Page 66

With that, they slammed the door on me so fast that I felt my hair move.

I stood on the steps of Bethnal Green police station, trying to work out how I’d gone from a suspect having his knees chiselled to a free man in less than five minutes. It was odd. Perplexing, to tell the truth. But, right now, it was the least of my worries. It was almost midnight, and I was on the wrong side of the city. I had no idea how I was going to get home.

Miss Decima had abandoned me.

That hurt more than any punch, more than any chisel. There were times when I had fooled myself into believing that Miss Decima and I were – on some level – equals. Not master and servant, not detective and assistant, but compatriots of one kind or another. That no matter our differences, we understood each other. In the course of one evening, the bitter truth had been laid out before me. There was nothing equal about us. We might have travelled here together in a luxurious carriage, but that was only when Miss Decima wished it so. When she didn’t, there was only one way back for me, and that was a long limp home in the dark. Suddenly, I was that eight-year-old boy again, standing alone at a crossroads, realizing that no one was coming for me –

A tiny, silvery bell. Ding-a-ling.

I turned around. There was Miss Decima, leaning out of a four-wheeler parked in a side alley, ringing the bell I had bought her for all she was worth. And in an instant, every ounce of hurt vanished like dust in the road. She had not abandoned me after all.

‘Hurry up!’ she snapped. ‘This carriage is costing an absolute fucking fortune!’

I limped over and climbed inside, gasping with the pain of it. Miss Decima looked me over, grimacing. ‘Christ. They made the most of their time, didn’t they? You look like they hosted the Grand National on your face.’

I touched my head, wincing. ‘They tried to get me to talk, Miss Decima. Then they let me go, just like that. Something about filing a report. It’s a good thing you were waiting outside for me or …’ I finally twigged. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Temperance, actually,’ she said primly. ‘I had her telephone the station, pretending to be Cartwright. She really does the most marvellous impressions. She said you were a friend of Lady Bulwer-Lytton, pretending to be a common manservant, and that you were making a report of police treatment of suffrage campaigners, and you were to be released immediately without charge.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘So! All in all, an afternoon of fascinating developments. Thoughts, Stephen?’

I rubbed my head. ‘I don’t think Cartwright is orchestrating an elaborate conspiracy to frame the suffragette movement, Miss Decima.’

‘Indeed he is not,’ she muttered. ‘I heard all about what the police found in Éimhear Ó Ceallaigh’s bedroom. I had the driver circle the block for an hour, then questioned the locals about what they’d seen when the coast was clear. Maps of the Gore, newspaper clippings of Sir William, dynamite … this investigation continues to confound me at every turn. We certainly have our work cut out for us, if we want to find the killers of Kensington Gore before the emergency vote on Friday morning.’ She smiled. ‘Goodness! That’ll be a headline, won’t it? “The Killers of Kensington Gore”. I’ll suggest it to the editor when we submit our exclusive story to the newspapers, after solving the case of course.’

I blinked at her through rapidly swelling eyes. ‘You … still think you can solve it in time?’

‘No, Stephen. I think we can solve it.’ She sighed. ‘What’s more, we have to. I’ve had the Ivys combing the streets of London for forty-eight hours straight, and I pay them by the minute. It’s bankrupting me.’

I gawped. ‘By the minute?’

‘They unionized,’ she muttered, rapping the roof. ‘Driver! Kensington Gore, on the double. We have a murder to solve.’

The carriage lurched away from Bethnal Green and the streets where I grew up. I didn’t see much of them, though, as I had fallen asleep sitting upright, snoring so loudly that my throat would hurt for two whole days.

47

Thirty-two hours until the announcement of the emergency public safety measures in Parliament.

The carriage rattled through streets that were more awake than ever. Cleaners were out in droves, washing the roads in preparation for a day of celebrations; workmen were hanging the last of the bunting from the street lamps. At every corner coffee stall, the talk was of nothing but the coronation.

It was even busier along the Mall. An army of workers toiled through the night, making final preparations for what lay ahead. Carpenters and masons were putting the finishing touches to the stands, which would hold dignitaries from all across the globe. Police officers were putting out road blocks to control the tens of thousands of people who would come to witness the spectacle.

In just a few hours’ time, all the eyes of the world would be on London, as the golden state carriage took His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, past crowds to Westminster Abbey and he was crowned King George the Fifth, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, King, Defender of the Faith, and Emperor of India.

And, on the other side of London, the killers of Kensington Gore were passing around a tin of cyanide tablets.

THURSDAY, 22 JUNE 1911

48

Thursday, 22 June, 8.02 a.m.

I woke up late – again – feeling dog-rough – again. I still felt better than I did on Monday morning, though. It turned out being thrashed to mince by two police officers still caused less damage than Tommy’s bucket poitín.

I was on my bed – again – in my quarters – again – and I could hear voices from the parlour – again. I sat up, wincing, and then limped my way through the corridor and down the stairs.

The parlour was packed when I arrived. The Ivys were there in full force – all twenty-seven of them, again – back in their maid’s caps and aprons. It was clear from their weary expressions that they had just pulled an all-nighter. Miss Decima, however, looked as fresh as a daisy. She was in her bath chair, documents slithering off her lap and piling on to the floor around her.

‘He wakes!’ she cried, barely glancing at me. ‘Fetch him a tea, Ivy Dreadful Posture – Stephen will be in dire need of it. He suffered a number of injuries in the line of duty last night.’