“Oh no,” gloated their tormentor. “Just wait to see what happens now—’specially if you breathe a word to the peelers.”
Ally kicked him again, and he winced.
“They don’t need to talk to the police,” Solomon said. He sounded more amused than anything. “Neither do you. I shall do all the talking necessary. In fact…I am half inclined to let you go.” His eyes met Constance’s.
“Perhaps with a message,” she agreed.
“My thoughts exactly. You tell Kenny and his dubious lady that they are rumbled, that they will get not one more penny from these ladies, nor from any other victim. I believe Madame Veronique’s dress business is about to fail for lack of customers, even if she somehow escapes the law. But the police are most definitely coming for them. Just one question for you—which will decide your immediate fate. What else have you carried to back doors recently? Apart from the axe. A couple of bodies, perhaps? Horse droppings? Vulgar notes?”
“Wot?” The man was distracted, frowning at Solomon with a bafflement that looked genuine. “I never been here afore!”
At that moment, Constance saw the old ladies’ eyes widening. Mrs. Robertson buried her face in her handkerchief. She had large, bony hands and broad shoulders for a woman. Constance glanced down at the woman’s slippered feet, which were surely quite large enough to wear men’s boots. Part of the puzzle fell into place.
“Not here,” Solomon said. “Another house in the crescent, four doors down.”
“But that’s—” Miss Morton began.
“So it is,” said her sister, and they both stared at Constance with their mouths hanging open. It seemed, belatedly, that recognition was dawning.
“I never!” the captive protested. “Wish I had, though!”
“All you’re good for,” Ally said with contempt. “What’s it to be, ma’am? Guv? Want me to give him up to the peelers or send him back to his master’s gutter?”
“Oh, I think his master’s gutter,” Solomon said affably. “The first of a few unpleasant surprises coming Kenny’s way.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”
While Solomon and Ally hauled the thug away, Constance smiled at the three women around the table. “Drink your tea, ladies. You’ve had a nasty shock. I suppose you find it strange that my husband and I were around at this time of night to see your intruder and his antics. We too have had a plague of nuisances: ugly notes pinned to the gate, manure left right on the doorstep, even a rotting corpse—forgive my indelicacy, ladies—on one occasion. So my household has been watching. When Ally saw your man, we followed him.”
“Andhesaved us,” Miss Morton said, sounding more dismayed than afraid. “He saved Mrs. Robertson. You gave us tea and made everything well…”
“Oh no,” Constance said. “To be fair to that imbecile, he only meant to leave the axe in the door. And I only gave you your owntea, but I hope, between us, we have scared off your would-be blackmailers.”
“What if they tell anyway?” Miss Morton whispered, her eyes suddenly swimming.
“They’re in no position to,” Constance said. “And even if they say vile things, who will believe extortionists and violent criminals? The worst that can happen is that you have to find a new dressmaker.”
Mrs. Willow let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. Constance smiled at her encouragingly.
“Are you reallyher?” Miss Morton blurted.
Constance smiled. “The chief Jezebel? The Whore of Babylon? I am Constance Grey, née Silver, and I am your neighbor four doors down. The friends who live there spent all their lives being as frightened as you were for less than five minutes this evening. Now they are safe. Some even find other work. They are good people. I hope we can agree that we have misjudged each other.”
“How did you misjudge us?” Mrs. Willow asked, inclined to bridle at that.
Mrs. Robertson’s gaze burned into the side of Constance’s face. She turned her head slowly and found the woman’s eyes desperate and pleading.
Constance considered. It was tempting.
She said, “I did not think you would have the courage to deny your blackmailers.”
Mrs. Robertson sagged and blew her nose.
A knock at the door made all three older women jump and stare in renewed fright. Constance, who recognized the pattern of the knocks, smiled reassuringly.
“It’s my husband,” she said, and went to let him back in.
“He’s bolted,” Solomon reported. “Like a stone released from a catapult. Ally has taken the axe as evidence for the police, who may call upon you in the morning.”
“The police have already asked us a lot of insolent questions,” Mrs. Willow exclaimed. “I’m not sure I want to—”
