free will, in ridicule of all doubt and fear.”
They all signed it, save for Mrs. Bone. “I draw up my own contracts, my girl,” she said. “You know that.”
Mrs. King looked forward to that negotiation.