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“Every time,” he repeated wryly. “Usually by a footman or the underbutler.”

Tuppence looked into his eyes then. Only for a second or two.

John understood that her willingness to endure even that brief connection with him was an enormous act of trust.

“I understand why you’d protect your mum even if it meant a beating,” the housekeeper said. “But why do it for the other women?”

Having no ready answer, John pondered the question uncomfortably. “I suppose to see it happen and do nothing would have made me as bad as those men. Their sins would have become mine.”

She gave him a cautious smile before going to fetch a dustpan. As she stooped to set it on the floor, she braced her stomach with the curve of her arm.

“Please,” John said, venturing into the bedroom. He stopped an arm’s length away and extended his hand.

Tuppence handed him the dustpan. He crouched down to hold it while she swept the little pile of dust and grit into it.

“What is the situation with the household staff?” he asked.

“I expect you’ve seen for yourself,” she said. “Their work is slipshod and half finished. They see no purpose to any of it. They argue constantly over who should do what. And my condition makes it difficult to run up and down the stairs to manage them.”

“Who gives you the most trouble? Mad Dog?”

“No, sir, he’s the best of the lot.”

John glanced up at her in surprise.

“Mad is reliable and doesn’t complain,” Tuppence said. “And he’s the only one who wakes up early of a morning. Mostly because he likes breakfast nearly as much as he likes June. Everyone else ignores the rising bell, and by the time they come downstairs, half the day’s gone.”

John stood and emptied the dustpan into the nearby pail. “If Mad Dog is the best of the lot, who’s the worst?”

“Belinda.”

His brows lifted. “A teenaged girl?”

“A she-demon,” Tuppence corrected. At his expression, she said, “We were in the same ward at Millbank. She would fly into rages and attack people without warning. She broke windows, smashed furniture, and tore sheets and blankets to ribbons. Some nights she would lie on the floor and drum her feet against her cell door to keep everyone awake. At least twice she freed herself, went to the top level of the prison, and climbed out through a skylight onto the slate roof. The prison surgeon devised a special straitjacket for her to sleep in, and she slashed it to ribbons. They tied her to a bed with straps and webbing, and she cut through that too. Then they tried a special pair of leather sleeves with straps to restrain her arms at her sides. Belinda shredded it by morning.”

“How?” John asked, perturbed and reluctantly impressed.

“A bit of glass, or a splinter of metal. Anything she could find. But then the warders put her in the dark cell for two days.”

“Christ.” The dark cell, consisting of a cell within a cell, prevented all sound and light from reaching the prisoner. It was an inhumane punishment that would devastate the most hardened criminals. He couldn’t fathom what it would do to a young girl.

“When Belinda came out,” Tuppence continued, “she was as quiet and well-behaved as you please. The prison officials congratulated themselves for turning her into a model prisoner. They didn’t realize they’d made her ten times more vicious than before. But she’d learned how to hide it so well that they eventually recommended her for parole.”

Naturally. Prisons, with their focus on punishment rather than rehabilitation, seemed to exist for the purpose of turning inmates into far worse versions of themselves and then setting them loose on the public.

“Belinda listens to June,” Tuppence continued, “but no one else. If you make her angry, she’ll lash out before thinking twice. And you’d better hope you’re at least an arm’s length away.”

“What about the other two servants?”

“Norman and Enid?” Tuppence frowned and set a hand on the small of her back as if it ached. “There’s nothing about being a footman that Norman likes. He’ll do whatever he can to avoid carrying heavy coal scuttles or dinner trays. He won’t polish furniture; kneeling on the floor makes his legs ache. He can’t accompany Miss Martin on a ride through Hyde Park because he’s afraid of horses. And he hates having to act as her protector when she goes out, on account of his nervous disposition.”

“God help me,” John muttered.

“As for Enid . . . she’s not a bad worker, but she has a tubercular hip. So she’s not what you’d call spry.”

“What of her temperament?”

Tuppence considered that for a moment. “You know how in those stories by Mr. Dickens when there’s someone who’s lame or blind, it always tugs at your heartstrings because they’re so patient and sweet-natured?”