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‘That’s right, yes.’

She gave me a look that sat somewhere between disgust and respect. ‘Very well. I shall make a bargain with you. Get something useful on Peter tonight, and I’ll give you that advance on your wages first thing tomorrow morning.’

I brightened up. When it came to motivation, Miss Decima mostly favoured the stick, but every now and then she’d throw you a carrot. Even if it felt like she was hitting you with that, too. ‘Agreed.’

‘Splendid. What’s it for, then? This advance on your wages?’

I raised my chin haughtily. ‘We can both keep secrets, Miss Decima.’

And with that, I picked up the newspapers and left the room before she had a chance to hurl the nearest Victor Hugo at my head.

18

Sunday, 18 June, 6.04 p.m.

After three hours of reading newspapers cover to cover, my hands were stained black and my spirits even blacker. I was none the wiser about the case, or about anything, if I’m honest, except that the British Empire was on fire and we were all going to die very soon, probably today.

Each page was worse than the last. No one agreed on anything. Hung Parliament, Home Rule, strikes, anarchists, the House of Lords crisis … Every article argued with the one before it. The only thing anyone seemed to agree on was that the suffragettes were responsible for breaking up the family unit, weakening the economy, losing the Liberals the election and putting an unnecessary strain on the police force. There were some who agreed with their sentiments, but none with their methods. I could see exactly why Miss Decima thought they’d be the perfect scapegoat.

After the day I’d had, the evening came like a sigh of relief. By the time I left for the pub, the worst of the day’s heat had dissipated and there was a breeze stirring the trees. Ladies with parasols were out taking a turn; workmen crouched in the shade wetting their necks from horse troughs. I was looking forward to spending some time out of the apartment, even if I wasn’t looking forward to questioning Peter. He seemed like a nice-enough man, no matter what Miss Decima said, and anyway …

I froze. There was a sound behind me. A woman coughing. A coarse hacking, deep in her chest.

I spun around, eyes darting every which way to find the sound … and saw that, over the road, a lady in a bonnet was spluttering into a handkerchief while a friend patted her back. It wasn’t the woman I’d seen at the statue. It was just a lady who’d probably swallowed some pollen – that was all.

I turned back around and kept walking, feeling unsettled. Maybe it was the newspapers, maybe it was all this talk about undercover police officers and government conspiracies and killers still at large. But now, as I walked the streets of London, I realized that I had no idea who anyone was. That carriage driver whose gaze tracked me as I walked past; that businessman over the road reading a newspaper, or pretending to read it; the footsteps that I swore I could hear getting quicker and closer behind me – any one of them could be the killer. You never know what’s around you in a city.

‘You’re going mad,’ I said to myself, just before I realized I was speaking out loud.

I reached the Goat public house just after six, grateful to finally be off the street. I squinted through the gloom. Sure enough, there was a group of men sat around a table, with Peter standing at the head. He caught my eye and waved me over, beaming. ‘Stephen! You made it!’

I shuffled over. ‘I hope I’m not too late.’

‘Not at all!’ said Peter giddily. He’d clearly not expected me to come. ‘Take a seat, we were just …’ He paused. ‘You’re still in your livery?’

I glanced around. The other men were all in shirtsleeves. ‘I, er … only just finished my duties,’ I said sheepishly.

Peter patted my back sympathetically. ‘Course you did, mate. Come on, grab a pew.’

I shuffled over to the last available space on the bench and sat down, giving little nods to the men either side of me. I didn’t recognize any of them … until I saw who was opposite me. It was Mr Benson, the porter of Number 89. He didn’t look pleased to see me – in fact he turned away and scowled into his pint. Good to see that he was just as miserable off duty as he was on.

‘Well!’ Peter announced. ‘Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Kensington Manservants, Footmen and Porters’ Union!’

‘Hang on,’ said the man beside me, ‘we haven’t joined yet, have we? This is just to hear what it’s all about and that.’

There was a mutter of nervous agreement. They were right to be nervous: if an employer found out what we were doing, people could lose their jobs. Everyone kept glancing behind them, afraid of being caught. It was like we were a gang of robbers preparing the heist of the century.

Peter shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, friend. This is just a chance for us to –’

‘It’s not gonna cost anything, is it?’ said another. ‘If it costs anything, I’m out.’

‘No!’ said Peter, starting to get annoyed. ‘This is –’

‘I’ve barely got cash left for baccy at the end of the week,’ the man continued, ‘and the rest goes to my mum. Her leg absolutely stank at the end of last summer and I said, “Mum, if you keep dancing on that –”’

Peter cut him off while he had the chance. ‘Yes. That’s the predicament, isn’t it, friends? We work all the hours of the day, and yet we only just scrape by!’

This got a grumble of approval from everyone. Servants love complaining.