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I was about to ask, ‘Why do you want them now?’, before remembering that if it was for her secret project, she wasn’t going to tell me. ‘Very well. I shall leave you to it, Miss Decima.’

I managed two steps before she stopped me.

‘You’re hiding something,’ she muttered.

I blushed. ‘No I’m not.’

‘Stephen, I really don’t know why you bother trying to lie to me. Your ears are like two giant red semaphore flags. Tell me what happened downstairs, please.’

I groaned. Was I really going to betray Peter, after all he’d done for me? I had to: his behaviour was far too suspicious for me to hide it. ‘I found Peter in the basement. He was looking for me. He … he asked me not to repeat the secret thing that he told me last night.’

Miss Decima’s expression could have shattered stone. ‘Ah, yes. The crucial piece of information which you have somehow managed to erase from your memory. How reassuring to know that our chief suspect definitely does not want you to repeat it to anyone.’ She sighed. ‘Safe to say our young socialist has just leapt to the top of our list of suspects. No doubt he was the one going through my trunk room.’

I gawped at her. ‘Why?’

‘That’s your job to find out! Tomorrow you shall tail him and uncover what this secret was. I imagine it is the key to the entire mystery.’

I sagged with misery. She was right, of course. She was always right. ‘Yes, Miss Decima. Shall I go down and put everything back into your trunk room?’

‘No! Leave it exactly as it is: we shall draw Peter back to us like a scorpion into a pot.’ She clapped her hands. ‘That will be all, Stephen. This second membership card clearly will not arrive until tomorrow. You may retire for the evening.’

I frowned. ‘But it’s not even seven o’clock, Miss Decima.’

She patted the trunk. ‘I have plenty to keep me occupied here.’

I shuffled my feet. ‘At least let me get you some dinner first. The eel men will be out soon. It’s Monday – the good ones.’

‘No, Stephen, I don’t think you should go outside again; you look dreadful. You’ll scare the horses.’

I could have wept with gratitude. What a day. The thought of taking off my filthy clothes and lying down and closing my eyes made me go weak at the knees.

But something stopped me from leaving. Something that had been bothering me all day – for several days, in fact. Something that demanded to be said. ‘Miss Decima?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why don’t you like the suffragettes?’

She blinked at me with faint outrage, but I kept going. In for a penny, in for a pound.

‘It’s just … I know you say their antics discredit the cause and all that. But, if I’m honest, those antics seem far more in keeping with your character. Peaceful protest and writing letters … it’s not how you do anything. You fought tooth and nail against your nephew when you lived in Tithe Hall because of how he was treating you. You refuse to suffer fools gladly. You refuse to suffer anyone gladly. And if women having the vote is the most important political issue of your lifetime … well, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t approve of someone smashing windows for it. You smashed your own window the other day because there was a pigeon outside, looking at you.’

I was glad to finally get it out. Miss Decima paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to answer me. Then she raised her stick and used it to close the lid of the trunk. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been campaigning for female suffrage, Stephen?’

I thought back. ‘Thirteen years, Miss Decima.’

‘Excellent memory but incorrect. I’ve been a card-carrying member of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies for thirteen years, but I’ve campaigned for the cause much longer than that. Before the NUWSS, I was a member of the Central Committee of the National Society for Women’s Suffrage, and, before that, I was a member of the London National Society for Women’s Suffrage. My actions were always somewhat restricted by the fact that I was technically imprisoned on a tidal island at the far end of Cornwall, but all in all I have been petitioning and lobbying for the cause since 1867. That’s forty-four years, Stephen.’

I whistled. ‘Blimey.’

‘Blimey indeed.” She kept going. ‘Do you know what else happened in 1867? The Second Reform Act. Parliament agreed to give voting rights to all men who met specific property requirements, extending the vote to one million working-class men. An MP by the name of John Stuart Mill attempted to include an amendment to the bill, suggesting that the word “man” be changed to “person” and, by doing so, expand the vote to any women who met the exact same criteria … As you may surmise, it was rejected. Back then, a married woman couldn’t earn money of her own, sue or be sued, execute a will, sign a contract or own property. Voting was, unsurprisingly, out of the question.’

She shifted on her chair.

‘I had first heard of John Stuart Mill two years earlier. I remember reading about his campaign for female suffrage in the papers and sending the news to my sister, Isabella.’ She fussed at her stick. ‘By that point, she and I were not on speaking terms. She had married Lawrence Welt, and had fallen pregnant with his child. I took that as something of a personal betrayal, as well you know.’

I knew only a little about Isabella from what Miss Decima had told me last year. Miss Decima had despised her nephew, Conrad, but she had solved his murder for the memory of his mother. Even now, she wore a locket about her neck at all times, with Isabella’s cameo tucked safely inside it.

‘I will confess that I sent Isabella the article for no other reason than to goad her,’ she continued. ‘Her new husband was opposed to any discussion of female suffrage. Perhaps, I wrote in my letter, you shall be fortunate enough to give birth to a daughter who will be enlightened as well as enfranchised, even if her mother has elected to be neither.’ She shuddered. ‘Poisonous stuff. I remember Isabella’s written response, word for word; I suspect I shall never forget it.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It is entirely typical of your character, dear Decima, to take a matter which is close to my heart and use it as a means to hurt me. If you had any love for me, then you would use your formidable intelligence to speak for me, rather than against me. You would treat this matter with all the seriousness it demands. Instead, you use it only to further destroy any possibility of reconciliation between us.’