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Chief Constable Cartwright stood still before me, now completely soaked and covered from head to toe in sludge. He looked like something straight out of the Book of Revelation.

‘You,’ he choked out, ‘are under arrest for –’

‘This is Sir William Crace,’ I said.

I gestured to the man in my arms. His hat had fallen off in the lake, revealing a head as bald as an egg. Even with a black eye and a filthy moustache, there was no doubting it was him.

Chief Constable Cartwright gawped. ‘You – I – what?’

I dumped the beggar – or, rather, Sir William – into Cartwright’s arms. ‘He’s not dead. He never was. He faked the whole thing. Also, he killed Constable Watts. If you’d kindly take me back to 89c Kensington Gore Mansions, Miss Decima and I can explain exactly how he did it.’

52

Thursday, 22 June, 3.30 p.m.

Several hours later, I found myself back in the parlour.

Miss Decima was in her bath chair, next to Lavinia Welford, Theodora Gussett and Éimhear Ó Ceallaigh, who sat in a silent line on the settee. Mr Benson sat scowling in the one remaining chair, so that the Ivys – twenty-four of them – had to stand.

It was a tight squeeze, if I’m honest. There was an expectant air in the room – disquiet, even. That we’d all been waiting like this for over an hour didn’t help.

‘Would anyone like some tea?’ I offered.

The doorbell rang. The room immediately tensed, like a fist clenching. I stood up, marched to the door and opened it. There were a number of people standing outside: Flora, Mrs Ripley, Clarence Gussett and Cath. Each was accompanied by an Ivy, who had been sent to collect them at specific times. It’d taken some effort, making sure that they all arrived together like this.

‘What,’ barked Mrs Ripley, gazing at the state of my livery, ‘is the meaning of this?’

‘That’s right!’ muttered Cath. ‘I’ve got a house to run! I can’t be carting myself across London without –’

‘Lavinia!’ Flora cried.

She raced into the parlour and practically wrenched Lavinia out of her seat, holding her tight. Cath caught sight of Éimhear and trailed off – she clamped her hands over her mouth and pushed past me to embrace her, too, tears pouring from her eyes.

‘You idiot,’ she gasped, clutching Éimhear. ‘You stupid girl. I could kill you.’

I avoided looking at Miss Decima: she had stood surety for Cath’s release herself just a couple of hours earlier, without another word being said on the matter. I knew how much she disliked being thanked for things.

Clarence Gussett came next: he stepped slowly into the room, fretting his hands, almost fearful that his aunt wouldn’t be there beside Éimhear and Lavinia. The look on his face when he saw her told us everything. The boyish fear disappeared, the trembling vanished. A calm settled over him like a blanket on a bed, and he knelt down, took her hand and kissed it.

‘Oh, my dear boy,’ said Theodora quietly, resting a hand on his head. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

Mrs Ripley was the last to come in, scandalized at the state of the parlour. She cast her eyes at Lavinia, and at the other two women on the settee, and finally understood what was happening. Her face turned pale – she thrust out a finger. ‘S-someone summon the police at once! These women –’

‘Fear not, Mrs Ripley,’ said Miss Decima curtly. ‘The police are already here. Chief Constable Cartwright? You may come out now.’

The Ivys parted, and Cartwright emerged from behind them with three police officers. On cue, I closed the front door behind Mrs Ripley and locked it.

‘Thank you for your patience, Chief Constable,’ said Miss Decima. ‘I felt it prudent to wait until we had assembled all the key individuals before proceeding further.’ She steepled her fingers. ‘We have much to explain, and not much time to do it. Perhaps, Chief Constable, you should begin by outlining the arrests that you have made today.’

Cartwright gave her a look which suggested that he didn’t like being told what to do, least of all by her. ‘We’ve made four arrests. Three men, each charged with conspiracy to murder Constable Albert Watts, and a further man charged with his murder.’ He paused. ‘That man is Sir William Crace.’

The effect this had on the room was like another milk-cart exploding.

‘Uncle Egg?’ said Lavinia, her eyes boggling. ‘But – but he’s –’

‘Dead?’ said Miss Decima, cutting in. ‘Sadly not, my dear. He is very much alive … though I suspect he won’t be for long, once his sentence is decided. The idiot had the temerity to record every element of his plan in meticulous detail, incriminating himself and everyone he worked with in doing so. Show them, Chief Constable!’

Cartwright stared at her in outrage – then, with a weary sigh, pulled a worn leather journal from his pocket. ‘A search of the suspect’s person led to the discovery of a census-lodge address, which led to this notebook. It names all the key people involved in the conspiracy to murder Constable Albert Watts, allowing a series of speedy arrests. Furthermore, it details how the –’