Page 54 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

“Appointments only.”

The line goes dead again, and I growl. I reach up with my right hand and grab the heavy brass door knocker, banging it repeatedly, while using my other hand to press the buzzer.

Finally, the intercom crackles again.

“Mr Stone?” Her tone is so put-upon that I wonder if it’s actually possible to hear someone’s eyes roll.

“Yes, I’m still here,” I say dryly. “I would like to speak with⁠—”

“Please hold.”

She hangs up again. I grit my teeth so tightly I’m surprised my molars don’t crack. I’m lucky I don’t have anything available to throw at the pretty sash windows.

I step back and tilt my head, taking a deep breath to calm my temper. I’ve been on edge since the whole discovery of the demon trap in Viv’s shop. Dealing with this pedantic woman is not helping my mood.

The rain picks up, hitting the pavement behind me with a loud clatter and sliding down the back of my collar, saturating my clothes. I should have picked up an umbrella.

Eventually, the door opens and an older woman appears, her mouth set in a pinched, dissatisfied line and her eyes narrowed as she takes in my dishevelled appearance.

She’s immaculately dressed, not a single ash-blonde hair escaping from her ruthlessly pinned chignon. Her plum-coloured twinset and cameo brooch pair nicely with her pleated pink tartan skirt, and her shoes are sensible lace-ups with a low heel.

Her whole countenance screams headmistress, the sort of woman who doesn’t tolerate any disorder in her world. In fact, I’m almost certain that the rain would bounce straight off her like it was being repelled by evil.

“Mr Stone.” Although her tone is cordial as her gaze glides over me, her expression is the same one she’d probably give the bedraggled corpse of a drowned rat. “Mr Hadley will see you.”

I can see how sour the words taste on her tongue by the way she wrinkles her nose.

“Thank you.” I give her a smug smile, and her demeanour cools even more.

When she steps aside to allow me to enter, I find myself in a hallway, dripping water on parquet flooring.

She closes the door behind us with a resounding click, which somehow manages to sound more loaded than if she’d actually slammed it. Her eyes dip to the puddle forming at my feet, but she doesn’t say anything. She simply purses her thin lips and grates out, “Please come with me. And don’t touch anything.”

I follow her obediently down a narrow corridor decorated with wooden panelling, its upper walls adorned with a duck-egg blue wallpaper featuring tiny flowers and songbirds. The corridor opens into a larger anteroom with a large curved staircase, its wooden steps covered with a rose-coloured carpet runner secured in place with shiny brass rods.

This place has the scent of old, a bit musty and stale, and the treads of the stairs creak beneath our feet as we climb. When we reach the top, my escort moves a little further along another corridor, then stops in front of a door and knocks.

It only takes a few moments for the door to be opened by the neatly dressed man who sat in the back of the crematorium at Viv’s funeral.

“Mr Stone.” Smiling affably, he holds out his hand, which I shake. “Good gracious, you did get caught in the rain, didn’t you?” His brows rise, then his attention flicks to the woman standing at my side, her nose crinkled like she’s smelled something bad. “Thank you, Mrs Middleton. If you would be so good as to bring some tea and perhaps a towel for Mr Stone before he catches a cold.”

“Of course, Mr Hadley,” she says, and although her demeanour towards the man is filled with respect, her tone indicates she’d rather throw me straight onto the street.

“Come in, please.” He steps back, but as I pass over the threshold into his office and he shuts the door behind me, there’s a strange shimmering in the air, which makes me look a little more closely at the man, who is now seated behind his immaculately kept desk.

“Please.” He indicates one of the two chairs opposite him.

I slip onto the cushioned chair on the left, wincing a little. I’m soaking wet, which doesn’t bode well for the velvet-covered seat.

Mr Hadley settles comfortably in his chair and studies me. “Now, why don’t you tell me what has brought you to my office today?”

“I was a friend of Vivienne Wilson.”

“I’m well aware of who you are, Mr Stone, and you’ll find I prefer directness, so why don’t you tell me what it is that you want from me?”

I stare at him in contemplation; being straightforward with this man is probably the best way to deal with him. “I want to know about the demon trap in the Whitechapel bookshop,” I say bluntly. “Is that direct enough for you?”

“Ah, yes. Lucien did mention you were there yesterday when he encountered Mr Everett and Mr Ames at the Whitechapel property.”