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I burst through the door to Miss Decima’s study. She was at her desk, flicking through the Crace file.

‘Jesus,’ she muttered. ‘What got into you?’

I didn’t reply. Instead I made my way around the room, tearing all the books from the shelves until they were empty. Then I flung the paintings from the wall and emptied every drawer in her desk, before falling to my knees and pulling up the carpet at the corners. To her credit, Miss Decima didn’t say a single thing the whole time.

It was only when I was certain that there were no hidden microphones in the study that I finally spoke. ‘Peter’s secret. I remember it, Miss Decima. I remember what he told me.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Stephen –’

‘She was his girlfriend,’ I said breathlessly. ‘Well – not girlfriend. She was a maid working for Cartwright, and he was sweet on her. Her name was Eva, but she didn’t spell it that way. She spelt it the Irish way, É-I-M-H-E-A-R, and when Cartwright found out she got sacked …’

I was talking so fast that I was barely making sense. Maybe that was why Miss Decima was staring at me in silence, not moving an inch.

‘Peter saw her,’ I burbled. ‘A few weeks ago, standing on the quad beside that statue. She said that she was waiting for someone from the WSPU – that must have been Lavinia – and he teased her about it, and she got angry at him, and said that they had something big planned for the demonstration, and he wouldn’t be laughing then.’ My head was reeling. ‘You see? Cartwright’s sacked maid is the third suffragette! The Irish one! Cartwright’s heading to Myring’s Place right now – that’s where she lives. Someone sent him an anonymous tip-off. And I know where that is, Miss Decima – it’s right near where I grew up. We have to go there, right now!’

Miss Decima was still staring at me, her eyes fixed and unblinking. Her hand, I noticed, was gripping her walking stick more tightly than usual. It gave me a funny sensation, that did. I could almost feel it prickling the back of my neck. ‘Did you hear what I said, Miss De—’

She moved like a cobra. The stick shot towards me; I flinched to dodge the blow, but I was too late. The stick cracked against my shoulder. ‘Ow …!’

She swung again, but she wasn’t aiming at me this time. She whacked the carpet beside me, over and over again, while I clutched my throbbing shoulder and thought, well, that’s it, she’s finally lost it.

She stopped hitting the floor and sat panting in her bath chair. Then, when she’d got her breath back, she held up her walking stick for me to see.

There was a scorpion smashed to paste on the end. A scorpion that, mere moments before, had been sitting on my shoulder.

‘Well!’ said Miss Decima, between breaths. ‘I think we’ve worked out what’s been killing all those pigeons.’

43

Wednesday, 21 June, 12.54 p.m.

We didn’t have time to wait for a motorized cab: instead, Miss Decima instructed me to hail down the first carriage I saw. Minutes later I was heaving her into a four-wheeler and scrambling in beside her. She struck the ceiling of the compartment with her stick.

‘Driver! Myring’s Place, Bethnal Green, please, and don’t spare the horses.’ Then added with a grumble, ‘The fucking prima donnas.’

The carriage lurched off at such speed that I found myself gripping the sides to stop from falling over. But it wasn’t just the speed that was throwing me off balance – our investigation had just become even more confusing, even more complicated, even more dangerous. Not to mention that I’d just found a real-life scorpion on my jacket. You didn’t get many of those in Kensington.

‘Well!’ said Miss Decima. ‘We’ve got a long journey ahead of us. Why don’t you tell me your thoughts, Stephen?’

I swallowed. ‘It seems to me that the scorpion killed Peter. Someone slipped it under his door, or passed it through his window. Then it crawled out of the room after it killed him and hid in that empty trunk room. Which is how it then crawled up my trouser leg and sat on my shoulder and … do you mind if we talk about something else, Miss Decima? I’m feeling a bit peaky and –’

‘A reasonable deduction,’ she replied, cutting me off. ‘With one key issue. Choosing to kill someone with a scorpion is inefficient at best. There’s no guarantee that the scorpion will go anywhere near the victim, let alone successfully inject them with enough neurotoxin to cause their death. Furthermore, you saw your first pigeon on Saturday. If we are to assume that the scorpion killed all those birds, that would mean that it’s been prowling the area for several days –’

It suddenly hit me. ‘The basement!’

Miss Decima stared at me blankly.

‘Our basement,’ I said. ‘When I found Peter on Monday evening, I heard him cry out in pain. It was his ankle – he was limping when he left, too. It must have been the scorpion, Miss Decima! It found its way back into the basement from outside, stung him while he was hiding, and then he went back to his bedroom, locked himself inside and died!’

Miss Decima nodded grimly. ‘It certainly holds water. Peter’s death was not murder: it was a tragic accident. One which only provides us with more questions in a case that is already teeming with them.’ She groaned. ‘How did I first describe this case, Stephen? Something simple, disguised as something complicated; that prediction appears to be half true, at least. I have never encountered an investigation as strange and inexplicable as this. A loose scorpion, three missing women, an abducted beggar, an assassinated ex-MP, an anonymous tip-off, a veiled suffragette, a man in the sewers … What could possibly connect so many disparate strands?’ She shook her head. ‘I can only hope that what the police find in Éimhear Ó Ceallaigh’s room will answer everything.’

She kept on saying that. The carpet bag would answer everything; the missing beggar would answer everything; a bedroom in East London would answer everything. I wasn’t so sure about that. I didn’t see how one single answer could solve the sprawling mess we’d found ourselves in. No wonder I was having to grip on to the sides of the carriage just to stay balanced.

But of course that wasn’t the only reason I felt giddy. I was heading back to Bethnal Green. Less than a mile away from where I grew up. It would be the first time that I’d been in that part of London since my arrest – since my life changed beyond all recognition. And, if I was honest, I was a little afraid at what I’d find when I got there.

On we rode, towards the East End: Soho became Blackfriars became Whitechapel became Bethnal Green. The further we travelled, the more the coronation colours grew dull and faded. The bunting became sparse, until there was none at all, and the roads that were kept clean for the rich turned slowly grey with soot.

I recognized these streets. For a young boy like me – who was out all day long, whether I liked it or not – the roads for a mile in every direction around Bow were my home. Bethnal Green was just as I remembered: the beggars, the barrow-boys, the children chasing the water-carts, the slum housing hidden in the shadows. We were a long way from Kensington now.