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‘Bugger the egg!’ she announced, tearing at the envelope like a seagull at a bag of hot chips. ‘We have a mystery to solve! Lavinia Welford was merely the tip of the iceberg; now we have her accomplice, and a decent chance that we can make it to her home address before the police do. Get downstairs and summon a cab at once, before …’

She pulled the pledge card from the envelope and squinted at the address. Her face fell.

‘This is just getting silly now,’ she muttered.

32

Tuesday, 20 June, 7.12 a.m.

One hasty outfit change later, we were standing outside the front door to a familiar-looking apartment on a familiar-looking corridor.

‘Miss Theodora Gussett,’ Miss Decima read aloud from the card. ‘Correspondence address … 89a, Kensington Gore Mansions.’

It had taken less than a minute to travel from Miss Decima’s apartment to one on the floor directly below. That was surely a record. ‘It’s all a bit strange, isn’t it, Miss Decima?’

‘Clarify,’ she said instantly.

I shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve got a suspect on the other side of the Gore, and another living right below us. What are the odds of that?’

‘Extremely high,’ she muttered. ‘It stands to reason that two women are more likely to come into contact and strike up a friendship if they live near one another. So much for getting here before the police did, though. They searched all the apartments in this building on Saturday night.’ She peered at the card. ‘Hmm, Miss Theodora Gussett. She’s unmarried. Presumably some family money involved, if she keeps an apartment like this. She’s likely to have a servant or two on the premises – at her age, maybe even a live-in companion. Let’s find out, shall we?’

She knocked briskly on the door; there was no reply.

‘Splendid!’ she said cheerfully. ‘We can break in.’

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a set of lock-picks, then started fiddling with the keyhole. I had just enough time to wonder how she’d managed to get hold of them, let alone when she’d learnt to use them, when there was a click and the door nudged open.

‘Honestly, the security in this building is abysmal,’ she muttered, returning the lock-picks to her handbag. ‘It’s a miracle we haven’t all been slaughtered in our beds. Take me inside, please.’

I was horrified. ‘We can’t break into a suspect’s apartment!’

‘On the contrary, it couldn’t have been easier. Take me to the parlour before someone sees us, please.’

Part of me wanted to keep arguing with her. But even I had to admit that it was a thrill to work like this again – sneaking around in the early hours, bending rules to solve a murder. It was just like being back at Tithe Hall, and a whole lot more interesting than pressing shirts. I had a spring in my step as I pushed her inside and closed the door.

It was easy enough to find the parlour, seeing as the apartment had the exact same layout as ours. Like Lavinia Welford’s dorm, it was in a complete state. Furniture had been toppled; cushions flung everywhere; pictures torn from the walls. The police had wreaked havoc. I’d seen tidier traffic accidents.

‘Right!’ said Miss Decima. ‘Go ahead. Tell me what you’ve noticed.’

Might as well start with the obvious. ‘The curtains are all drawn, Miss Decima. Which either means that the police turned this room over on Saturday night when the curtains were already closed, and no one’s been here since, or someone came in after the police had left and then closed the curtains.’ I pointed. ‘Given that there are unopened letters on that side table beside you, I reckon it’s the latter.’

She nodded, pleased. ‘A reasonable conclusion. Carry on.’

There were several framed pictures lying on the floor beneath the mantelpiece. I picked them up, one by one, and studied them. The same person turned up a few times: a plump young man with a round, jolly face and pebble-thick glasses. There was one of him on his own, another of him in smart summer clothes, and a third of him standing beside a seated older woman. I held it up, pointing to the woman in the photograph. ‘This is Theodora Gussett.’

‘How so?’

‘Well – she’s not likely to have a photograph of herself, unless it’s her with someone she loves, and this man turns up three times. Plus, look at what she’s wearing.’

I tapped the glass. Even in black and white, there was no mistaking the suffragette ribbon pinned to her lapel.

‘Which means this is a recent photograph,’ I said, ‘given that those ribbons can’t have been around for more than a few years, and the age of the woman in the photograph corresponds with what we know about Theodora Gussett, which is that she’s probably in her sixties, as also evidenced by the décor of her apartment, which is, to my mind, a little dated.’

Miss Decima whistled with appreciation. ‘Mi-aow. Excellent work, Stephen. Your training has paid dividends. Our second fugitive suffragette has a face, as well as a name.’

I beamed with pride and looked at the photograph of Theodora Gussett. If someone had asked me to draw a suffragette for the funny papers, I probably would have ended up sketching someone like her: the prim clothes, the tight bun, the pince-nez. She didn’t look much like a murderer.

‘Onwards!’ said Miss Decima, picking up the letters from the side table. ‘I will start working through these and see if they contain anything of significance. You can explore the rest of the apartment, starting with the bedroom.’