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‘Delivery,’ he grunted, holding up a box.

I grimaced and put on my best footman voice. ‘Packages are to be left downstairs with the porter. You are not to ring bells at six o’clock in the –’

‘He’s not there,’ said the boy, peering over my shoulder to look inside. ‘Took me ages to find this place, you know. It’s a bleeding maze. Seven roads, all with the same name!’

‘They’re all Kensington Gore,’ I replied crisply. ‘Now if you don’t mind …’

‘What’s in here, then?’ he said, rattling the box. ‘It’s been making a hell of a racket.’

I scowled. ‘Miss Stockingham’s items are none of your –’

‘Says it’s for Mr Pike,’ he said, pointing at the label.

‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Give it, then.’

The boy hung around, waiting for a penny, then skulked off when he realized he wasn’t going to get one, running his snotty hand along the corridor wall. I glared after him, calculating how long it was going to take me to scrub it off the wallpaper. No one else would notice, but it didn’t matter. I’d know it was there.

That’s when I caught sight of the newspaper on the doormat. My heart stopped. Front and centre of the first page was the face that had haunted my dreams all night.

The police officer wasn’t dead in this photograph, of course. It was a portrait of him standing proud in his uniform, the kind of photograph taken to give to your loved ones. There were no bulging eyes, no foaming blood at his throat. He was a big lad, I could see, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. Herculean, even. He had looked much smaller dead.

I picked up the paper. There was another photograph beside it, showing the dark dead end where I’d found his body. Chief Constable Cartwright stood in a circle of officers, issuing orders. They’d angled the picture so you couldn’t see the blood.

POLICE OFFICER SLAUGHTERED IN WEST LONDON STREET

Murder at Women’s Coronation Procession – Constable Albert Watts, 21, killed on duty – Pankhurst in hiding – suspects still at large – government must take action

Twenty-one years old – we were practically the same age. I kept reading as I closed the door behind me. Exemplary character, it said – new recruit, bright future ahead. There was a quote from Chief Constable Cartwright, explaining that three fugitive suffragettes were being sought across the capital and would be charged with murder when found. It then described the damage that the suffragettes had done to the Hall – thuggery, rife hooliganism – and said that Mrs Pankhurst had fled; anyone found harbouring criminals, etc., etc. They’d included her photograph. She didn’t look much like a criminal, I had to confess – she looked like a church lady from the better part of town.

I flicked through the rest of the paper, my eyes growing wider and wider with each new headline. There were four more opinion pieces about the suffragettes, all agreeing that they were a threat to public safety and that the government had been too lenient with them for too long. One called for the amendment to the Conciliation Bill to be scrapped; another called for the WSPU to be disbanded; one demanded that Mrs Pankhurst be tried and hanged for crimes against the state, as an example to all women. Miss Decima was right – things were getting worse.

‘STEPHEN! EGG!’

If I wanted work to distract me from my worries, boiling an egg before Miss Decima destroyed her own study was a decent start. I raced through with a rattling tray just as she was scrabbling for a much-dented copy of Paradise Lost.

‘Finally!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve told you before, Stephen, if you simply started boiling the egg five minutes before I begin shouting, you could …’ She stopped, blinking at the tea tray. ‘What is that?’

She was looking at the little silver bell sitting beside her egg-cosy. ‘It’s a bell, Miss Decima.’

‘I know it’s a fucking bell. What is it doing on my breakfast tray?’

‘I ordered it. I thought you could start using it to summon me from now on, rather than bellowing at the top of your lungs.’

I picked it up and gave it a tinkle. It sounded lovely, like the laugh of a little garden fairy.

‘Give it a try,’ I said, handing it over.

Miss Decima looked at me like I’d just passed her a used handkerchief. ‘I shall spare myself the excitement for now,’ she muttered, placing it on her desk. ‘Tell me what’s in the newspaper, please.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Well – it’s all about last night, Miss Decima. The murder and so on.’

‘Naturally. Give me the highlights, please.’

I scanned the contents. ‘The dead policeman was called Constable Albert Watts. Twenty-one years old, joined the police force a year ago, lived with his mum and dad in Wanstead. There’s a quote from Chief Constable Cartwright saying that they’re hunting for those three women and for Mrs Pankhurst, too …’

‘All to be expected,’ said Miss Decima breezily, taking the newspaper off me. ‘Let us focus, then, on the unexpected. Tell me what unusual things you’ve noticed, please. Quickly, we don’t have much time.’

Flipping training. I was about to protest, when I realized what she’d just said. ‘Until what?’