Page 46

John unfolded the clipping and read the first paragraph aloud. “ ‘The early discharge system has contributed to a general state of depravity among the lower classes in our great metropolis. Criminal vice has spread its monster roots and penetrated the congenial soil.’ ”

“What’s all that mean?” Belinda asked.

“It means crime is on the rise in London,” John said, “and paroled prisoners are being blamed for it. The writer is saying none of us have changed our ways—we’re still just murderers and thieves.”

“I’d slit his throat if he was here,” Belinda said balefully.

“We ain’t done nothing wrong,” came Mad Dog’s quiet voice.

“I understand,” John said, tucking the clipping and notebook back into his coat. “But Parliament has to settle the public’s anxiety over the rise in crime, or members will start losing seats. And if the police don’t act, they’ll lose funding. So we’ve been made the scapegoats. They’ll use any excuse to take us back into custody.”

“Excuse like what?” Enid asked sourly.

“If any of us forget to carry our ticket-of-leave with us when we go from the house, or if we stray one step outside the Metropolitan District, or stay out five minutes past our curfew. Any small mistake will be enough.”

“But they made us a deal,” Norman cried, looking aghast. “They can’t welch on it!”

John narrowed his eyes.

“I said welch,” Norman protested, “not Welsh.”

Enid, who was sitting beside him, muttered, “Where do you think it came from, you dunderclunk?”

“The ticket-of-leave license,” John continued, “is a conditional release. The authorities can revoke it at will, and Miss Martin won’t be able to stop them.” He paused before adding darkly, “If I were the supervising officer, I’d send us all back without delay. No one in their right mind would give a woman still in her twenties the responsibility for six paroled prisoners.”

“Ha,” June burst out in the triumph of vindication. “That’s what I been saying!”

“If the supervising officer decides we’ve been immoral or idle,” John said, “or if he reports us for committing the slightest breach of terms, our arses will be readmitted to Millbank before the day is out.”

The table was utterly silent.

“So . . . how do you propose we make ready for his visit?” John asked, waiting patiently while they all pondered the question.

Eventually Mad Dog suggested, “We could knacker ’im as soon as he comes in the house.”

This seemed to strike the rest of them as a fine idea.

“Let’s do it.”

“We’ll massacre ’im.”

“A dead man, he is.”

Even Tuppence appeared to be considering the plan. “What would we do with the body?” she asked.

“We’ll put it in a sack,” Norman said. “When the rubbish man comes, we’ll dump it in his cart and say it’s a bag of rats.”

Tuppence frowned. “What if he looks inside?”

Enid gave her a look. “Who wants to look inside a bag of dead rats?”

“Let’s garrote him with a piece o’ wire,” Belinda said. “That way he won’t bleed on the clean floor right after I done me moppin’.”

“What about poison?” Norman suggested. “We could offer him tea, and then take one of June’s jam tarts and fill it with—”

“No one is going to kill the supervisor,” John snapped, rising to his feet. “What the devil is wrong with all of you?”

They all looked perplexed by his reaction.