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When further questioned about whether there was any truth to the assertion that the so-called ‘Killers of Kensington Gore’ were discovered not by the Metropolitan Police Force but in fact by a private detective by the name of Miss Decima Stockingham, Chief Constable Cartwright terminated the interview.

54

Saturday, 24 June, 6.02 a.m.

I woke up on my twenty-first birthday a free man in my own bed. That was enough for me, if I’m honest. After you’ve spent two birthdays in prison, you learn to appreciate any of the ones where you’re not.

I started the day how I always did: got up, opened my curtains and polished Nan’s photograph. It was times like this when I missed her most. I wished that she could tell me what she thought of it all: living here, solving that case, becoming a man and all that. To be fair, if she was here she’d have insisted on making me that godforsaken birthday pudding of hers. I loved Nan, but that pudding was unspeakable.

I could hear voices coming from the parlour. I was getting used to it by now. This time, one of them belonged to a man, and he was talking as loudly as you can without actually shouting. I quickly dressed and made my way to the parlour, where I found Miss Decima listening patiently to Chief Constable Cartwright as he waved a newspaper at her face.

‘I know I can’t prove anything!’ he snapped. ‘So I’ll simply issue a stern warning to you, Miss Decima. You will not contact any more newspapers regarding cases that I am in charge of, ever again!’

Miss Decima smiled benevolently. ‘I would not dream of it, Chief Constable. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a very busy –’

‘I’m not done yet!’ said Cartwright, his face turning a shade redder. ‘I know a lot more than you think I do, Miss Decima. I know it was you who got him out of the police station, for a start!’ He jabbed a furious finger at me. ‘It’s only thanks to your age and standing that you’re not in Bethnal Green police station yourself, charged with impersonating a police officer and wasting police time!’

Miss Decima looked scandalized. ‘Chief Constable, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Nevertheless – had I done such a thing, I would assume you’d be thrilled, given that Stephen’s release meant he was able to prevent hundreds of innocent people being killed or injured while on your watch. Perhaps the Metropolitan Police Force are able to issue him with some kind of small certificate or medal.’

Cartwright turned bright red and then purple, and he stormed out of the room. He paused for a final time at the door, gripping the handle like he wished it was Miss Decima’s neck.

‘Oh – one more thing,’ he growled. ‘A key piece of evidence has gone missing from my personal effects. Sir William’s notebook. It’s the oddest thing, Miss Decima – it was in my pocket when I left here on Thursday and it mysteriously disappeared soon afterwards. I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that either, would you?’

Miss Decima tutted. ‘Oh dear. Sounds like police carelessness to me.’

Cartwright’s nose made an involuntary whistle of rage, and he slammed the door. I quietly wiped his fingerprints off the handle. I got the impression that it wasn’t going to be the last time we had a visit from Chief Constable Cartwright, nor the last time Miss Decima reduced him to a state of speechless rage. ‘You should have woken me up, Miss Decima. It’s not right for you to receive visitors without me, after everything that’s happened.’

‘Stephen, I am more than capable of answering my own front door,’ she said, glancing over the newspaper that Cartwright had brought with him. ‘Besides, I couldn’t wait for you to wake up. Annoying that man has been the highlight of my week, even more so than solving the murder.’

I smiled. ‘Shall we do some training?’

She shook her head. ‘I think we can dispense with your morning training from now on, Stephen, seeing as you have performed most admirably. Instead, you may share with me your thoughts on the front-page story of the newspaper.’

I took the paper, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Looks like the trial’s moving quickly, Miss Decima.’

‘Unusually so,’ she agreed. ‘Just as Mrs Pankhurst predicted, the government are keen to appear strong after an attack on the monarchy. Only this time, it’s Sir William and his men who’ll suffer the consequences, rather than the suffragettes. Which has a rather satisfying justice to it, wouldn’t you agree?’

I read on. ‘Mr Gussett has confessed to the murder of both of his parents, too. And to causing Peter’s death with that scorpion.’

‘Ha! Yes – poor, stupid Clarence,’ Miss Decima cackled. ‘He must have spent months milking that scorpion. If the moron had done his research properly, he’d have learnt that deathstalker venom is one of the most expensive liquids on the planet. Currently retailing for £200,000 a gallon! He could have bought his own apartment with what he’d harvested, all without the need for implicating himself in a series of byzantine murders.’

I frowned. ‘You’ve got to admit, it was a clever murder. He nearly had us foxed.’

‘You are missing the point entirely,’ she muttered. ‘Murdering someone is an incredibly stupid thing to do. It is always risky, always messy, nearly impossible to pull off, and rarely ever worth it. Murderers are thus always, by their very nature, unintelligent.’

‘Always?’

She made to answer, then paused. I felt as if a cloud had passed across the windows, shadowing the room for just a second.

‘There are … exceptions, of course,’ she said calmly. ‘People whose intelligence is so keen – so boundless in its scope – that they see humanity as little more than a series of chess games. Who can see every move a hundred steps ahead and plan accordingly, manipulating the world around them with such deftness and dexterity that no one realizes they are operating within a design of human making. Those people – should they choose to murder – are a very different breed entirely.’

There was a flash of lightning outside, illuminating her face in profile. The heatwave had finally broken. ‘Good thing we’ve never met one of those, Miss Decima.’

Miss Decima didn’t answer for a while. ‘Yes. Quite.’

She seemed distracted – scared, somehow. I took a final glance at the article. ‘Did you notice that Mr Gussett’s middle name is –’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Miss Decima snapped.