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‘That’s right. If you happen to know her whereabouts –’

‘I can take you to her now, if you like,’ he said.

My heart leapt. ‘You can?’

‘Of course – she’s in Brompton Cemetery,’ he said. ‘She’s been dead for ten years.’

That shut me up. ‘I was talking about Miss Theodora Gussett.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Gussett, relieved. ‘My aunt. Yes, that makes much more sense. What with the murder, and the police investigation, and her sudden disappearance and so on.’

I didn’t quite know what to make of Mr Gussett. He was in his thirties, polite and softly spoken, but he looked a mess. His clothes were unwashed and he was fidgety as a cricket. His eyes kept darting back and forth, as if glancing at something behind me. In fairness, we had just broken into his house.

‘STEPHEN!’ Miss Decima bellowed again. ‘I SAID, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING TO?’

I coughed politely. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Miss Decima.’

I led Mr Gussett through to the parlour. I was hoping that talking to Miss Decima in person would help smooth things over after a bad first start, but unfortunately when we arrived she had her feet up on his table and was using a lock-pick to rip through his aunt’s letters. I grimaced. I will admit that things looked bad for us at that point. I could see myself in the back of a police-cart, wondering who was going to dust the mantelpiece while I was in prison.

But I needn’t have worried. The moment Mr Gussett saw Miss Decima, his eyes lit up. ‘I say – are those lock-picks?’

He strolled forwards and plucked the set out of her hands.

‘I’ve always wanted one of these!’ he said excitedly, studying them from all angles. ‘That bit must … then that bit … Gosh, what a clever little thing. So that’s how you got in, is it?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Miss Decima – this is Mr Gussett, Theodora’s nephew.’

‘Yes, that’s me!’ he said brightly. ‘Clarence Gussett, though all my friends call me Tubby.’

He shook her hand, then went straight back to the lock-pick set. Miss Decima and I shared a glance. It was becoming increasingly clear that Clarence Gussett was not the full sandwich.

‘Am I to take it you live here, Mr Gussett?’ Miss Decima asked. ‘As your aunt’s companion?’

Clarence nodded, all his attention still on the lock-picks. ‘Yes, that’s right. Sorry for the state of the place. Normally we have staff, but our maid handed in her notice after the murder, and our manservant was hospitalized after some kind of football game the other night.’

I didn’t need to look at Miss Decima to know that she was staring daggers at me.

‘In that case, Mr Gussett, I shall get straight to the point,’ she said. ‘We have been hired by an outside party to find your aunt. We believe that she is innocent and in terrible danger. As such, any information that you might have regarding her whereabouts –’

Clarence suddenly flinched, like he’d been electrocuted. He shoved the lock-picks back into Miss Decima’s hands and marched straight over to the closed curtains, holding them open just a crack so that he could peer through. Then he started pacing around the apartment, turning over the furniture and making an absolute racket.

‘Sorry for not answering the door sooner, ha, ha!’ he shouted. ‘Must not have heard you, ha, ha! You know how it is with me and my books, ha, ha, ha!’

His words came out stumbling and frantic. I had no idea what was going on. At this point, had Miss Decima’s eyebrows lifted any further up her forehead, they’d have passed her hairline and circumnavigated the back of her skull.

‘It’s been lovely having you visit!’ said Clarence, still turning over the clutter like he was searching for something. ‘Do let me know if you hear anything about Aunt Theodora, so I can pass on all relevant information to the authorities! I’m keen to help the police in any way that I can! Any way at all!’

Clarence suddenly found what he was looking for – a pencil – and started scribbling something on a piece of paper.

‘Mr Gussett,’ said Miss Decima, finally losing patience, ‘if you could please –’

‘Here,’ he said, holding up the sheet of paper. ‘Let me show you to the door.’

His face was a picture of fear. I read the message that he’d written. And finally I understood why he looked so frightened.

NOT SAFE. THEY’RE LISTENING. YOURS?

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