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"Mr. Day, I believe that was my mother's dear friend who was just here. Would you be so kind as to tell me what book she purchased? I do so admire her taste in such matters," I say as sweetly as possible.
From the corner of my eye, I see Felicity's mouth hanging open in surprise and admiration. She is not the only one who can lie.
"Yes, it was Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt's A History of Secret Societies. I haven't read it myself."
"Have you another copy?" I ask.
"Certainly." Mr. Day limps to the back of the shop and returns carrying the book. "Ah, here we are. Isn't it curious? I've had no interest in this book, yet today I've sold two. Pity about the author."
"What do you mean by that?" Felicity asks.
"They say she died shortly after publication." He leans in, whispers. "They say she was involved in the occult. Wicked things. Now, we'll give it a nice ribbon and . . ." "No thank you, Mr. Day," I say, reaching for it before he can wrap it."We're in a dreadful rush, I'm afraid."
"Very well, that will be four shillings, if you please."
"Felicity?" I prompt.
"Me?" Felicity whispers."Why should I pay it?"
"Because you've got it," I say, maintaining a terse smile.
"Don't look at me," Ann demurs."I've nothing."
"It will be four shillings," Mr. Day states firmly.
In the end, we're forced to pool our money to purchase Miss Wyatt's sinister- sounding book.
"Let me look first. After all, I paid three shillings to your one," Felicity whines as we rush out into the London day.
"We'll read it together," I say, pulling on my end.
"There she is!" Ann gasps. Miss McCleethy is just ahead of us."What should we do?"
"I say we follow her," Felicity says. Instantly, she sets off.
"Wait a moment," I say, catching up, keeping one eye on Miss McCleethy as she nears the corner."I don't know if that's wise."
Ann takes Felicity's side, of course. "You wanted to know. This is the way to find out."
There is no fighting the both of them. Miss McCleethy stops, turns. With a collective gasp, we congregate in front of a knife sharpener. In a moment, she continues on her way.
"Well?" Felicity asks. It is less a question than a dare.
The knife sharpener's cries--"Knives! Made well sharp!"-- rise above the street noise. Miss McCleethy is nearly gone from sight.
"Let's go," I say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WE FOLLOW MISS MCCLEETHY FOR SOME TIME, PAST shopkeepers in shirtsleeves rushing parcels out to waiting carriages and a woman in severe black who implores us to remember the unfortunate during this Christmas season. We pay them no mind; only our quarry matters.
At Charing Cross, Miss McCleethy surprises us, entering the Underground station.
"What do we do now?" Felicity says.
I take a deep breath."I suppose we travel by Underground."
"I've never been on the Underground before," Ann says uncertainly.
