Page 16

The cab came to a stop in Berkeley Square a half-hour later. Number 44 was the most beautiful building in a row of beautiful buildings, and twice the size of the others: it took up nearly half the length of the square itself. I searched for something that might help me discover who lived here, but I was clueless. There was no plaque on the wall, no name plate, nothing.

Miss Decima rapped the ceiling again. ‘Driver! Wait here, please. We shan’t be long.’

I manoeuvred Miss Decima’s chair off the roof with difficulty, then wheeled her to the front door and rang the bell. Before long, I heard footsteps approach from what felt like miles inside; the door opened just a crack, and an elderly housekeeper peeked out from the darkness. She was in a heavy cotton apron, frowning beneath a bonnet, and her fingers were stained with soot. We’d clearly interrupted her in the middle of morning duties.

‘May I …’ She caught sight of Miss Decima, and her eyes lit up. ‘Ah! Of course. She’s waiting for you, ma’am.’

She curtsied low and held the door open. I pushed Miss Decima inside, still baffled. If the outside of the house was impressive, the inside was beyond belief. A grand staircase unfurled before us, twisting up to a vast domed skylight in the ceiling. Every wall was covered in paintings and gilded mirrors; the floor was thick with plush woven rugs. Whichever ‘friend’ had summoned Miss Decima was as rich as Croesus, which is to say they were absolutely rolling in it. The housekeeper quickly shut the door and scurried ahead of us. ‘This way, ma’am, if you please.’

I pushed Miss Decima after her, past vast room after vast room. Every one of them was pitch-black. The curtains were all drawn, the furniture covered with dust sheets. The house was closed up for the season, then. So who was waiting for us?

We came to a final grand room, and I had to stop myself from whistling. The curtains were closed here, too, making the room rich with shadows, but I knew wealth when I saw it. It was like an art gallery, with statues and vases and antiques wherever you looked. Every turn of the head revealed something rare and precious and beautiful. Had I closed my eyes and walked ten steps in any direction, I’d have caused a decade’s wages in damages.

A young woman sat on a chaise longue at the end of the room, waiting for us. She was beautiful, too: she had arranged herself like one of the marble statues lining the wall behind her, and was dressed in finery, with heavy jewellery and a clinging gown made of the best material. That’s crêpe de chine, I thought. Nearly two shillings a yard at Ponting’s.

She watched in silence as I wheeled Miss Decima through the shadows, right up to the chaise longue. She gazed at us for a few moments more, then spoke with an accent so sharp you could have whetted a knife on it.

‘Do you know who I am?’

Miss Decima gave a half-nod. ‘Not precisely. Though I have my suspicions.’

I glanced at her, surprised. They didn’t know each other, then?

The young woman shifted on the chaise longue. ‘And do you know why you have been summoned here?’

‘Naturally,’ said Miss Decima. ‘I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.’ She leant back and shouted over her shoulder. ‘You can take the bonnet off now, Mrs Pankhurst. It doesn’t suit you.’

It took me a moment to realize what she’d just said. I turned to the housekeeper, who was now behind us, removing her bonnet.

‘Well!’ the housekeeper exclaimed, in a voice that was suddenly remarkably different. ‘I’ve heard marvellous things about your abilities, Miss Stockingham, and it seems that the rumours were all true. Safe to say that you have passed with flying colours.’

I recognized that voice. Recognized it from last night, in fact. And it was only now, as she was walking towards us, raising her chin and wiping the soot from her fingers, that I finally understood who it was that had summoned us.

Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst. The leader of the WSPU, the most loved and feared and hated woman in England, disguised as a housekeeper.

13

Sunday, 18 June, 9.08 a.m.

I stood gobsmacked as Mrs Pankhurst sat down on the chaise longue before us, untying her apron.

‘I hope you don’t mind the deception,’ she said. ‘But one simply cannot be too careful, given the current state of affairs. The benefit of having a recognizable public image, of course, is that one can simply remove it, should the need arise. Maisie, why don’t you fetch our guests some tea.’

The beautiful woman gave a curtsy and swished out of the room. Mrs Pankhurst folded her apron and placed it neatly beside her.

‘My maid,’ she explained, nodding at Maisie’s retreating back. ‘Well, not mine – she belongs to Lady Devereux, as does the house, and that rather splendid gown. Lady Devereux – a generous supporter of our cause – is currently summering in America. She gave me a key to the house some months ago, under the proviso that I tell absolutely no one that I am using it, so that she is not implicated in any illegal activities, and that I do so only in the direst of emergencies. I’m sure you will agree that this is a fitting description for where we now find ourselves.’

She smiled, but Miss Decima didn’t smile back. Mrs Pankhurst either didn’t notice or didn’t care. ‘The Society is being run by my daughter Christabel in my absence. She is naturally aware that I am alive and well but has no knowledge of my whereabouts. This felt to me to be the most prudent decision, given the events that are likely to unfold over the coming days.’ She paused to clear her throat. ‘Which means that the only people who know that I am here are Maisie, and you. I hope you understand the level of trust that I have bestowed upon you by inviting you here. I am, as they say, entirely at your mercy.’

She waited for a reply, but Miss Decima didn’t say a word. She just gazed at Mrs Pankhurst impassively, like an employer watching a servant try to talk themselves out of trouble. It was starting to get awkward, to tell the truth.

Mrs Pankhurst glanced at me. ‘It would be best if we spoke alone. If you would kindly excuse your footman –’

‘Stephen is not my footman,’ Miss Decima snapped back. ‘He is my assistant, and an intrinsic part of my detective agency. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of him.’

I blushed with a combination of pride and complete mortification at how rude she was being. I’d have danced on air, if I wasn’t dying of embarrassment. Her assistant. She’d just delivered the biggest compliment she’d given me in months.

But if Miss Decima was trying to make Mrs Pankhurst feel uncomfortable, it wasn’t working. She was clearly used to being heckled. ‘Very well. In that case, I shall get straight to the point.’ She sat upright. ‘I am aware of your reputation and your abilities, Miss Stockingham. I am also aware that you are a friend to our cause –’