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But I’d become good at reading Miss Decima over the last year – her moods and cues, spotting when she was tired or hungry or ready to throw something – and right now, I knew something was wrong. It was there in her glazed expression, her slumped posture, the hand that turned her walking stick listlessly this way and that. The detective agency was thriving – she had more work than she could handle sometimes – but she was bored. These cases weren’t challenging her. They were always the same, always about money, always done by the butler, always cleared up with a few simple turns of her brain. She didn’t even bother taking out her teeth to solve them any more.

That was the reason why she’d been so difficult recently. Miss Decima’s mind is like one of those thoroughbred Arabian racehorses: it needs exercise, nourishment and stimulation, or else it goes berserk and starts kicking everyone in the head. She needed a bigger case – something worthy of her talents – and she needed it soon, or I was going to go berserk myself.

By the time I’d finally carted through the last teapot, Miss Decima was finishing up the meeting.

‘Very well!’ she sighed, closing her notebook. ‘Ivy Boring, Ivy Scrawny, Ivy Coarse – keep on those suspects, and report to me the moment something changes. Ivy Freckles, Ivy Almost Pretty – you can write up your reports for this evening and have them sent by the first post. As for the rest of you –’

She was cut off by the doorbell, ringing for the second time that morning. It rang for a third time, and a fourth, and then a very long fifth. I winced. There was only one person I knew who rang the doorbell like that.

‘Miss Decima! Open this door, right now!’

It was Mr Benson. And, as usual, he was absolutely livid.

3

Saturday, 17 June, 7.12 a.m.

I made my way to the front entrance, paused to tuck my cuff in and opened the door. Mr Benson still had his finger on the doorbell.

‘Can I help you, Mr Be—’ I began.

He stormed right past me. I closed the door with a sigh, made to follow him, changed my mind, turned back, reopened the door, and cleaned the grease mark off the bell before closing the door again and heading back to the parlour.

By the time I arrived, Mr Benson was jabbing that greasy finger at Miss Decima while the Ivys gazed on in shocked silence. ‘I’ve warned you, Miss Decima! Don’t say I haven’t warned you!’

Mr Benson was the porter of 89 Kensington Gore Mansions. It was his job to let in guests and take in letters and packages, and he had a little office right by the entrance to the building, which meant that his face was the first you saw when you walked in. And what a face it was. Nan used to keep ornamental gnomes in her garden, all sweet and jolly, except for one miserable little – beg pardon – sod, who sat on a snail, scowling. I never understood that. If you’re going to ride a snail, the least you can do is enjoy it. Mr Benson would’ve been the spit of that gnome, if you gave him a pointy hat.

‘Mr Benson,’ Miss Decima said, sighing wearily, ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re –’

Mr Benson cut her off mid-sentence. ‘This building has strict rules, Miss Decima, which you agreed to upon inheriting this apartment. “All guests must enter and exit the building via the main ground-floor entrance.” It’s there in the lease, clear as day. You are not permitted to let these … these women use the servants’ entrance, whenever you see fit!’

Miss Decima drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t much, on account of the fact that she was sitting down. She always managed to make it seem like more. ‘Mr Benson. We have now been over this matter a number of times. These ladies are my servants –’

But Mr Benson wasn’t having it. ‘No one needs twenty-seven maids! I’ve never even seen that one before!’

He was pointing at Ivy Forgettable, I think. He leant forwards and his voice took on a murky growl.

‘I’ve been porter of this building for sixteen years, Miss Decima. I’m in that front office twelve hours a day, rain or shine. I know the name and face of every servant that works here, and I know when someone’s trying to make a fool of me! The servants’ entrance is exclusively for the use of approved staff living in the basement, where there are quarters kindly provided for them …’ He shot a glare at me. ‘Which is what’s supposed to happen, at least.’

The Ivys snickered quietly. I felt my ears go bright red. They do that a lot.

‘Mr Benson,’ Miss Decima sighed, ‘I am sure that being a porter is a very challenging job indeed – sitting up, looking forwards and so on – but deciding how many maids a lady might require is not one of your duties.’

Mr Benson shook his head. ‘It won’t wash, Miss Decima! I’ve been watching you! You’re in breach of your lease and I can prove it! I’m sure the freeholders would have a word or two to say to you if they discovered that you’ve been using the servants’ entrance as your own private –’

‘Indeed,’ she said breezily. ‘And what would they say, I wonder, about staff using the building to store contraband goods?’

Mr Benson’s smile fell like a badly hung picture. ‘I – what?’

Miss Decima folded her hands. ‘The contraband goods that you’ve been storing in one of the empty trunk rooms in the basement. Corned beef, whisky and so on. I do believe that those rooms are for residents’ use, Mr Benson, and that porters are not permitted to use them as storage for things they’ve half-inched off the back of a carriage. Perhaps we should take a closer look at the details of that lease you’re so fond of, just to be certain.’

It’s amazing, watching someone turn pale right in front of your eyes. Mr Benson’s mouth was starting to make a faint wheezing sound.

‘Even better – let’s ask Chief Constable Cartwright!’ Miss Decima continued. ‘How convenient, to have a distinguished representative of the Metropolitan Police Force living just next door to us. Stephen, why don’t you pop to Number 88 and –’

‘Th-that won’t be necessary, Miss Decima!’ said Mr Benson, tripping over his own legs to escape. ‘I appear to have made a mistake. Good day!’

He left the room as fast as he could without actually running, slamming the door behind him. The Ivys gave Miss Decima a polite round of applause.