Page 7

Then I stopped. If Miss Decima could use the Ivys as her eyes and ears, why couldn’t I do something similar?

‘Excuse me,’ I said.

The beggar glanced up. He was dirty as a fox, with blackened hands and a raggedy beard. I saw his eyes widen with panic beneath his hat. ‘Now hang on, I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else –’ he began.

‘No!’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m not trying to move you. I was just going to ask you some questions.’

The beggar frowned. ‘About what?’

‘What you’ve seen today,’ I said. ‘If you’ve spotted anything … odd. Unusual, even.’

I took a penny from my pocket and held it out. I learnt that as a young man, back in Bow. If you want to know what’s happening on the streets, find a beggar. They’re everywhere, no one notices them, and, so long as they’re not insensible with drink, they see everything. The beggar’s eyes fixed on the penny and lit up. ‘Yes! As a matter of fact, I did see something unusual. Something very unusual indeed.’

I gave him the penny. He pocketed it, then pointed at the building ahead. ‘See them flats? There’s a servants’ entrance just down that set of steps. I saw twenty-seven women going into it earlier. Twenty-seven! They all came out half an hour later, laughing about some pillock wearing an apron.’

They could laugh all they wanted – getting tea stains out of a white shirt was a nightmare. ‘Anything else?’

The beggar shrugged. ‘Not really, mate. Sorry.’

I sighed. I probably should have asked for the information before giving him the penny. So much for my big plan. ‘Never mind. Thanks, anyway.’

I was halfway over the road when the beggar called me back.

‘Hang on! I’ve just remembered. There was something else I saw, now that you mention it.’

‘I don’t have another penny,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

His eyes worked fast. ‘Well, how about I tell you anyway and you catch me next time? You live around here, don’t you? I saw you walk past about an hour ago.’

He was good. ‘Go on, then.’

The beggar sat up excitedly, pointing ahead. ‘See that road over there? The dark one?’

He was pointing at our road – Kensington Gore. The apartment blocks were tall and tightly packed together, meaning the sunlight reached only the side on the main road. The other side – where the front entrances were – was always in shadow.

‘I saw a woman go down there earlier,’ said the beggar. ‘All in black. She was wearing one of those … what do you call ’em … veils. A big black veil, covering up her face. Like she was in mourning. She went down that road, and she didn’t come out again.’

It wasn’t exactly unusual behaviour. ‘She probably lives there.’

‘That’s not what I’m getting at,’ he insisted. ‘She looked … what’s the word? Suspicious. Glancing over her shoulder, all guilty. Like she was being followed, or thought someone might see her. And she was wearing one of those suffragette ribbons, too.’

I looked down the road, at the line where the shadows began. There were a million perfectly reasonable explanations for what the beggar had seen – I could have rattled off a hundred, right there and then. But if there was one thing I’d learnt from doing this job, it’s that often the reason something feels wrong is because it is. Miss Decima could talk all she wanted to about science and logic and rationality, but sometimes you just know it in your waters. ‘Are you going anywhere today?’ I asked.

The beggar shook his head. ‘Not if you don’t want me to, guv.’

I hadn’t been called ‘guv’ in years. I quite liked it. ‘Keep an eye on that road. If that woman turns up again, I want you to follow her. Find out where she goes. And, if you do, I’ll make it worth your while.’

The beggar’s face glowed. ‘Absolutely, guv! Happy to oblige!’

I said goodbye and crossed the road. I had a strange sensation in my chest – a kind of knocking anxiety, beating like a timepiece. Call me stupid, call me paranoid, but I was starting to have a funny feeling about this demonstration.

6

Saturday, 17 June, 10.54 a.m.

I was still turning it all over when I arrived back at Miss Decima’s study. The moment she heard me walk through the door, she slid her notebook into a top drawer and locked it shut.

I bristled. I knew what she was doing. It was that secret project of hers – the one she’d been working on for months, refusing to tell me anything about it. I’d lost count of the times I’d walked into her study and she’d hidden something, then snapped at me for not knocking. I tried asking her once what she was up to, but, let me put this way – I asked only once. Those books really hurt. I held up the hatbox. ‘Your hat, Miss Decima.’