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‘Stephen! Get the door!’ said Miss Decima, eating her egg in one bite. ‘The Ivys are here.’

2

Saturday, 17 June, 6.32 a.m.

I made my way to the front door and took a moment to compose myself. I puffed out my chest, stuffed my frayed cuff inside my jacket sleeve, then opened the door with a grand sweep. Guests were usually impressed by that.

It never worked on the Ivys.

‘Hark at him!’

‘Took your sweet time, didn’t you?’

‘Come on, Lord Pike, get that teapot on.’

‘Nice apron.’

I stood with my chin held high as the Ivys – all twenty-seven of them – filed past in a parade of white hats. I wished I hadn’t forgotten about the apron.

I don’t know how most detective agencies work. When Miss Decima started hers last year, and she brought me all the way from Cornwall to join her, I thought that she and I would be working as partners – like how we’d solved her nephew’s murder together. I thought we’d spend our nights tailing criminals through the dark alleys of Deptford, but Miss Decima can’t really do that, on account of the fact that she needs me to push around her wicker bath chair, and even the least-observant criminal would probably spot that at four in the morning. Besides, Miss Decima wasn’t getting hired for jobs like that. She was being hired by well-to-do ladies like herself, and as a rule they don’t spend much time in Deptford.

That’s where the Ivys come in. They’re the lifeblood of Miss Decima’s agency: young maids with household experience, who she hires by placing false ads in all the servant periodicals. She interviews them to make sure they’re up to scratch, and then, whenever she gets a new case, she has one of them installed in the client’s house. Twice a month, she has them over to the apartment to tell her what they’ve discovered, so that Miss Decima can solve the case without setting a single foot outside. I’ll admit that there’s a genius to it: no one ever suspects a maid, and they always get the best gossip. That’s why Miss Decima calls them the Ivys: they’re harmless at first; then, just like the plant, they spread and climb until they’ve smothered your house without you realizing. Between them, Miss Decima had her eyes and ears on every well-to-do doorway in London.

By the time I wheeled her into the parlour, the Ivys had filled the room. There had been only a couple when the agency first started, but we had to add more and more as Miss Decima’s reputation grew. We barely had enough chairs for them nowadays.

‘Right!’ she began. ‘Stephen, start making the tea. We have a lot to be getting on with. We shall begin with Ivy Welsh, then move on to Ivy Pigtails.’

That was the other reason Miss Decima called them the Ivys: she couldn’t be bothered to learn their names, so she just included a single distinguishing feature. There was also Ivy Blonde, Ivy Rude, Ivy Boring, Ivy Loudmouth, Ivy Too Short and Ivy Too Tall.

‘Hurry up, Stephen!’ said Ivy Impatient. ‘I’m spitting feathers here.’

‘And don’t let it stew like last time,’ said Ivy Pedantic.

They cackled as I made my way to the kitchen, holding my head high. I dreaded these Saturdays: twenty-seven guests meant a lot of cups to fill, and a lot of washing-up afterwards, too. When the first Ivy arrived last year, I was thrilled – I thought that Miss Decima had finally decided to get me some help around the house, so I could work on more cases with her. But I was wrong: the maids would be doing all the detective work, while I was stuck here doing basic drudgery. I was houseproud, but there are only so many doors you can answer and eggs you can boil before the novelty wears off.

But, on the plus side, these meetings meant that I got to see Miss Decima at her very best. And, as far as I was concerned, that was cheap at any price. I started carrying through the china while she flicked through her notes.

‘Case number one: Lady Bamford’s stolen jewellery,’ she announced. ‘Any developments, Ivy Welsh?’

Ivy Welsh nodded. ‘Another piece went missing this week, Miss Decima. A set of diamond earrings – gorgeous, they were. Lady Bamford’s beside herself! I’ve been chatting with the scullery maids, nice girls, and they say the butler’s started accusing them of all sorts, saying that if the missing pieces don’t turn up soon then he’s going to have to sack –’

‘Naturally,’ Miss Decima interrupted, ‘because he stole them. Check inside his pantry this afternoon – something on the top shelf, least-used silver service. They’ll be squirrelled away in a soup tureen or some such.’

The Ivys muttered in approval as Miss Decima flicked to the next page of her notebook. ‘Ivy Pigtails – you are still on the Cranmore kidnapping case, I believe?’

Ivy Pigtails cleared her throat. ‘Baroness Cranmore’s godson’s still missing, Miss Decima. He hasn’t been seen since he went into an opium den in Limehouse, two days before the first ransom note turned up. But then, yesterday, this second letter turned up …’

She’d started reaching into her handbag, but Miss Decima was already waving it away. ‘Let me guess. It included the godson’s signet ring, as promised, and increased the ransom demand, and then suggested that Baroness Cranmore avoid scandal by giving the money to a trusted servant to take to Limehouse?’

Ivy Pigtails gawped in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because that godson’s no more kidnapped than I am,’ Miss Decima muttered. ‘He’s blackmailing his godmother for money, and he’s got a “trusted servant” in on it, too. Probably the butler.’ She crossed through the page and turned it over. ‘Ivy Gormless – you’re on the Wallingford blackmail case?’

Ivy Gormless took a moment to reply – she was staring out of the window. ‘Oh! Yes, Miss Decima. I set up that trap for the blackmailer, like you said, and you’ll never believe who it was –’

‘The butler,’ Miss Decima sighed. ‘It is literally always the butler.’

It’s a pleasure to watch a master at work, and after a year of solving cases, Miss Decima had never been better. She was at the height of her talents – her apotheosis, if you will. She was like those street conjurors that Nan took me to see when I was a boy, doing tricks right in front of your eyes while making it seem like they were doing nothing at all.