Page 45

I nodded. ‘What am I looking for, Miss Decima?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual. Incriminating letters, a written confession, a map revealing her hiding location, that sort of thing.’

‘I doubt she’d leave something like that lying around, Miss Decima.’

There was a long pause.

My ears burned. ‘That was a joke, wasn’t it? You were doing a –’

‘Get on with it, Stephen.’

‘Yes, Miss Decima.’

Theodora Gussett’s bedroom was in just as bad a state as her parlour. Her doilies and quilts and dust ruffles had been flung in every direction. Her cupboards ransacked and her dressing table ravaged. Maybe that was how I was able to notice what was all over the carpet.

‘Hatpins,’ I muttered.

Thousands of them, just like in Lavinia Welford’s dorm room. I couldn’t see why anyone would ever need so many. Then again, I didn’t know the first thing about women’s matters. Miss Decima would, though.

I was heading down the corridor to ask her when something stopped me. I could see up the stairs to the second bedroom, and the door was ajar. Maybe Miss Decima was right and Theodora Gussett did have a companion; if so, that’s where they would live. The bedroom that corresponded with my own on the floor above. I pushed away the thought that this made me Miss Decima’s companion, and crept up the stairs.

It was the only room that didn’t look like a fox hunt had charged through it. The bed was made; the desk was tidy; the books were lined up neatly on the bookcase. A wide collection, I could tell, on different types of florae and faunae. The shelves were cluttered with little curios, too: ornaments, mounted insects, birds’ eggs, that kind of thing. Knick-knackatories, Nan would have called them.

There was another unopened letter on the desk. I walked over and picked it up, frowning at the address.

‘Mr Gussett?’

It didn’t make any sense. Miss Decima had said that Theodora Gussett was unmarried – so who was Mr Gussett? And why did he have a separate bedroom?

‘Ahem.’

I spun around. Now that I was facing the door, I could see there was a man hiding behind it on his hands and knees. A plump young man with a round, jolly face and pebble-thick glasses.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said politely, ‘but I can’t help but notice that you’ve broken into my apartment.’

33

Tuesday, 20 June, 7.57 a.m.

I looked at the man on the floor: the same man from the photographs on the mantelpiece. I’d been wrong all along: Theodora Gussett did have a son. ‘Mr Gussett?’

The man nodded. I had just a few seconds to rescue the situation and make a good impression. Nan always said that it cost nothing to talk like a gentleman, so I took a deep breath and gave it both barrels.

‘Forgive my intrusion, sir. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Stephen Pike. I wholeheartedly apologize for any alarm I may have inadvertently caused to you by –’

‘Stephen!’ Miss Decima bellowed from the parlour. ‘Who are you talking to?’

Mr Gussett flinched. This wasn’t working. I ran over and helped him to his feet. ‘Fear not, sir; the raised voice you hear belongs merely to my employer, Miss Decima Stockingham. She is your neighbour, sir; indeed, she lives in the apartment situated directly above your own!’

Mr Gussett blinked behind his thick glasses. ‘The egg woman?’

‘The very same, sir. I sincerely hope that this happy familiarity will go some way towards alleviating your concerns regarding our unbidden encroachment on your property, for which I must once again profoundly apologize.’

I gave him a deep bow, because why not. Mr Gussett stood on the spot, opening and closing his mouth for a while, taking it all in. ‘Sorry, why are you here exactly?’

That’s the problem with fancy words – they take you only so far. I got straight to the point. ‘We’re looking for your mother.’

He almost jumped. ‘My mother?!’